Charles

If it had been any other type of car, I probably wouldn’t have cared.People drive like idiots; it’s just how it is. But a classic Eldorado, I mean, come on, you just can’t drive one of those and be anything but happy. But there he was, cutting me off in a mad rush to the airport exit. I did the usual human tricks; middle finger salute, horn blaring and a general cuss out from the behind the relative safety of my windshield.

Geez. What an idiot.

The last thing I needed was to be trading paint with some nimrod during rush hour.

What I did need was to catch a plane and I didn’t have time for this crap. All I could see was the frosted tips of his hair as he forced the nose of that beautiful Cadillac into my path. I’m a fairly nice guy most of the time, but at that moment, I wanted to squish that dude flat…he’s lucky he was in the Eldorado.

It’s kinda funny, I had that same Eldorado once; it was my first car. My dad had given it to me when I was learning to drive, and I thought I was king of the friggin’ world driving that sled. The way I saw it, anyone fortunate enough to pilot one of these beauties had to be just about the luckiest folks in the world. I’d smile and wave at everybody when I drove through town, and no matter where I needed to go, I went in style with an easy comfort. It never occurred to me that a person could be in a bad mood if they were wrapped inn the luxury of an Eldorado. It’s just how it was.

Yet there I was, watching with dismay as this frosty tipped idiot pushed past my patience. He returned my single finger salute with a finger of his own and we both managed to make our way into the crush of the airport without any further mayhem. I parked my car and followed the other half dead zombies into the terminal to catch my flight. I’d fly several times a month as part of my job advising clients with financial issues. It’s mostly boring stuff, but I like it and it pays me well. I’d gotten used to the airport routine and I’m at home with the process of travel. The one thing I’ve never gotten used to, however, is the security line and the absolute loss of intelligence that overtakes the average person as they move though the line. For reasons that escape me, my fellow travellers seem to be suffering one big brain fart when it comes to emptying pockets or taking off shoes. It’s amazing to watch and painful to endure and on this particular day, the latest contestant in the security line game show was none other than Mister Frosty Tips.

Yep. The idiot had returned.

I didn’t think he recognised me from our freeway finger exchange, and I used this to my advantage. Here he was, holding up the line with his slow as molasses routine of shoe removal and what seemed like one coin out of his pocket per trip through the metal detector.

Funny…I remember he was in a big hurry only a few minutes ago. Idiot.

After his third trip through the scanner, I had had enough. With a much sarcasm as I could muster at such an early hour, I loudly and fully inquired as to when he thought he might, possibly be, thinking about, getting the eff, out of the way?

Well. You can guess how that went down. A few choice words over his shoulder towards me, and a couple from me back towards him, neither of us risking eye contact. A fist fight was avoided, but only by the shared knowledge that such a confrontation would certainly result in the removal of both of our sorry butts from the airport and the actual boarding of our respective planes. And as it had quite suddenly dawned on both of us simultaneously that we might in fact be removed, we quickly put on our get-along pants and quietly parted ways.

Coffee in hand, I now scanned the departure terminal, amusing myself with a game of guessing what my fellow travellers did with their lives. The women and men, young and old, families and solo’s, all shapes, all sizes, colours and styles. Seasoned business people on their way to one deal or the next. College students heading to or from home. Tourists and vacationers off to exotic locations for some well-deserved rest and relaxation.

And one frosty tipped idiot standing in the middle of them all.

Sure enough, that jerk was going to be on my flight. Unbelievable. It’s a big plane, how bad could it be?

Try the seat right next to me. I’m not kidding. The idiot is now my co-pilot.

I decided to ignore him. There was simply no purpose in carrying on with the earlier BS between us and I was in no mood to be, you know, human and let it go. I busied myself with a crossword puzzle from the airplane magazine while the idiot beside me pretended to sleep.

So far, so good.

Since it was only a three hour flight, I figured I could play this charade of ignorance for the duration.

Eight across, clue: Tormentor, six letters, forth letter is a C.

I’d been pondering this clue for a few minutes when the idiot mumbled “Rascal”.

I could not believe my ears. That jerk had been looking over my shoulder and eying my crossword. Who does that? And to blurt out the answer? Not on my watch…not on my watch.

But damn if he wasn’t right. Rascal not only fit, it filled in the blanks for the other lines as well. I muttered a listless “thank you” his way and quietly continued my puzzle as I became acutely aware of his presence next to me until I finally surrendered and asked him if he had any more answers he felt he needed to share.

“Eldorado” came his response.

He knew. He knew it was me on the freeway, the security line, all of it.

He. Knew.

My laughter broke whatever tension remained between the two of us and we began to talk as the flight wore on. We talked about cars, we talked about women. We talked about life and we talked about nothing at all. He told me about how his father had given him that Eldorado years ago and that it was the only car that he’d ever owned. I told him about how my dad had also given me one but that I’d carelessly sold it years earlier. I learned his name and and he learned mine. By the time the plane touched down, we were friends.

That flight was over twenty years ago. Twenty plus years of weddings and funerals, kids birthdays parties, camping trips and vacations to the lake. He’s held my children and I’ve held his. We’ve shed tears and we’ve laughed so hard we thought we’d pee our pants. We buried pets in our yards and parents in the cemetery. He knew my secrets and my dreams and I know his.

I named my son after him. No, not idiot. Charles.

I never thought of him as an idiot after that first day: He never gave me any reason to. Charles was my friend in the truest and most sincere way I know of. And today, I’m driving his old classic Eldorado (I bought it from him years ago) to the airport to catch another flight back home for yet another funeral.

Today I have to say goodbye, goodbye to my friend.

Give ‘em hell at the security gate, Charles. I’ll see you up there soon.