July 3, 2016:

Mister Shout-Into-Phone follows me everywhere, shouting. He's pudgy, balding, ugly-bearded, and consummately confident that I know where he needs to go. To ditch him I zigzag around the terminal, making sudden moves, doubling back; but always in a few seconds there he is, dogging and shouting. Finally I stop dead, turn around, stare angrily into his eyes without moving. He looks shocked, and this time, as I walk defiantly past him, he continues in some other direction.

Bored hick in trucker cap and baggy shorts, whips himself rhythmically on a bare knee with an Apple power cord, doubled in half. I guess it beats reading.

I don't know this concourse. Apparently the Friendly Skies have overspilled their usual one. It's crowded, it's 97 degrees outside, babies are crying, the people look vacant and smell like soda and electronics. I'm exhausted and there are hours to go.