Whisper Politics

Thanks to global warming / terrorism / Republicans / cause du jour, a nasty weather system moved across the Eastern US last night, coating the world in a glaze of ice and slushy snow, and fucking my travel plans straight into a cocked hat.

I was trying to get from Richmond, VA to Dayton, OH; an impossible act as Dayton was shut down (Freezing Rain) and Delta was barely getting flights in anywhere else. (Delta owns the Ohio market) Since I was on US Airways, I was very low on the priority list for anyone to help me get home.

So, my plans eventually worked out that I would spend the night in Philly, and then leave on the 0700 flight to Cincinnati. It meant another night away home from my wife, in some fleabag hotel (all hotels are fleabag hotels in my book, they aren't MY BED with MY WIFE and MY CATS); but, I took solace in the fact that Rick worked mere minutes from the airport and maybe we could have a few cocktails and say hello.

Rick and I spend the better part of the afternoon exchanging mildly obscene text messages coordinating plans. When my (late) flight finally arrives, Rick fetches me and whisks me back up to visit with Penny and Elisabeth.

Penny, happy as ever, is fresh out of the bath and when we try to cajole her into cooing into my phone (with Jessie on the other end), she instead takes my phone and makes a b-line for her mouth. Sigh, no baby noises for Jessie tonight, and Penny, you don't want to know where that phone has been.

Elisabeth gets Penny to sleep and we all retire to the kitchen to admire Rick's handywork, and commence a whisper discussion of politics and the state of our country, followed by Rick and myself trading Family Guy quotes, polished off with more of the same obscenity that we shared via text message earlier in the day. Sitting in the kitchen, Elisabeth on a proper stool, Rick sitting on the top platform of a ladder, and me in a dining room chair, it was classic: a dimly lit, nearly-finished kitchen with three adults whispering in distinct fear if we were too loud, Penny would awaken.

Elisabeth went off to sleep just after 9:30, and Rick and I headed downtown to the new Belgian spot Zot, where we sidled up to the bar and promptly waited while our bartender ignored us and hit on the obviously more attractive and heavily metrosexual men sitting at the other end. After cajoling her into actually giving us menus, we settle on brews and order a kilo of mussels.

Banter, actual intellectual discussion, and more obscene gesticulation follow, with the occasional remark about what a plump mussel sort of looks like (if you can't visualize it, ask me the next time we share mussels). We annihilated the steaming pot of mussels in short order, and worked our way through the beer menu with style and verve.

Rick dropped me off at my hotel, and off he went home to be with his lovely wife and beautiful daughter. I retired to my room, two rooms down from a room that just had it's toilet flood shitty water everywhere, and I drifted off to sleep just before 2:00AM.

The 4:00AM phonecall came and I was ready to commit murder. I had no clean clothes, had just been on a "eat garlic, beer, and goat cheese soaked mussels" bender, and it was Four-Fucking-AM in the god damned morning. I blearily put clothes on (I wasn't going to shower, figuring clean ass in smelly jeans doesn't cancel out) and trundled down to the lobby, aware of where I was and where I was going, but not much else. I often wonder what I look like when laboring down that hall, my eyes bloodshot, hair mildly disheveled, clothes all akimbo and leaning slightly forward to better position my heavy briefcase on my back. Actually, I don't wonder, I just explained it.

I arrive in the gate area, after dealing with security for the 18th time since January 1st, 2008, and come upon a small platoon of 20 odd men and women, all clearly waking up after attempting to spend the night in the airport, and chatting and getting along famously. I'm sitting alone, back to the tarmac with legs splayed out, jealously watching these new-found friends share stories and generally get along. But then I remember - a night of whisper politics and Belgian cuisine is worth more than chatting with a gaggle of single-serving friends in some inhospitable airport.