Dogbert’s Whip

“Everywhere I travel, tiny life — single-serving sugar, single-serving cream, single pat of butter… The people I meet on each flight? They’re single-serving friends.” – uttered by Edward Norton’s insomniac character in the movie “Fight Club”

There’s something about airport terminals that causes me to have the attention span of a gnat. Unlike most normal folks, I can never get myself to wait patiently for my flight while seated on germ-laden plastic stools. I also get a sense of unease with the sight of people marching down in droves, their eyes scanning for their gate numbers and their ears listening intently for periodic voice over announcements about their ride back home. Worse, I try hard to suppress myself from morphing into a green-eyed monster and strangle fellows who are able to snore the time away with just ratty back packs for their pillows. So rather than allowing this apparent chaos to reduce me to a patience-challenged homicide machine, I resort to the next best thing I could think of — I wander around.

And so it was one humid October morning in Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport when I met my most interesting single serving friend so far. Back then, I had two hours to burn before airline personnel would let anyone board our Manila-bound flight. Like most bored commuters, I found myself in the airport’s shopping plaza, checking out various racks and counters of traditional Thai delicacies. Whenever I picked up a box or a bag, the penny-pinching part of me would mentally calculate the cost of the grub in Philippine pesos. In a true display of stinginess that would shame any Chinese Ilokano, I was outraged that a box of elephant-shaped chocolate cookies sold for 350 thai baht (PhP 490) and a small transparent box of tamarind with sugar and chili flakes carried a price tag of 250 thai baht (PhP 350).

While I scrutinized the overpriced merchandise, a petite Chinese-looking woman stood beside me, grabbed a few boxes of the elepant-shaped chocolate cookies, and started warbling to me in an alien language. Despite brown complexion, she obviously thought that I belonged to her ethnic group, and with an impish smile, I told her that I can only communicate in English.

“Sorry,” she apologized in surprisingly perfect English. “I thought you are Chinese.”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I reassured her. “A Singaporean food stall owner once chatted with me in Mandarin. I’ll probably be mistaken for another race in another place… I guess you can call me your generic Asian guy.”

Although somewhat lame, that line was the first wisecrack that I came up with in a long time, and for a few brief seconds after I muttered it, I waited in agony for the reaction of my lone spectator. Alas, her face loosened up and with a very slight hint of an awkward chuckle, she managed to say, “Choose the elephant cookies. They’re cookies; you’ll never go wrong.”

Feeling upbeat that my first foray into stand-up comedy may have been successful, I then grabbed a couple of boxes of Thai goodies and thanked my elephant cookie-loving single serving friend (ECLSSF) for her recommendation. Both of us made our way to the cash register, and as our duty-free shopping bags were handed to us, the cashier gave us mini-shoulder bags with the word “Cadbury” silk screened on it as complimentary gifts. “But I’ll have no use for this,” I jokingly complained. Thinking we were together, the nosy cashier pointed to ECLSSF and said, “You can give that to your girlfriend.” I know it doesn’t happen or show often, but I found myself blushing at the cheeks.

Strolling together back to our respective waiting areas, we made some clumsy small talk typical of single serving friends. In that short span of time, ECLSSF mentioned that she was on her way back to Hong Kong after a brief tour of Thailand with her family. In return, I told her that I’m a seafarer working for the oil industry, and that I was pretty excited to get back home to the Philippines after a five-week trip.

“That sounds fun… to be in the ocean all the time,” ECLSSF said.

“Yeah, it’s good for the most part,” I replied. “But it can get really boring out there sometimes.” It was then that I noticed that she wore a yellow shirt with a big cartoon print of a cat in front. I actually thought that the cat’s eyes matched hers. It was both cute and amusing.

There was an uncomfortable lull afterwards and ECLSSF decided to break the ice by asking, “So what’s your favorite color?” It took me a few seconds to regain my composure and respond to her query. I could probably answer questions about technical matters or even current world events, but I never realized that such an ordinary inquiry can take me out of my comfort zone.

“I’m really partial to gray,” I told her. “In fact, most of my favorite shirts are in that color.”

“Like what you’re wearing right now?” ECLSSF pointed at my dark gray polo shirt. “Yes; I guess so,” I replied back.

“But how can you like gray?” ECLSSF asked meaningfully. “It’s such a sad and old color. It’s like when the cumulonimbus clouds are full of water vapor and they’re about to unload it as rain. Gray is neither black nor white. It’s in a perpetual state of confusion. It’s like you’re always stuck in the middle, and there’s absolutely no way to get out.”

And so there it goes. My whole miserable life has been accounted for, all on the basis of my favorite color. Like a hapless prosecution witness grilled by brilliant defense attorneys, I shriveled on the stands when I responded, “But gray looks good on me. And I used to like blue as a kid.” For somebody who considers himself reasonably smart, I didn’t have anything much to say afterwards.

ECLSSF continued to tell me stories after that. She was probably not even aware that she has pricked my fragile bubble. I wanted the Earth to swallow me, but the carpet on that airline terminal’s floor proved sturdy. “Oh, I’m supposed to get off here,” she suddenly told me when we reached her waiting area. She even pointed a finger to the rows of seats where her family is napping the time away before their flight. “I can never understand how they do it… I can never sleep in terminals.” With just that one line, ECLSSF has managed to make me smile again.

Before turning to leave, ECLSSF and I exchanged the usual pleasantries of having a safe trip back home. As she paced towards her seat, she glanced back and with strands of her long hair framing her face, she asked: What’s your name, by the way?”

“I’m Dennis,” I said. “And you are?”

“______.” (Maybe it was the noise of the throngs of people bustling by, or maybe it was just the surreal feel of the moment. But for some reason, I didn’t catch her name.)

“See you around then, Dennis. Who knows, we’ll see each again other in another airport, or in another time zone.” With one final smile and wave, I felt kind of sad that this will probably be the last time that I’ll ever see my ECLSSF.

Not long after that, I was 36,000 feet above sea level. While the stewardesses started serving out drinks and packets of salted peanuts, I placed on my earphones and listened to music. To my pleasant surprise, the airline radio station started playing one of my favorite songs, “One Headlight” by The Wallflowers. I’ve always had a knack for sad, bitter, and tragic songs, but this one in particular makes it to the top of my list.

I obviously hummed along with the lyrics, and for some weird reason, I started feeling cold after the chorus [“Hey! Come on try a little; nothing is forever. There’s got to be something better than in the middle…”]. I took out my jacket from the overhead compartment, another gray one in fact, and zipped it all the way up to my chin. I fastened my seatbelt, took my eyeglasses off, and vainly wished for sweet sleep on my way back to Manila.