Yield (15 page)

Abd
’
s eyes shoot like machine-gun fire into both of their doubting faces. He can
’
t find even a glimmer of understanding in them.
“
I just want to go see a baseball game. That
’
s it.
”
Yellowed teeth emerge from inside his matted beard, forced into another uncomfortable grin.
“
Alright, Miss?
”

The Arab
’
s smoldering eyes send a shiver down the back of Isabel
’
s neck. She looks quickly down to the computer screen for answers, her mind racing.
He
’
s going on my plane
…

Accusations of mistreatment and discrimination flash through her mind. Their threats slowly beat back her own intuition and fears. The safety of her plane, her passengers, and even her unborn child finally take a back seat to the chains of political correctness. Roughly, she stuffs the ticket and receipt into one of the purple Northwest paper folders.

Isabel forces a smile as she hands the packet to him.
“
C terminal,
”
she says in her service representative of the year voice.
“
Gate 4.
”
Her eyes tell a very different story.
Good luck making it to my plane.

“
Thanks,
”
Abd says. He tips his head grudgingly to her. An uncomfortable moment ticks by as he waits for the customary return tilt of acknowledgment. The lack of respect pulsing from behind her eyes is infuriating.
Ignorant witch.
In my country, you
’
d be beaten within an inch of your life for even looking at me.
They both stand for an unyielding moment, just staring at one another. A thin veil of civility is the only thing holding back their slashing words.

“
Run along now,
”
Chris blurts out from behind them. The teenager takes a step protectively out from the line.
“
I think she
’
s done with you.
”

Abd spins. Anger fills his shaking hands.
“
This doesn
’
t concern you,
b
ro,
”
he barks contemptuously at the towering man.

“
What
’
d he call you?!
”
Darius asks. He pushes out from behind his friend and immediately moves towards the Arab.

Chris
’
s long, muscular arm shoots out to slow his impulsive teammate. His deep brown eyes never leave Abd
’
s face.
“
I
’
m sure he didn
’
t mean anything by it. Right?
”

Disgusted by the colored stink of diversity in the air, Abd turns and pushes back through the line of people beside him. He moves quickly, his legs bitter with suppressed rage. The Arab storms past surprised travelers and stops at one of the cracked sinks in the restroom. He splashes the water up to his face, squeezing his smoldering eyes shut.

*  *  *

The noise of humanity steadily grows within the busy airport. Conversation and coincidence reverberate all around the cold structure. Lives echo off of brushed metal and tempered glass, their stories bouncing from the edges of shadow into light.

Devin
’
s red hair looks like kindled fire under the stark fluorescent lighting. He breezes through security once he emerges from the snaking line
’
s mouth. The fireman grabs his keys and money clip out of the gray plastic tub and tucks them back into the silk-lined pockets of his dress slacks. His emerald eyes dart to the right as a muffled argument grows.

An Arab man in a Mariners jersey is roughly pulled out of line by an armed TSA officer. The Mid-Easterner
’
s thin upper arm is held tight by a uniformed man wearing light blue plastic gloves. The security officer
’
s shaved head and thick white arms blend into his button-up shirt, making the large black TSA letters swim on a sea of ice.

“
Get your filthy hands off me!
”
Abd yells. His accent chokes on the words. He tries to yank his arm out of the agent
’
s authoritative grip. But the stocky TSA officer just squeezes harder, digging his fingers through the jersey and into the Arab man
’
s flesh. Another security guard quietly exits an unmarked door beside a large mirror to join them. He ushers the struggling men off to a slightly darker side of the security area.

“
Just step over here, sir,
”
the bald TSA officer says firmly. His grip tightens to persuade compliance.

Abd winces in pain as he
’
s forced forward. His dirty Converse sneakers stumble along the slick tile floor. He glances back, his face reddening in humiliation at the ridicule and criticism staring back from thousands of strange eyes. Their unspoken insults silently scream words of contempt. Suspicion.

The TSA agents drag Abd to a secondary security station 25 feet to the right of the main line. They stop next to a row of empty chairs lining a powder blue wall. The bald officer walks carefully behind the Arab man while his partner stays just in front. His right hand firmly grips the taser handle at his waist. The bald man forces Abd
’
s arms up and begins to pat him down.

“
Oh, come on!
”
Abd whines. An American flag hangs overhead. The faint bristle of activity sends its patriotism pulsing in the still air.

As Chris Thomas finishes stuffing a black leather wallet and phone back into his baggy Diesel pockets, his brown eyes join the others in security.
“
Should have just danced for them
,
”
Chris says, shaking his shaved head.

“
Discrimination sucks, huh?
”
Darius adds. He looks on with a silly grin stretching from pierced ear to pierced ear.

Chris laughs, unable to stop from watching the manhandled Muslim. A sudden happiness for the day ahead flashes into his eyes. Mostly he
’
s just grateful it
’
s not him getting felt up by white men with too much time and pent-up frustration on their hands.

“
Move it, D,
”
Chris says. He pushes Darius out of the security area even though his friend is still trying to put on his left shoe.

“
Shit!
”
Darius blurts as he hops. He jumps forward with his foot cocked awkwardly up in one hand, cursing while he tries to keep his balance.

Stacked television sets fronting the gift shop beside them show images of the President inside a small classroom. Diverse kindergarteners recite the Pledge of Allegiance with him. Their words bounce around the airport, echoing past the deaf ears of hectic travelers.

“
…
One nation, under God
…
”

“
This is ridiculous!
”
Abd barks. He purposefully shouts loud enough for everyone in the security area to hear.
“
Do we have to do this every time?
”

“
Every single time,
”
the bald TSA officer whispers intensely into Abd
’
s ear. He leans back, staring into the Arab
’
s eyes. The officer
’
s hands tremble, trying to quiet the violent impulses begging to teach this belligerent towelhead some manners.
“
Now, take off your shoes and hold your arms out to the side!
”

“
…
indivisible
…
”

Devin looks on as a third officer closes in to join the fray. The security officers grab and pull at the Arab man
’
s clothes, patting him down loudly. Devin winces from the thumping sounds of each blow. The fireman tips his head to a forty-something woman standing just on the other side of the x-ray machine
’
s belt.
“
Is all that really necessary?
”

“
Policy, sir,
”
she says without emotion. The woman barely even glances at him.
“
Just a random check. Please collect your belongings.
”

Enduring a steady stream of insults, the bald officer starts to wand down the Muslim. The device screeches out no warnings, yet he continues to go over the Arab again and again. The officers almost sigh in disappointment when he powers the wand off.

“
What
’
s your name? I want to file a complaint,
”
Abd yells.
“
This is ridiculous. You hear me? You and all your redneck, racist friends can burn in hell.
”

“
With liberty and justice for all
…
”

8:15 a.m.

A monotonous loop of misfortune flashes on the TV screen. Averting his eyes, Devin sits down at one of the round wooden tables toward the rear of the PDX cafe. He carefully takes the plastic lid off his steaming cup of coffee, pouring in two Irish creamers.
If only they were the real thing
…

His hands twitch.

Devin glances at the two lanky teenagers from the check-in area eating breakfast several tables away. Dressed in light blue, white, and red letterman jackets, the two young men don
’
t seem to mind that their conversation is loud enough for everyone in the cafe to enjoy.

Darius throws a playful jab into Chris
’
s shoulder as his teammate tries to type on his laptop. The 15-inch computer keyboard looks like a toy in Chris
’
s massive hands.

“
Come on, D,
”
Chris says, shooting Darius a frosty glare.
“
I gotta get this done!
”

“
Not my fault you left it
‘
til now,
”
Darius counters.
“
Got mine done yesterday before the game.
”
He watches his lifelong friend
’
s agitation with growing amusement. The more Chris tries to concentrate, the deeper the scowl cutting across his face becomes. Veins rise along his temples. The tick-tick-tick of his writing seems to come in fevered bursts, like trying to chase an inspired mirage.

A mischievous smile suddenly plays across Darius
’
s face.
“
Bet you
’
re wishing you woulda
’
put that phone down last night, too. Talking
’
til 1. Didn
’
t do you much good with your girl anyway.
”
Darius leans over in front of Chris
’
s screen and squints his eyes. A thin sprout of a mustache stands out above his awkward expression.
“
Well, that
’
s just bad time management on your part, young Christopher,
”
he says in an authoritative tone, over-enunciating every word.

Chris finally smiles. He shakes his head at the crappy Nixon impersonation.
“
Asshole.
”

“
That was completely unnecessary, young Christopher,
”
Darius continues. He scowls back like all the teachers he
’
s disappointed over the years.
“
You really should work on expanding your vocabulary. Your command of the English language is quite appalling.
”

Still watching from two tables away, Devin smiles. He
’
s faintly reminded of some of his own friendships over the years — masculinity and affection always seeming at odds.

Devin
’
s green eyes drift across the rich mixture of microbrew handles on display behind the bar to his left. Each stands ready for the parched vacationer or nervous businessman
’
s enjoyment. As the familiar urge swells, his mouth is suddenly very dry.