“So, you just travel around the world rock climbing?” a voice behind me asks.
I nudge the orange hiking backpack forward with my toe, marveling that someone would choose to speak to a stranger in line. The quiet stretches too long, and I turn toward a man with steel-grey eyes, chubby cheeks, and a pink shirt. He smells of cheap cologne.
I realize he is talking to me.
He continues speaking immediately, smiling — wanting my attention, not an answer.
“That is so cool! This was my first hiking trip out here. I mean, I am not in shape like you are, climbing rocks and such, but it was cool anyway. Do you have bear spray? I bought bear spray. Didn’t have to use it, though.”
Behind him, I catch sight of the airport bar, gleaming oak and bubbling drinks. The man continues, but I can only hear a woman in cartoon pajamas lifting her drink to her lips. The ice tinkles as she sets it down on the bar.
A name is called, and the man and I shuffle forward in line. As if remembering he wanted me to be part of this conversation, he turns his whole body towards me.
“Where are you rock climbing?”
I look down at my outfit: flowy cotton pants and a tank top, my hair in a messy bun. Is it my hiking boots that make me seem like someone who grabs onto the tiniest rocks to haul myself up?
I laugh at the thought. I am someone who much prefers to live my life in freefall.
“Montana,” I say.
I should correct the misunderstanding, but I like how this man sees me. And anyway, he is already talking about the elk in Montana, maintaining the conversation on his own.
I turn back to the woman in her pajamas at the bar, my throat tight. Airports are such chaos. I would never sit at a bar in pajamas, I think.
The woman raises her glass to the bartender, and he pours her another. My breath catches.
The internal calculation begins — boarding starts soon, but my group will be last. That’s plenty of time for a few beers.
“I didn’t get to see any elk where I was in South Dakota,” I hear the man say.
Then his name is called from the burger window — Brian or Ryan or Cian — and he moves forward. My heart pounds in my ears.
“I’ve gotta run. Honored to meet someone as cool as you!” He sounds so earnest, so kind. I mumble something back, knowing I am a fraud.
I check my watch. Fifteen minutes until boarding. Why is my burger taking so long?
The woman in her pajamas stands, downing what’s left of her drink. My mouth waters watching her.
Then, there is my name! My burger is ready. I snatch it without thanks, tripping over my backpack in my haste. Fries spill out of the bag.
Fuck.
Thirteen minutes. I don’t have time to pick up the spilled fries.
My eyes are on the seat the woman left open at the bar. I heave my enormous backpack over one shoulder amidst another cascade of fries. I blink back tears.
My phone rings as I enter the bar and shove a fry into my mouth. I just need to get to the open stool. It’s twelve steps, max.
I answer the call, distracted.
“Hi Aubrey, this is the Yellowstone Sober Writing Retreat.”
I drop my backpack onto the ground with a thud. A family of weary travelers glances up. The French fry has turned to cement in my mouth.
“I’m just confirming your flight arrival, and if you will need a driver to pick you up from the airport? As a reminder, we still need to collect the remainder of your payment.”
I see the man from the line coming back, bright-pink shirt weaving through the people, a giant smile on his face.
“Forgot ketchup!” he calls to me, as if this were my biggest concern.
“Aubrey, can you confirm that your flight will land at 3?” the voice on the phone chirps.
The man waves, his fist full of ketchup packets. “Good luck on your climb!” he calls.
I swallow and stare down at my pack. The gleam of the bar winks at me out of the corner of my eye — all shine and ice.
The man’s words reverberate through me, and I grip the edge of the sticky table.
On my phone, the woman clears her throat.
I confirm my flight details as the intercom crackles overhead: Boarding for Bozeman.
“Anything else we can help you with, dear?” the retreat facilitator asks.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and turn my body toward the crowd gathering at the boarding gate.
“Do you know where I can buy some bear spray?”
Aubrey Rebecca uses writing to explore caregiving, generational inheritance, addiction, and the liminal spaces where identity fractures and reforms. She writes across poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, and hybrid forms, with a particular love for narratives that reveal emotional depth through small moments of rupture. Her work has been recognized by Tuliptree Press and Vocal.Media. She is Putnam, Connecticut’s, first-ever poet laureate. You can follow her on Instagram at @tapestryofink.
Imade Credit: Flickr Creative Commons/Jeremy Brooks
