Me and Big Joe at LAX

LAX is perhaps the dirtiest, most unfriendly piece of shit airport in the world, and that is saying something. Even the best airports, like Amsterdam and Singapore,are no more than long crowded hallways filled with gemcracks and the harried soulless who have been beaten senseless by corporate America but read the Wall Street Journal anyway. And these fools are punctuated by the truly evil who wear uniforms and badges that say things like, "May I help you?" but in a special way to make sure you understand clearly that they don't mean it.

The main airport into Los Angeles is different than most, older and dirtier, an architectural nightmare built long before interminable security lines were invented to make us all feel better about our total vulnerability. And, to make matters worse at LAX there is no legal way to move from one terminal to another and stay inside security -- a real problem for those who despise the General Public and count the number of steps to the next airline club. There is little worse in this world than clutching a United Airlines ticket at LAX and needing to get into the Delta Crown Room.

But, today I didn't let the law stop me.

As I approached the angry, brooding, bored and bitter TSA twelve dollar an hour ticket taker, I smiled kindly and handed her my ticket and passport. She was glum but almost immediately became gleeful. "No way, Mister! This is the Delta terminal and you are on United. I can't let you in." She smiled because it was one of the few times each day she could screw one of those she believed (rightfully) had screwed her and left her looking like an elephant dressed in a pretend police uniform.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," I apologized insincerely. "I didn't know. It is my first time here," I lied.

"Well, that don't matter," she motioned dismissively. "You go on ʻround that corner right there and it will put you back outside security where you belong."

I nodded politely but said nothing. As I rounded the corner, I stopped, turned and waited until I could see she had let another 3 or 4 passengers with the proper credentials pass. When she reached for a Twinkie I quickly but gently eased myself among the masses and stepped on to the elevator which took me to where I wanted to go in the first place - the Delta Crown Room, home away from home, a place where they hate my guts but have to act like they don't, where whiskey is free and you can suck down all the bandwidth you want, as long as you're a T-Mobile customer or have someone else's user id and password.

The Crown Room is that place where I present a membership card that always gets attention. Most of these plastic passes out of hell prominently show a date of expiration. That way there will come a day the help can tell you to "get out or pay -- you're not a member, not anymore." My card merely says, "Lifetime." It is a long story and Iʼll save it for later, but to the desk attendants it means that I am not someone to be fucked with, if only because they know that either I am someone, or more likely that I know someone -- someone who could end their careers, to use that term in the loosest sense.

I tossed down a Wild Turkey, tipped liberally, ordered another and slipped the glass into my jacket pocket. I know that soon Big Joe will be waiting at baggage claim and he will have my luggage tucked under one of his oversized hambone arms and he will smile when he sees me, if only because that is his job. We will take a short walk to the illegally parked area where the flat black Suburban will be waiting patiently and we will ride in total silence into south L.A. where I will strap up and Big Joe will once again ogle the Glock .40 he wants more than life itself. Then Big Joe will stop in front of the terminal, get out and open my door and as we make our way to the private "do not enter" side entrance, he will will kick the dog shit out of anyone who happens to be in my path, and then I will enter and it will be there that it will all begin one more time.

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