Diaspora

Damn. It’s such a simple expression: a solitary word that conveys aggravation, annoyance, frustration and futility. But damn is so much more than a word: damn has evolved to be a state of being, one that constitutes a total-body sensation of ‘ah… fuck, this shit sucks.’ I learned this lesson firsthand as I was jerked awake by the inertial force of an Airbus 320 that ricocheted off the tarmac at Los Angeles International Airport. The toddler in the seat next to me instantly began wailing, kicking out and thrashing like an alligator on a hook. Damn, I think…

“Damn.” It’s several hours earlier and I’m sitting on a rickety wooden bar stool, perched before a narrow, faded bar top in a Boston cultural institution… drinking beer and watching the ballgame with my dad.

“What’s wrong kiddo,” he asks after a sip from his beer. The air is thick with the scent of baked bread, tomatoes, and mozzarella, and the sunlight streaming in through the hazy glass window is unrelenting.

“Take a guess,” I reply. “I’m just so excited to get on this damn plane.” I am overtly facetious.

            “Has anyone ever told you that you can be somewhat dramatic?”

            “On occasion. In fact I’m pretty sure it was you dad.”

            “I have to keep you in line some…” he trails off, his eyes locked on the archaic television suspended in a corner above the bar. The Sox have the bases loaded and only one out… which means his attention is completely locked on the game. But in all honesty… so is mine.

            “Goddamn it,” my dad says after the batter hits into a double play. “Sorry bud. What were you saying…”

            I was stuck in my seat, long after the plane had arrived at the gate, thanks to the inconsiderate business goon sitting beside me. For a guy who scoffed and complained the whole flight, especially considering the price of his shoes, he should just have flown first class. But no, the poor wretch was stuck with us… the miserable, probably diseased plebes.

            Thanks to a mishap in reading on my part, I had originally sat in the wrong seat. This wouldn’t have been a problem if I hadn’t stowed my excessively heavy backpack several rows back. So I was forced to wait: between the general apathy of travelers and the inherent narcissism of Angelinos… it ended up being a long wait.

            Eventually I managed to get my backpack and disembark. I’m getting too old for this, I thought as I slung the bag over my shoulders and buckled the cross-breast straps. I’d managed to fill every square inch of my trusty rough out pack… probably more so than I ever have. And that was saying something: I’ve traversed the globe, hiked through deserts and highlands, trekked from glaciers to grasslands… and for over a decade, my bag has been there. Damn this bag is heavy,” I think as I step onto the gangplank. Damn…

            “I know you want to stay,” my dad says in his most reaffirming, fatherly tone; it’s somewhat hard to focus thanks to the large pizza. “But right now you’re doing what you have to.”

            “That doesn’t seem enough,” I tell him. “And what exactly am I doing? Toiling away in the quagmire of mediocrity? I wither and deteriorate behind a desk for no reason while I don’t spend enough time writing.”

            “Don’t worry, kiddo. You’re time will come. All you need to do is just keep at it. You know I don’t pull punches: if I didn’t think you were cut out for this career… I’d tell you.”

            “An interesting choice of words,” I jab, “calling writing a career.”

            “The world needs crazy masochists to teach the rest of us a lesson. Now quit complaining and pass me another slice!”

            Just then, without warning, several older, out of shape men walk into the pizzeria carrying a variety of brass horns. The surly head waitress, her dialect the quintessential Boston accent, bellows out to the crowd in Italian… prompting cheers and calls. And then the band begins to play classic Italian tunes.

            “Damn,” my dad yells to me over the cacophony. “Now I can’t hear the game!”

            I managed to navigate the corridors and construction-confined halls of LAX without much incident. At this point I was battling fatigue, sleep deprivation, hunger, and absolute annoyance… but fortunately for me I had a ride coming for me. All that was left to do was to get my golf bag and hit the road. But, as the bard would say… there in the rump did lie.

            Baggage claim at LAX is the closest thing we have to legalized torture. The wait is so inexplicably long it borders on heinous sadism, the scramble at the carousel with other passengers is akin to a Bulgarian market knife fight, and the attendants have the compassion and usefulness of chainsaw sex toys.

            After most of the other passengers on my flight had retrieved their bags, only a few isolated suitcases still circling on the belt, I began to realize my bag wasn’t coming. So I opted to do what most would: go to the JetBlue baggage desk and ask for assistance. I walked up to the glass door and knocked gently, trying not to startle the attendant.

            “Yeah that’s what I’m talking about,” she said to a faceless voice at the other end of the phone. I opened the door and poked my head in.

            “Beg pardon,” I said politely.

            “I don’t know what he’s doing. He clearly shouldn’t be running shit.” I quickly gathered that I was being ignored. “But no one has the nerve to tell him!”

            “Excuse me ma’am,” I said, this time a bit more forceful.

            “Hold on a minute,” the attendant spoke into the phone, clearly rolling her eyes at my presence. “No, someone can’t figure out how to use the baggage claim. Yeah I’ll call you back.” She slammed the receiver down and looked up; she flashed me the most insincere smile I’ve seen. “Can I help you?”

            “Yeah, my golf bag never came out.”

            “Golf bags don’t come out on the carousel,” she said while picking up the receiver and dialing. “They come out over the in the corner. Can’t you read the signs?”

            “So sorry to bother you while you’re working,” I replied. I shook my head and went in search of my bag. God forbid someone actually do their job and help someone. Damn…

            My dad and I leave Regina’s Pizzeria and head out onto Thatcher Street. The north end is flooded with families and locals… out to participate in the Feast of St. Anthony and Santa Lucia. Cafes overflow with the sound of Italian as elderly men exchange neighborhood gossip over espressos and children devour cannolis. The streets are shrouded by clouds of steam and smoke, rising from food carts and overwhelming my senses; sunlight streaks down between the narrow, pre-war buildings.

            I can’t help but linger, surrounded by strangers and food and jubilation and a culture that’s not my own and yet an inherent part of me. I’ve been walking these streets since I was a child… getting pizza before Bruins games, getting coffee at the same café while visiting home, and just killing time before catching a bus or a train back to New York. There is an inherent flow of creativity and idiosyncrasy in these narrow roads: I can hear the whispers of countless generations emanating from the brick and mortar, and all I want to do is stop and listen to their stories.

            But I can’t. In a few hours I have to board a flight back to Los Angeles… a city too young to truly have history, and a culture based off of the artificial and the illusion. I want to spend my winter nights walking back from the Garden to sit in my small apartment, a glass of whiskey and Miles on the turntable, and write until dawn. But I can’t. No… for now, I am forced to exist in pseudo-servitude, slave to the very monster at the heart of this town. I am forced to scrape by and accept the few free hours I have to write. But I still have words, and right now… I can think of only one.

            Damn.