Coming home from Anime Weekend Atlanta

"Here's looking at you, kid."

Monday, November 19, 1997

[My youngest son Drew and I are leaving Anime Weekend Atlanta to fly back home to Sarasota. He’s 14-years-old. I’m 42.]

 

Marriot hotel lobby. Drew and I stand. Suitcases packed with anime convention swag. Disgustingly early in the morning, but we’re awake. CJ is, too. [My cousin, Chris Jefferson.] We do the goodbye thing, and before we know it, we're driving away in the airport shuttle. Drew keeps saying, “We’ve got to do this next year, we've got to do this next year.” I keep saying, “We'll see.” It's still dark. The shuttle driver is listening to a gospel station — and going WAY over the speed limit. (Drew keeps his cool. But he looks like he's strapped into a roller coaster of certain doom.) The driver's eyes are on the next world — and at 90 mph, he'll get there pretty soon. And I was worried about the flight. Pretty damn ironic, huh?

Driving like a bat out of heaven, the Bible-believing driver takes us to the airport where Drew and I sit and wait in these scooped plastic chairs. 

 

In front of us, big glass windows show featureless buildings and drone-like dudes moving assorted crap around in these little carts. All at once Drew says, “There's the sun” and I look and yep — and there it is, a red crescent over the horizon. I’m thinking (and I know it's not original) How many more of these am I going to see before I’m dead? 40 sunrises? 100?

Crackling noise from the airport speakers. More grim warnings about taking bags from strangers on the PA system. “If a man wearing a turban hands you a free radio, do not accept.” The sun climbs, slowly. On one wall, there's an Orwell-sized poster with a giant eye inside a triangle like the one on the back of a dollar bill. The text below the giant eye reads:

 

TURN YOUR MERELY HUMAN

SALESFORCE INTO

SALESGODS

Huh. How do meet your sales goals? 

Ascend to the throne of the Almighty, of course.

“Shove off, Mr. Supreme Being. That throne ain’t big enough for two of us.” 

Pissing God off. Yeah, that’s exactly what you want to do in the airport.

So the line inches forward …

Then Drew and I are finally on the plane. 

Two business-suited businessmen are in the seats behind us. Can't hear what the one guy is saying, but his nattering companion is one of the most boring people I've ever overheard in my life. 

Everything he says is dead literal. There’s lots of agonizing discussion about the intricacies of investing; more agonizing discussion about conventions, hotels, badges, donuts, registration, luggage. No point. No joke. No humor. Just specifics. Like lots of little tinkertoy parts rattling around, but never put together...  

So Drew and I sit there in the f**king plane. A long wait. In the windows to our right, we can see a parade of more planes, too many to count, slowly, slowly rolling..   

Waiting. Waiting.

Then our plane finally rolls and thumps and bursts up into the air. Omens boil in my brain: the warnings about unattended bags, the blasphemous promise to create "Salesgods." Death awaits me with nasty sharp pointy teeth. Behind me, Businessman Blandboy is still going on with his chatter.

Businessman Blandboy: Look, lotta cars down there. That's the new stadium. They're really coming along on that stadium.   

Marty: (whirling around) SHUT THE F**K UP MOTHERF**KER! Death is waving his scythe in your face and the least you can do is show some respect. OK? 

Businessman Blandboy: OK. Sorry.

Just kidding, folks. I keep my mouth shut. Despite his bland appearance, this dude might be a Salesgod. I’m not taking any chances.

We fly — a little over an hour. Then we land. 

Tampa airport is as ugly as ever.