On My Way Home (Scömìche)

3~ Pick-Up

After I go two hours in the opposite direction of my home, passing my work again, I reach the airport. It is a clean airport, it isn't old and run-down but it isn't that extravagant either like some of them I have been to, it is a comfy airport. I pull into the deserted parking lot at Two Fifty-Six in the morning. The sleep in my eyes is hard to bare. I wipe my eyes, unfasten my seat belt, and turn off the car; removing the keys from the ignition. I smile at a little thought that comes up in my tired mind. I reach over to my briefcase and remove a Sharpie and a blank piece of, white, printer paper. I scribble 'Mr. Hoying' onto the paper in the best writing I can make out, at this hour, and I clamber out of the car.

Terminal B-3 I repeat to myself in my head as I walk through the quiet airport. All gift shops and food courts are closed, locked up, and abandoned. All luggage conveyor belts are off, all people must've gone home hours ago. No flights in, no flights out. All life is gone from this building except for the occasional janitor and Scott, where ever he is. Terminal B-3 I whisper to myself again, clutching the little sign I made. The silence is almost eerie. I hope I find him soon. Terminal B- ah here it is, my conscience says as I come across a large, waiting room. It contains five back to back rows of black and silver benches, worn from all of the bottoms that it has held over the years and faux, decorative, planters in each of the corners. The terminal door is locked off; the desk, that would normally contain a 'flight attendant' of some sort, is empty; and the sign, of on time and cancelled flights, is off. The room is completely empty except for one man.

Scott.

His bright, blonde, hair is shorter than it used to be. Instead of being tall and spiked, it is now short and buzzed. My heart leaps out of my chest for a moment and I cannot contain the goofy smile that spreads across my face, from ear to ear. He is sitting with his back towards me in one of the rows. His shoulders rise and fall slowly, he must be asleep. I hold up my little sign and obnoxiously clear my throat. He stirs and then glances over his shoulder at me, with tired eyes. His eyes brighten and widen as soon as he realizes who it is. "Mitch?!" He says with excitement. I cannot speak, I am at a loss for words. I just nod like an idiot. He jumps from the chair and walks over to me quickly enveloping me in a, giant, bear hug. He nearly lifts me off the floor. He rests his head on top of mine and I rest my head on his chest. "I missed you so much," he says. My vision blurs and I feel a warm tear run down my cheek. I haven't thought about, or realized, how much I actually missed my best friend until now. "I missed you too," I rasp. We bask in each other's touch for a moment before he releases me from the hug and holds me at arms length, observing me up and down. "You look great," he exclaims. I blush. "I would look better if someone would let me get sleep," I say, sassily. He gives me his perfect straight, white, teeth smile, releases my arms, and grabs the sign I was holding through our hug, which is now all wrinkled. "Are you a chauffeur now, or what?" He says, gesturing at the sign and then my suit with his free hand. "Actually no, I am not a chauffeur..." I say, smiling. He folds my sign and puts it in the pocket over his pectoral muscle, under the embroidered letters that read 'S. Hoying'. "Get your things, I want to be home before Eight." I say, softly. "What you didn't want to watch the sunrise?" He asks, sarcastically, as he turns towards the bench and collects the two large, beige, bags he travels with. I cross my arms and watch him, intently. He turns around and stares at me for a moment. He still towers over me and he is still the same old Scotty, but he just seems so different. He wears beige, laced to the top, combat boots; muted green and light beige, camouflaged, pants and jacket; and a silver, metallic, dog tag. He has one bag tossed over his, left, shoulder and he clutches the straps of the other bag with his, right, hand. "What?" He asks, with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "Oh, nothing... I guess I just spaced out." I say, snapping out of my observation. He walks up to me, puts his left arm over my shoulder, and we begin to walk out of the airport. "So I joined the army and you became a chauffeur and an astronaut." He says, playfully. "Pretty much," I joke through a yawn.