incident in San Juan
They were adding on to the D terminal at the Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport in suburban Carolina, Puerto Rico. A fact that she shouldn’t have even been aware of except for the mechanical difficulties on her flight that her layover stretch from an hour to eight.
Bored she had spent many of those hours walking zig zag through the airport, exploring every nook that sold alcohol and cranny that pitched perfumes. Except, of course, the area that lay beyond the rope in D terminal.
For the first few hours anyway.
When it became late evening and the airport started to clear out her curiosity got the better of her and nobody really seemed to care anyway when she slipped behind the rope and started down a long corridor that led off to the nether regions of D. A left turn followed by a right turn and she was suddenly very alone. She enjoyed the feeling that she wasn’t supposed to be there.
She entered the area where construction was under way and everywhere there were signs saying “Please Excuse Us As We Work To Give You A Modern Facility.” Eventually she reached the end, a small cluster of seating sat in front of a counter where soon thousands of people a day would be approaching, tickets in hand, on their way to various glamorous and non-glamorous destinations. There were only a few flickering lights on overheard so she couldn’t fully imagine the hustle and bustle to come and she wondered why flickering lights had always made her feel like something was about to happen.
She leaned against the counter and pretended she was a gate agent asking to see a ticket.
The security guard, obviously wearing footwear that allowed him to creep around unnoticed, turned the corner. He looked like a normal Puerto Rican airport security guard but if you’d like to imagine him a bit more handsome who am I to stop you? Being airport security he did not carry a weapon, only zip ties and mace, but he still looked somewhat imposing in his uniform.
She froze. Busted.
He said something in Spanish that she did not understand. She smiled awkwardly and said something in English that he did not understand. He smiled unawkwardly.
She realized that she was still leaning on the counter. The guard’s eyes briefly took in the ample bosom that was on full display courtesy of her little sun dress then tried to nonchalantly make their way back up to her face without being noticed.
But she noticed and he noticed that she noticed. She smiled again.
Because there was no air conditioning in this section of the airport the air was warm and humid. She went from zero to glistening. He began to approach her and ever so slightly she arched her back. If, as the idiom goes, a picture is worth a thousand words, many of them were in a very universal language.
He walked behind her and she remained motionless, eyes forward.
She heard his heavy belt hit the ground.
Once on an Alaskan cruise she had seen an enormous chunk of a glacier fall off into the ocean. It made a deafening roar that she felt in her bones.
It was like that except janglier.
She felt him behind her, leaning over. Gently he took one of her wrists and put a zip tie on it, then attached it to the counter. He repeated the operation with her other wrist. She did not breathe the entire time.
She felt his hand on her back, pushing her flat on the counter. She arched her back again, ever so noticeably, and felt her dress being lifted up.
He was neither large or small. Gentle or rough. He didn’t grope her breasts or bite her neck or try to kiss her. His hands remained on her hips throughout the procedure. All she was aware of, all she could process, was the fact that the counter had yet to be permanently fixed to the ground as it slowly, one thrust at a time, made its way forward.
Afterwards she heard him pick up his belt. It sounded the way an enormous chunk of ice falling up from the ocean and attaching itself to a glacier would sound.
She heard a rustling and then he leaned over her again, taking a pair of tin snips and cutting the zip tie from one wrist. He then laid it down by her other wrist.
She watched him walk away, still slumped over the counter (which now sat pressed against some gang-seating in the middle of the room). Before she snipped her other restraint she took a picture of the zip tie cutting into the adorable little tattoo on her wrist.
When she was done she posted the pic on Instagram.
It got over two hundred shares. Her previous record was four.
The only thing she’d written under it was “Thanks to my “special friend” in San Juan.”
Frederick R. Barnard, in an ad in Printer’s Ink magazine in 1921, incorrectly attributed the phrase “One look is worth a thousand words” to a Japanese philosopher. Later, in 1927, that same magazine suggested a Chinese origin but said that they claimed one picture is worth ten thousand words.
My point is… she said a lot in eight.