Nine Eleven (#Wattys2015)

Chapter 12

His eyes are closed as he steps onto the sidewalk of the Boston airport. With a long and sacred sigh he dispenses all tranquility. Omari. The son of his dead father. The new man. The young man. 17. The one man built by his band of his brothers. Brothers in arms. Brothers in faith. Brothers in purpose. And brothers in a feign-less and usurping death.

He looks well dressed. They all do. Omari had stepped out of the taxi onto the sidewalk, walked around to the trunk and waited for it to open to get his bags. The breeze was strong. It blew his hair out of place. Mohammed was with him. He had also stepped out of the car; the two both waited at the back of the car for the trunk to open. They had their backpacks in the trunk. The driver approached them, opened the trunk, and assisted them with their bags. Mohammed pays the driver, and the two continue into the airport.

They walk in to check-in for their flight. In Boston. Were they should be. It was there were they were to take the earliest flight to NYC. It is still dark outside. Dawn. The sun slept soundless in her long eastern bed.

The two walk in. Crowds of people crawl impatient through the airport lobby. Omari stares at each person as he passes them by. He seems to have the capacity to stare at every individual person, in the stopping white of their eyes, and in their undulating pupils, yet stares at them all-all in a one unobtrusive stare. He sees everyone, and no one sees him. He and Mohammed stroll through the airport lobby to their airlines check-in station. The clatter of their dress shoes echo with each step. They dressed in slacks, belts, and button-down shirts. Clean shaven, and dress-shoed. They didn't need any impediments to their plan.

Like the ancient Tydides and Ulysess they walke through the secret corridors of old Illium under guard, in it's deep dreams of night, only to steal the horse of glory, and put to death the sleeping crew who'd hinder their glory. The United States held high in their walls of fame and fashioned glory as Omari stands before them in the theater of impassive thought. In his hand he holds a holy sword which he intended to surge into the marrow of the heathen country with a blazon zeal.

He stares at the young blonde attendant behind the desk of their check-in station. She smiles squintingly yet bright. It was as fake as the powder and cream that covered her face, he thought. It was comical to young Omari. He smirks in silence as he opens his wallet to take out his Driver's license to show to the attendant.

"Good morning sir!" she shouts with glee. "Hello," he responds dully.

The way she held herself up. The steadiness. The confidence. The boldness really. Omari wasn't used to seeing women so uncovered. So strong. He stares into her big green eyes, and feels the sweet impulse of attraction at the reception of her beauty. It pinches at his long heart beat. He enjoys the bright radiance of her gold hair, the way it slips quietly over her shoulder as of breathing with life. The gold of her hair seems the same gold of the miser, the gold of the conquistador, the gold of greed. And Omari wonders of beauty. He wonders of the futility of stones, and the fading glow of glory.

What mattered to the young Iraq man? Not beauty in its evanescence.

The girl prints out Omari and Mohammed's boarding passes. They thank her, and continue to security without saying a word to each other. They still have their backpacks. Onward they walked. Because of the earliness of the flight, the line wasn't too long. They waited, and followed the maze like trail to the security guard and officer standing behind a podium.

"ID's and boarding passes!" the old black man mumbles to them. His gloved hand unfolds before them. Mohammed gives him his ID and boarding pass. He continues without hindrance.

Omari gives him his ID and boarding pass. The man stares intently at his young Arab face-at the dark tint spurned deeply around his young eyes; at his clean face and combed hair; at his brown skin. He looks at young Omari with a strange feeling of wonder. He is suspicious. Suspicious of something, though not entirely sure.