Laying Over

A layover in Bangor Maine in the wintertime will dry you out faster than a fifty mile hike in the Sahara. Holiday Inn with six TV channels and a lobby bar that would make a committed alcoholic quit drinking because it depressed him too much to go inside. A wintertime boredom deal with dry skin, a bleeding nose and seven more hours before pick-up.

So, it was on to the coffee shop for this aging, and now desiccated captain. Pot of coffee in one of those golden plastic pitchers, two over easy and bacon with white toast and a quart of ketchup. This is the razor’s-edge life of a jet pilot.

The free USA Today I got off of the front desk before I turned the corner into coffee hell wasn’t worth what I paid for it; Two stories about the latest teenage singer/drug-snurfer, one story about why our country sucks and a big fat pie chart about who still likes fried food. Even given the obvious fact that there were no facts in this rag, it still gave me cover. No need to talk too much with the waitress or make light banter with other people going through their own coffee hell when I had this here piece of American journalism to stare at.

My layover clothing set me apart as a non-local here in Bangor. I was wearing a red sweatshirt, some jeans and tennis shoes. The locals there had their snow boots, plaid shirts and hats with earflaps. My thinning and graying hair stood straight up due to the extremely dry air and the fact that I had generated about six megawatts of power as I shuffled across the carpet past the junior college dropout who was running the front desk.

Coffee was poured and it looked like weak tea. Eggs arrived and after a quick glance I ordered tobasco sauce to make the eggs palatable.

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