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Corporate Slumming part 11

Our hero is sitting in a high-chair at his own narrow high-table in the back of a Pepper's in Terminal C. He is scraping the mayonnaise off the top slice of Texas toast with a butter knife. He uses the bottom slice to sop up the extra mayo still clinging to the turkey and swiss and discards both slices on top of his french fries. He carefully pushes it all to the side with his knife and fork--what appears to be a proud gesture of his anti-carb commitment.

He spots the passing waiter and furtively lifts his ice water to the waiter's attention. "Excuse me. I ordered water with no ice please."

His carry-on and personal item are placed carefully on the chair across from him. To his left sits a caucasian male around 50 with dark hair, a big gut and posture to match. His stubby legs jitter awkwardly, having nowhere to perch on his high-chair. His khaki pants have lost their pleats from an over-extended business trip and his sneakers appear worn but neatly kept; most likely the only remnants of his tennis days that still get any play. He's finished his meal and is now heedlessly eating from a basket of tortilla chips. I can't help but think of Willy Loman as I study the rest of him: his shirt untucked in the back, his tie too long and mismatched, his hardshell briefcase under the table--a stubborn assertion to his professionalism in a business rapidly approaching extinction.

His clamshell phone rings at full volume and he stares at the screen long enough for it to ring twice more. I can sense the growing irritation in the room waiting for a barrage of chips to assault him before he answers the device.

"Hello!" he belts loud enough for the entire room to hear. I wonder why he bothers with the impersonal greeting after clearly having spent enough time to recognize the caller. I think of my grandfather cursing in Caribbean spanish trying to work our household VCR and I realize that programming his contact list must be beyond Willy's grasp. He repeats once more before registering his daughter on the other end and proceeds to eat while he talks, spattering the phone and the table with bits of mixed vegetables and ketchup proudly touted as "Pepper's Own Southwestern Salsa."

A misanthropic young man sits to the right of our hero. He is a few years younger and trying his best to ignore the crowd by absorbing himself in his iPad. He moves his mouth while he reads which synchronizes eerily with Willy's loud-talking.

His table too is adorned by a giant basket of the house's greasy tortilla chips. I wonder to myself if they have an entire room in the back--like Scrooge McDuck's money vault--where tireless servers spend their breaks swimming the backstroke through a sea of grease and corn-flour. A midwestern couple at the table next to him turn to ask him how the Spinach Dip is. He answers without a nod or a glance:

"It's good."

"Thanks" the husband replies and waits with eager eyebrows for a cordial response that never comes. His wife glances in my direction and her expression tells me we share the same thought:

Dante must have been a frequent air traveler.