How Much Will It Cost Us To Break This Union?
I woke up from an expected nap to find my Northwest flight paused on the tarmac. The engines spun up then stopped. I could see the shadow of an “off-contract mechanic” standing below the wing. A heavily loaded electrical motor whined, then paused. Clunk after metallic clunk announced our resumption of travel.
Somewhere there is an analyst doing a cost benefit analysis of Northwest breaking the union — really just some drone fighting inscrutible formulas and manually-updated excel spreadsheets.
“Make this line bold!”
It’s probably a temp.
When I flew out of Minneapolis, it was just as the sun was rising. As I departed New York the sun was slipping away from a clear sky, leaving a band of orange and pink circling the horizon.
Were those grinding and clanking noises appropriate during our initial climb?
I miss New York already. The air is hazy and the ground is so far away. How can I return to normal life now? How can I give up people who laugh at all of my awful jokes and hug me in public? I never got to just chill with Christian, or Bharat, for that matter. It was a weekend of eating and drinking at maximum velocity — trying to cram as much of the city into my mouth as I could and failing miserably. I’m taking back at most a glass of Hefe Weisen amidst the water molecules and red blood cells running through my veins. I want to walk another thousand miles down the streets, talk to a million random people — some of them wearing Walt Mink t-shirts!
I knew that I went shopping with Joan, PM, and John for a reason — I saw a person in a Walt Mink shirt at the Apple Store! Walt Mink! The shirt from the once in a lifetime reunion show in Minneapolis!
Then there was a bomb scare! As we struggled back to the Ginger Man for one last cooling, refreshing beer, the streets filled thickly with police officers and firemen. It was just a suspicious package, but I said thank you as they rerouted us away from potential danger.
The World Trade Center just wasn’t there. It was a huge construction site. I hope that they can build a suitable memorial to demonstrate the tangible grief that we all still feel, but maybe the real memorial is the whole city of New York: the church whose yard had filled with rubble, the wall of MISSING flyers at the hospital, the police trucks marked with dedications to fallen friends, all together in a mash of loss and hope. The towers are now just a huge wound, but that wound is dwarfed by the city itself — a city honestly filled with love.
And honking.
Hey, that guy in the WM chicken shirt was my friend Travis (www.travisroozee.com). He called me from SOHO to relay his encounter with you. Awesome. Glad you loved the shows. xoxox Butler
The world is as tiny as it is huge.