The Red Eye
In New York it’s five thirty in the morning. In Los Angeles it’s two thirty in the morning. I’m in New York.
My plane just landed. The Ambien I popped before the flight hasn’t worn off. It’s cold, dark, and rainy. I want to climb back into bed. But my bed is three thousand miles away.
I have no where to go till eight in the morning. I’m not staying in a hotel. All of my friends are sleeping.
They’re kicking me off the plane. My eyes can barely stay open. I stumble down the jet way and into the lounge.
I’m not going to make it.
A row of plastic chairs followed by another row of plastic chairs. CNN blaring from a TV in the corner. The cold, dirty floor never looked so good.
I throw my bag to the ground. My body soon follows. Passengers continue on to baggage claim. Not me. I’m curled up in a dark, little corner. My bag as my pillow. My baseball cap as my visor to block out the stares of people who don’t understand that this is my bed.
The Ambien takes over.
Don’t wake me.
I’m sleeping.
