The Savage Girl - Alex Shakar [35]
A man with an overlarge forehead and jaw looks out the window at the airstrip. His head tilts, his vast, smooth, whalelike brow catching the light. Trying to gather in some vestige of his childhood love of airports, maybe. That trip to Peoria would have been an unmitigated thrill to him back then. He wears a gray suit, the jacket draped limply over an arm. Red tie. He is part of the thrilling world now. He rubs the back of his neck, bulbous head bent.
The paradessence of air travel: sanitized adventure; exoticism and familiarity.
A man with thick, light-trapping glasses and pale, freckled skin looks at the Mid City tourism ads posted in the freestanding light boxes lining the corridor. His gaze fixes on a picture of a couple in evening dress sitting at a table in the Top Room; they lean their structurally perfect profiles toward each other, into the candlelight, foregrounded against a breathtaking western view of city lights. On their plates, beneath the luminously lit tops of the woman’s breasts overflowing her dress and set off against the starched white shirt of the hovering waiter, the food glistens: lobster, rack of lamb. The ad-gazing man’s head turns, staying with the image as the peoplemover trundles him toward Ursula. He sees her watching him and looks away, embarrassed. He wears a brownish short-sleeved shirt and loose, poorly tailored jeans. He is obese.
The paradessence of fine dining: Your animal needs are divine.
A youngish man with sand-colored hair and stubble looks around, slightly stunned. His shoulders slump under the weight of his army-surplus backpack. He wears a black baseball cap bearing the logo Ark, Inc.—whether this is an actual company or a band name Ursula remains unsure. He looks at the ads, at the other arriving passengers. He looks down at the device conveying him along the corridor and chews the inside of his mouth. He is thinking, she imagines, of the shacks and shanties of the Third World from which he has just returned. He is both relieved and disappointed to be back. Here in the Mid he has an entirely different order of problems to face, desires to try to satisfy. As he steps off the peoplemover, she notices his boots: scuffed, watertight leather bound by an elaborate network of red laces and yellow straps. He looks over and sees Ursula. He looks at her white suit, at her blond hair. He shakes his head slowly, pawing his rough jaw. Dismissively. It riles her. She spent a good deal of thought deciding on her outfit. She wanted to blend in with the sterile corridors of the airport.
“Excuse me,” she calls out. He stops, then shambles over, hoisting his pack. “I’m taking a survey,” she says, not quite knowing why. “Do you have a couple minutes?”
“OK.”
“I like your boots,” she says. “I’ve never seen any like that before.”
“They’re Mauritanian jungle boots,” the young man says, not without a hint of pride, and then catches himself. “That’s what the salesgirl said, anyhow.”
So much for her powers of intuition. He’s probably come from Peoria as well.
“OK, good,” she says, pretending to make a note on her clipboard. “Next question—”
“Was that the first question?”
“Yes. Next question: Is your yearly income less than twenty-five thousand, twenty-five to fifty, fifty to a hundred, a hundred to five hundred, five hundred to—”
“Less than twenty-five,” he cuts in.
She feigns disappointment, makes a check in an imaginary box. “OK. Last question. What’s your mission in life?”
The young man is silent for a moment, then regards her with a strange intensity.
“To save the planet,” he says.
“Wow. That’s quite a mission.”
“I guess it is,” he says, a little defensive now.
“OK, that’s it. Thanks for your help.”
He stands there, surprised at being dismissed so suddenly.
“What about you?” he says. “What’s your mission in life?”
He’s blurted out the question abruptly, but in the ensuing silence he regains some of his composure, staring down