Chekov Has A Kennel of Dogs

Two in the morning streets aren't too different from three in the morning streets. The lights are loud, kids tend to pip-pip by on scooters every ten minutes (which wake up the business suits sleeping on steps and benches), and there is always -- always --foot traffic. If we were in the midsts of a secret Civil War here, and we were cycling the same people by to show The Enemy (oh, how "Western" I've become) what strengths of numbers we had, it's not too hard to imagine.

But I should be getting to the airport, as it opens in an hour. This ticket was bought with the last scraps of money I have; my parents have made a mockery of the study of economics, taking a loan out on the money they borrow from their friends to invest in new-age Communist "Pyramid Schemes"; and there's a loneliness I keep likening to a Bergman Death standing in a field, wind-a-whip, stroking his chin, and, after a pause, frowning -- which walks a line between poignant and obscurely poignant, the latter of which adds to the frustration.

The personal accoutrements are too blatant: a copy of Jean-Paul Satre and Albert Camus Swordfight to the Death, jeans tattered after purchase, a hooded sweatshirt I found on the sidewalk, and, on the c.d. player lumped and cradled like a muffler in my pocket, "Bob Dylan's Dream."

Outside the airport door -- you can see guardsmen slowly rummaging through their keys as they walk from lightswitch to lightswitch -- is a grey-beard standing aside a stack of newspapers.

"Get yer papers here! Free! Get yer papers!"

I stop, and remove my large-paw headphones, resting them on my neck. The guards have opened the doors, and commuters who were resting outside move in.

"Free?"

"Yes, M'am. Every last one. I drew over each and every one to make it a better read."

Little dragons swing from the headlines, scorching words that run, screaming, to the sanctuary of the advice columns. Two headlines have taken out knives, and circle each other as classified ads cheer them on, other ads cheering just to draw attention to themselves. Baseball players surf from first to second, and government officials sing opera in third world countries.

"You're an odd man," I say, and walk into the airport, paper in hand. I grab a drink, and check my baggage, but before I go, I can't help it: I rush into the bathroom, take the photo, and rush toward the outside doors, quickly and quietly losing my breath.

Link.