Jack P Rocket-Man, Fictional Character, Writer, Engineer, Columnist, continues his latest tale.
Jack P Rocket-Man is NOT REAL. There is NO WARRANTY on anything he says.
REM: You were telling me about the International Airport, west from here. I looked at their Website, nice. I’d like it even more if the photos were larger, more pixels.
JPRM: THT International Airport, in New Hampshire. There are three Tura Airports. Two really, one in Russia, and one on the Tura-Guwahati Highway in India. And here.
That THT Website ALMOST does the place justice, particularly the photo gallery. My two favorites are the evening shot revealing the entire illuminated glass structure from the front, as well as the graceful curve of Airport Road. The other is the “perspective shot”, from an angle, of the seven-level control tower that is reminiscent of the Babylon Marduk Ziggurat… except not in RUINS. It’s haunted, eerie. Someone like you would call it “cool.”
REM: The Control Tower at THT is an analogue of that Babylon Temple, in the Middle East?
JPRM: Have you been spending time with my Wife Louise? She’d say something like that. Yeah, that place in Babylon was their “Control Tower;” you’ve read that Julian Jaynes Book, and the Christian Bible… Babylon was one of the landing pads for the GODS back then, about one thousand B.C.
I liked working there, at the airport, four in the morning, winter: the air so crisp I’d wave my hand through it, it crackled; that’s the synesthesia, that cross-cognitive sensation I told you about. The wind would whip. It was so cold, I’d look down to make sure the wind hadn’t blown my pants off. Too bad it paid so little… Like going to the South Pole when the weather was like that.
The Tura International, it was fun being between “real jobs,” back then. The money was bad, but that’s the PAST, so THT was what I’d call a “surreal job” today. Did you ever notice there’s only a past and a future… Like grabbing a handful of ocean, you can’t hold onto it…
It was fun, except on Tuesdays. I told you about that poor little white-tail deer, trying to get inside, right after the black jet landed? It was as if the little deer wanted something INSIDE the building. I don’t think it was coffee or a chocolate donuts. Can animals be crazy? Anyway, it was my turn to be outside walking, and the limos started showing up at the south end around dawn, so I had an excuse to nose around a bit.
The black jet was parked again, silent on the south runway. I flashed my LED light around looking for “squatters” in the limo area: people who were too lazy or too cheap or just plain arrogant and didn’t want to pay to park in Lot B right across Airport Road. Then I noticed the Airport Director was outside; pretty sure it was him because the guy was about six-foot-six and built like a military humvee.
So Mister Director greets four visitors emerging from the black jet, and they’re more like my size, five-eight. Pygmies compared to Mr. D. The one thing they had in common was they were all real quiet, and they moved differently than normal people. This was in ’03 not too long ago, you know how people are getting fatter and older? These folks moved effortlessly, sort of like the Vampires you read about in the fiction books. Different than skinny people and bodybuilder types or athletes even. Surreal, they were.
All of a sudden they spot me. Five pairs of eyes are staring. I’m checking the limos, I flash my light, this guy in the limo, the driver, he was snoozing, he jumps a mile and spills his coffee on his lap. I keep walking, I felt nervous, like I was spying on them, the Director and his visitors, but not deliberately. I’m expecting to get reamed out for doing my job, but no… I’m walking away, and this feeling occurs.
JPRM: Yes. Like the temperature got even colder, physically. But all at once I wasn’t stressed out anymore, not that I had reason be in the first place! So I’m happy but cold, way past freezing my ass off. I’m gliding toward the south entrance of the main building. Levitating, that’s what it feels like when your ass is froze. Next thing I found myself standing at the escalator, and trying to hop on it, and all of a sudden I touch up against that little red rope and the sign they block it off with during off-hours.
I’m shocked, somnambulating. I realize no one’s outside, no security guard at the south end and it’s supposed to be me! So I’m back out like a flash. Everything’s calm and peaceful and the glass is super-clean next to the revolving exit door. It reminded me that just last Tuesday that white-tailed deer, they had to shoot with the 40-caliber because it didn’t want to take NO for an answer about being inside.
Now I’m dead certain if that deer knew how to work the revolving door he would have gotten inside. If the escalator wasn’t blocked, would I have gone up, and been shot by the deputies, or the staties? Even though I’m just a rent-a-cop there, they DID provide training, in fact when I had the engineering work before that, I kept one of them Engineer’s notebooks with the grids, because my memory’s shot… So I write things down.
That evening I have this little 3×5 inch flip notebook, and I’m taking a few notes in case I get the third-degree later on for my doing my job. I write in the notebook, “04:44 limo area checked the limo tags.” I didn’t mention a damn thing about the black jet, and the humvee-sized Director with his fan-club, nor the fact they were dressed for SUMMER and the wind chill on the runway was ridiculous.
I put my notebook and pen back in my shirt pocket, my cell phone’s inside, good, I keep losing it, but there’s something else in there. It looks like one of those Smartphones but all they had in 2003 as far as I knew was the cellphones, the little plastic bricks.
It’s tungsten colored, grayish-white, pretty, thin, rounded corners, radiused. When I gripped it a little tighter it begins shining, backlit, like one of those glow tubes that you’d snap to activate and… chemiluminescent… a pretty green.
I think about a “keyboard,” and all of a sudden there’s a touchpad, but it’s for an Egyptian, King Tut… looks like hieroglyphics. A combination of pictures and scripts and what the hell, there’s about two-hundred choices of keys! I curse to myself and say “QWERTY” and it changes into an English Keyboard! Less and bigger keys. Shocked me…
I almost drop the thing, like I’m holding onto a scorpion, I press the Q, and then I get scared and quit. Too late…
It changes some more.