Searching for Power

Photo by Amien

Baltimore-Washington International Airport is eerily quiet for a Wednesday morning, and I wonder if there’s something going on that I should know about. The near-empty terminal reminds me of The Langoliers, Stephen King’s mid-90s TV movie adaptation of his novella about a group of travelers find themselves stranded at an empty airport while unseen monsters devour the landscape with horrifying shrieks as they draw ever closer. At least, that’s what I remember—I spent most of the movie hiding under the covers.

Right now, the monsters seem to be the incoming administration.

I’m flying to Vancouver for the night, a quick work trip that’s taking me from sea to shining sea and back again in twenty-four hours, something every single person I’ve shared these plans with confirms is patently insane.

“One night?” My Uber driver squints at me through the rearview mirror. “But isn’t that far?”

It is, but I don’t mind spending the day on a plane, especially when someone else is paying.

After ordering a coffee from the Starbucks that didn’t have a line (how?), I begin making my way to the gate, which is reliably located at the farthest end of the terminal. This is something I’ve come to expect; no matter what airport I’m in or where I’m flying to, my gate will never not be the last one down the longest terminal. This was true in Buenos Aires, in Frankfurt, and now, in Baltimore.

The universe wants me to get my steps in.

There’s a couple ahead of me on the moving walkway, or at least half a couple; she’s walking languidly on the walkway while he strides beside her on solid ground, taking at least two steps for every one she completes on the metal grate gliding along steadily underneath us. They’re holding hands, resting them on the thick, black rubber railing and I decide this is what a healthy relationship looks like; two people deciding to go in the same direction together, each at their own pace.

Maybe love does exist.

My gate is mostly deserted even though the flight takes off in about thirty minutes, and I’m delighted to see there are plugs built into the rows of chairs. I need to answer a couple of emails, so I plop my things down and dig my laptop and charger out of my bag. The first outlet I try doesn’t work; neither does the second. After the third unsuccessful attempt, I peer behind the row of chairs to see a giant plug dangling from the back.

The chairs aren’t plugged into any power source, rendering their outlets solely decorative.

“There’s outlets,” a woman says to me from a couple of seats over, pointing with a limp croissant at the one under her armrest.

“I tried,” I say, motioning to my computer that’s currently plugged into a useless socket. “I don’t think they’re connected to anything.”

“There’s outlets,” she repeats again before shrugging and diving back into her croissant.

I scan the horizon, looking for a functioning source of electricity like a meerkat hunting for its breakfast. Incredibly, there’s not a single outlet at my gate, but I spot an unattended wall socket an empty Spirit gate across the terminal’s hallway. I quickly gather my things up again, wondering how much longer humanity will have to suffer the indignity of searching for a plug at an airport. How have we not figured this out yet?

Maybe the real monsters are our draining batteries.

I look up a little while later to see my flight has begun boarding and the area is suddenly packed, passengers clumped around the jet bridge entrance like lemmings crowding a cliff. I find what appears to be the end of the line for my boarding group and see a man standing awkwardly behind the last person.

“Are you in Group 2?” I ask, not wanting to inadvertently step in front of him.

“Something like that,” he responds, smiling calmly. “You can go ahead.”

“Okay,” I mumble, confused by what I thought was a straightforward question.

When we are eventually shuffled onto the plane, he stays right behind me, revealing he was in Group 2 after all. I debate whether I should apologize for cutting him before remembering he was the one who let me join the line ahead of him. Maybe this was his way of keeping the peace, a quiet rebellion against the chaos. Maybe, like me, he’s searching for meaning in mundane encounters.

Or perhaps this small act of kindness is his shield against the encroaching darkness—the kind that’s not just outside, but within each of us as we stumble along, trying to keep the monsters at bay.