Donald Darby flies a lot.
He used to fly for his job, pharmaceutical sales, but he was fired from that three months ago. So now he just flies for himself.
Donald has been to Atlanta, and Washington D.C., and Chicago, and Denver, and a host of the little regional airports like Islip in New York, or Ft. Myers in Florida. He noticed none of them.
Donald doesn’t like to travel, but then, he doesn’t like much of anything. Homely, shy, and sad, it is a wonder he lost his job due to the recession rather than uselessness.
When he’s not otherwise occupied, Donald sits on his failure of a couch and watches television. He does not remember any particular show after it’s finished. Somebody else is living their life for him, and that is somewhat better than the alternative.
Donald would like very much to drink his troubles away. He and bars, however, are a recipe for a travesty, for he knows no one, is too frightened to introduce himself, and probably wouldn’t like them anyhow. And drinking alone? While Donald’s knowledge is nothing that would dazzle the most inbred hill person, he knows that drinking alone is pure alcoholism-to-be.
Airports, however, are a loophole.
There’s no stigma to drinking alone in airport bars. It’s noble. Your flight was delayed, and you’re making the best of a bad situation.
So Donald has quaffed Margaritas at the genuine Mexican cantina in Des Moines, chugged Milwaukee’s Best in Albuquerque, and sipped Sangria on Concourse C at Sea-Tac.
It’s not such a bad life. Or perhaps it is, but it’s better than anything else he’s tried. So while he realizes that his money will soon run out, he has hope: Hope that he will run out just a bit before that happens.
Well, that’s a bit of a bummer, isn’t it? Pretty straightforward, and not necessarily planned for anything, the idea hit on a two-hour layover in Atlanta’s rather unpleasant Concourse D. Was I drinking alone? Only my hairdresser knows for sure.