My jet lag scares me like a peripherally caught life-sized cardboard cutout, dead smiling at the crest of the JFK escalator. OH DEAD GOD. Information should never be life sized. Pondering how many times a disgruntled traveler has asked this dead-eyed wafer-thin Delta employee about their flight delay is a serious question if you are in marketing. Blast the dead man. On. Pass the escalator in search of an electrical outlet. A precious resource at JFK in the early hours on the morning but not impossible to find as long as you are willing to sit on a dirty floor next to wet minds and filthy talkers.
“I’m not dunk, don’t nobody need to say I’m drunk”
“I say you drunk.”
“Shutyourfuckinassup.”
“Are we getting on this flight or not?”
“Put your Egu away.”
No one wants to be in any sort of line at this hour. No one. I have timed it. It takes my ass 15 minuets to fall asleep, to bad I can’t.
Stick to your guns in a time of mass hysteria. I have seen people stand for hours in a line only to fall victim to further group think at the very last moment. They abandon their hard earned posts in order to avoid standing in the same line for longer, only to follow the heard to stand in another. Meanwhile, the line that they were all standing in is no loner a line, it is an unpopulated and unused array of Jet-Blue self check-ins, moist and wanting, but neglected.
The young 4AM morning looks like day-for-night. Color corrected and fake. Bright dark blue. The most quintessential look for night in cinema in a building the least suited for cinema’s aesthetic. It fits, my body still thinks it is magic hour, day for night.