Are those people astronauts or serial killers?

 By Steve Pease

When I was a civilian engineer for the Air Force, I traveled at least once a month, mostly to LA, Washington DC, Albuquerque and Dayton, Ohio. That means a lot of time sitting at the gate area in airports or exploring terminals because of lengthy waits between flights, and looking for the john or an available electrical plug.

I always stay awake and only sleep aboard the plane. I feared that if I fell asleep, I might wake up after my flight had departed. That would cause a Grand Mal Klong, a sudden rush of sh*t to the heart, and a whole lot of inconvenience..

The paperback I brought along helped. I made a reading list of mystery, SF and history books I always intended to read but hadn't, and I started reading seriously thru the stack. I also brainstormed story ideas. I never got into carrying one of those dedicated writing processors. I scribbled in half-used spiral notebooks piled in another tall stack in my office. 

That all worked pretty well, but I needed breaks. So, I either sat back or strolled the terminal and watched people. Who looked guilty of something? Who was a secret serial killer? Project into the future - who was boarding a shuttle to the moon? I saw people queue up to rush down the tunnel to their aircraft. What if a submarine or a spaceship was at the end of the tunnel instead of a Regional Jet shuttle? Was one of the boarders escaping to Mexico after stealing millions from their employer or hitting nasty Aunt Gertrude over the head with the candlestick?

Sometimes it was just for fun, but sometimes I think I spied genuine fugitives or aliens. In Chicago O'Hare, I saw a man in a bright red suit with a brilliantly white hat hustling to his gate. He was pulling a carry-on bag, and he was talking to himself, somewhat loudly, about a recent meeting and how he had negotiated a great financial contract with them. As he went by, I realized it was Dom Deluise, genius comedian and, like Jonathan Winters, a little vague in his contact with present reality.

Red was in for fantasy people. Also in Chicago, I saw a tall, well-muscled black man in an impeccable, firetruck red three-piece suit. His black, very shiny shoes looked expensive. He had a gold watch and gold rings. He was carrying a thin briefcase in cordovan Moroccan leather. No hat. His hair was expensively shaped and his pencil mustache was striking. He walked like he was an International First Class passenger, and they would wait for him.

He stimulated all sorts of ideas. A celebrity seemed too small. He was a black Mafia leader, the owner of Chicago's most expensive and exclusive "lounge", where the drugs and the food were gourmet, and the world-class women were "available". No, he didn't look gay. His stride was sure and powerful, purposeful. He was top class, so my character fantasy had to match. Shouldn't the president of an African country have an entourage?

I still have those notebooks. They are idea mines where I discover images for characters like gold nuggets in a stream.