A Love Letter (unreplied)

There is something to be said for airports, for their hustle and bustle and their clever anonymity, the shuffling about of such crowds of strangers in their massive loadings and unloadings, the vast rows of empty chairs and the crowded escalators, for the eavesdropping on random conversations and the people-watching, etc. Do you ever wonder, if you could just switch places with someone you see in an airport and go wherever they’re going—if you could somehow wind up in the arms of whoever’s waiting for them on the other side—what would that be like? The other day, after we said good-bye and you dropped me off at Sea-Tac on your way to yoga class, after I worked my way through security, past the girls’ water polo team and all the other strangers, I plugged into my iPod and paced up and down the “A” concourse. Outside the expansive windows, the comings and goings of the gigantic machines matched my restless mood. I boarded the underground automatic train to the “S” terminal, but it was the same over there. The view of Mt. Raineer was squeezed between two massive corrugated metal airline hangers, and I walked around in circles.

The other day, my friend Stephen led me on a pilgrimage up Mill Creek Rd., beyond the state line into Oregon, and on up Tiger Canyon Rd., where it winds spectacularly up into a relatively remote section of the Blue Mountains (less than an hour's drive from Walla Walla). He pointed out a white cross marking the spot where the grandson of a former professor, perhaps aflicted by a touch of teenage bravado, had driven too fast, too close to the edge of this gravel, cliff-hugging mountain road—and we commented on the Byzantine laws and liabilities which prevented the nearest ambulance (in Walla Walla) from responding to the accident, as it was based in a different state. Further up, we stopped to inhale the mountain panoramas from a wildflower-speckled meadow, and still further, we stopped upon a grassy bank beside a babbling brook to enjoy sandwiches, not far from the South Fork of the Walla Walla River.

The two of us hiked a ways downstream from there, and as we trudged over still-unmelted patches of snowpack, me falling through the little ice-melt tunnels down to my knees on one or two occasions, Stephen told me tales of his professed “soul mate,” Ted. Stephen and Ted were roommates in college, and to this day, Stephen tirelessly relates how peacefully he slept whenever he could hear Ted’s breathing, whereas he couldn’t seem to fall asleep at all if Ted was not there. Then Ted married a jealous wife, and (to make a long story short) Stephen barely saw Ted for the next 40 years.

Several weeks ago, I watched on TV a BASE jumper climb out the window of a Manhattan hotel and leap to the street below, landing calmly beside a yellow taxi cab. I became fascinated with this image and how similar it seems to suicide, as if the parachute itself is a mere inconsequential detail. Either way, I feel an almost kindred spirit with those who choose to leap from such great heights. A daring celebration of life in all its possibilities or a desperate act of self-annihilation, they seem like two sides of the same coin to me.

Tameka [not her real name] was one of my brightest students this year. Once, when I was gone for a conference, she was the only one out of all my Algebra II students who successfully decoded the cipher message I left for them to work out. But she also had a pretty annoying attitude most of the time, and it only got worse as the year dragged on. I think I was too indulgent of her disrespect at times, perhaps because I liked her fierce, independent spirit, but mostly just because I was so happy she was participating and doing her work when no one else would. She was so transparent, though. I think she acts all tough and in-your-face to impress her underachieving, ghetto friends—and perhaps she even lacks the social skills to present herself in any other way—but she really did want to learn.

Toward the end of the year, Tameka began telling me a story of how she was pregnant by another boy in the class. My guess is that Deonte and Tameka really did have sex at least once, but she was probably never actually pregnant. Anyway, she took to saying all kinds of provocative things, like how they were going to get married and take a honeymoon to the Bahamas, etc. For his part, Deonte was no dummy. He was lazy as hell in my class, be he always had such a pleasant, easygoing demeanor it was impossible for me not to like him anyway. He was mostly unflappable, but any idiot could see that Deonte was aloof at best to Tameka’s exaggerated demonstrations. She would brush up against him or touch his arm until he would finally rebuke her. “Don’t touch me,” he would say, and she would answer, “That’s not what I said when you put your…” The whole things was pretty hilarious—if it weren’t so sad.

Recently, Stephen had a dream about Ted. In the dream, the two of them went out for dinner, and at the end of the meal, Ted announced that he was splitting up with his wife and ventured to ask if Stephen like to share a house with him. Then, in the dream, Ted got up and kissed Stephen lightly on the cheek before leaving. The dream ended there, and Stephen awoke to the disappointment of realizing this breakthrough with Ted, what he wanted more than anything else for over 40 years, was only a dream.

This vacation has been really good for me. It was good to see you again, and a part of me wonders if I didn’t halfway on-purpose miss my flight that afternoon to make it possible. But whatever. As I pace circles around airport terminals, I sometimes feel an almost physical urge to run and stowaway somehow on one of those departing jets, as if to say: Take me with you, anywhere! Reshuffle the cards of my life one more time—or as many times as it takes! Someday, I hope the Tameka’s and the Deonte’s of this world find what they need and figure their stuff out. I wish I had some wisdom to offer them, but I don’t.