weekend. part one

The taxi driver is from Haiti and I think his car has something very badly wrong with it. He’s talking loudly in French patois on his mobile as we drive off from Newark airport, and we are swaying all over the place – the steering seems very vague. Also the engine cuts out unexpectedly, and then revs up again for no apparent reason.

Then I realise that there is no air conditioning either. It’s not as hot here as it was when I left Las Vegas – only 95 instead of 105 degrees, and it’s one in the morning, but it’s still soupy and humid outside. I open the window and let the wet, sticky air hit my face.

As we stop at the first toll, he turns and questions me closely about my nationality. I think I get points for being half French because he’s friendlier after that. He still spits out of the window though, and I wish he wouldn’t.

He is waging a one man war against the introduction of EZPass cards where you prepay the toll fees. At every booth, when he stops to pay, he shouts loudly in very patchy English at the man in the booth about how he is never going to buy the card, jabbing his finger accusingly at the man, like it’s his fault or something.

I am really tired. The flight was four and a half hours and I have been jammed between a huge man who barely fits into the window seat and a tiny woman who takes up a lot of space because she has so many snacks and books with her. She eats the whole time we’re in the air. I am amazed because she is so little. She either has a very fast metabolism or it’s a nervous reaction or something. At least they are nice though.

The man has a shaved head and when he turns around to look out of the window I can see that he has a pair of eyes tattooed on the back, just level with his ears. He is rude to the staff, making phone calls throughout the flight. I don't think he likes authority very much, but he’s really nice to me; he points out when the sunset reaches a particularly pretty point, and lifts the blind so I can see out of the window too.

As we’re waiting to get off the plane, the queue stops moving and I hear a fracas going on in front of us. Two women in the first class section are having a fight. The man is taller and can see – he says they’re spitting and pulling at each other. I know exactly who must have started it. I saw her as I came on, sitting there, face like fury, clenched fists, just as she was when I sat next to her on the way to Las Vegas on Friday .

I was in first class too then – the only seat they had left by the time I booked. She had very short hair and smelt strongly of alcohol. She talked loudly to no-one in particular, criticising each passenger as they boarded the plane. It wasn’t very comfortable being stuck next to her, by the window.

I was also very nervous and it didn’t help, although I suppose you could say it took my mind off things. She didn’t punch anyone as she got off on the way there, although I was so distracted by then, she could have done and I wouldn’t have noticed to be honest. I knew we were a little early and I was desperate to get outside and have a cigarette before T found me.

All that stuff about the desert air being dry so you don’t notice that it’s over a hundred is bollocks. It knocks you sideways the first time - takes all the breath out of you. I knew we’d come far when I saw all the cacti – huge ones – some of them at least ten feet tall – and the sign asking people if they’d forgotten to leave their guns at home, reminding them politely that you can’t take weapons into the cabin with you - they have to be checked in with your other luggage. It made me smile when I read it.

The airport was pale grey, with shiny metal benches so hot they burnt you when you touched them. The sun was very low in the sky, but still blindingly bright. I stood there, smoking, feeling a bit guilty because I had deliberately run out as fast as I could so T wouldn’t find me. I wanted to see him, but I was scared so I avoided the moment for as long as I could – it was pretty childish.

It was T- why should I be nervous? He was one of my best friends. We used to play fight, and laugh and share drunken walks home at sixteen. It wasn’t even like meeting Zachy; we hadn’t seen each other for twenty years – I only saw T five years ago. I knew what he looked like now, and he knew me too.

It was different this time though – we were going to find out stuff – put all the pieces together. T wondered if he’d live up to his email self, and I did too, and I was terrified he’d look at me and be disappointed. I knew I needed to come to find out, but I wanted to put it off as long as possible.

I went to light my second cigarette and of course, I’d lost my lighter in the mess of my handbag. A man in a straw Stetson watched me fumble around for a minute, and then gave me his book of matches. I wondered if T would understand about me escaping so fast from arrivals. Surely he’d know where I was? Maybe not – so I sent him a text; ”I am having a fag”, and then I dropped my iphone and cracked the screen because my hands were shaking. Damn.

No time to worry though because I could see him coming in the distance and I knew that it couldn’t be put off any longer, so I took a deep breath and stood up to face him. At least I had heels on, even though they were fucking uncomfortable. If I was going to find out it had all been a pipedream, or see disappointment in his eyes, it would at least be less humiliating if I were three inches taller.