Carelessness comes naturally to me. If it wasn’t for carelessness then I would not be able to afford the everlasting smile on my face. It’s a trick that I pull off in my mind. I, confused, try to diffuse unwarranted excitement by not letting out any emotions. The heart keeps its monotonous beating intact and I just reflect myself in the pool of foolishness.

I have to travel from Atlanta to Champaign, on my way to the maiden project at my first job. The flight is at 7:55 P.M. I have taken the day off work; or rather I came back before the clocks announced midday. I have to jump into the closet and filter out the right clothes for the incipient professional life. What should I wear? Do these pants need ironing?—now, ironing is something I cannot handle. My back whimpers and my hands complain. The rigid body shape and the mental clarity required to complete the job has never been my forte. I foolishly toss and turn the pieces of my professional garb in anticipation that perhaps the creases and crinkles will find their way out of them, but no, it has never happened and the possibility of its happening in the future seems equally disappointing.

Somehow I have selected the fine pieces of attire and glided them into a stack inside the bag that I borrowed from Jess. The stashing away of clothes and toiletries has preceded insanely running up and down the stairs, switching the dryer on and off, and an intermittent engagement at the pool table. The time has been drifting away silently; its footprint so gentle and vague that I don’t realize its passing by. Around 5 P.M., Jess comes over and the seamless time slows down to dispel boredom from the air. Everything comes to a standstill and I lose sense of time.

At 6:20 P.M, standing at the Marta station, I am thinking carelessly about the thirty miles I have to travel. The time has never been an issue and will never be in the future. Without paying for the ticket, I enter the platform and soon after board the southbound train. The time is ripe for showing some artistic tendencies, so I unzip my laptop bag and pull out a book by David Sedaris and start perusing it. My legs hold my sole bag within their hairy stiffness, while my hands glide from the back of my seat to hold my chin, the book, and the back of my head, one-by-one, almost without my knowing about it. I am stuck to the pages of the book, which is quite a laugh. The stations appear and then disappear. I stay inside the train; the airport station is the last on the north-south line. People drop in and drop out as the train makes progress toward its destination. I, unaware of everybody, carry on with the emotionless task of reading.

The clock strikes 7:20 P.M. as I find myself at Atlanta’s Hartsfield Airport. Now, I hate to be at airports, but the Atlanta Airport goes a step further by producing its enormous and crowded façade. This place can very easily win the ‘biggest labyrinth in the world’ award. As I enter the airport, I, notwithstanding being from Atlanta, find it hard to spot the south terminal. ‘Where is it?’ ‘Where is this south terminal?’ I snake my way through the human road-blocks, present everywhere with no concern about the sense of direction, commonsense, and my being late. ‘Am I late?’ “Well, it seems I am.’ ‘Where is Delta, now?’ ‘Why can’t I check in my bag?’ ‘Why can’t you issue me a boarding pass?’ ‘Why is it too late to board the flight?’ ‘Ok I will run, but where should I run?’ ‘This bag is mine.’ ‘Are these fluids over-sized?’ “That cologne is my favorite.’ ‘Damn it.’ ‘How long does it take to reach the ‘C’ concourse?’ ‘Am I on drugs or is it really a kilometer to the ‘C’ concourse?’ ‘What about the‘D’ and ‘E’ concourse, how far are they?’ ‘Why is this elevator taller than the Empire State building?’ ‘These tunnels look like the ever-extending cornfields of the Midwest.’ ‘I cannot even see the other side of the tunnel. It looks far, too far.’ ‘Then comes the ‘C as in Charlie’ concourse.’ ‘Another elevator.’ ‘First you go down.’ ‘Then you go straight.’ ‘And then you go up.’ ‘Is it some kind of a joke?’

I take more than fifteen minutes to reach the C24 terminal. The underground length is followed by the glitter of the over-ground fancy-world where people throng the shops to beat boredom. ‘The flight is delayed.’ ‘The weather is bad.’ ‘The flight is canceled.’ ‘The flight never existed.’ ‘Go home.’ ‘Come tomorrow.’ ‘Pay seventy five dollars and fly some other time.’ I don’t know why you want to fly.’

As different thoughts are going through my mind, I am running to find the C24 terminal. After I have traveled up and down the terminal, I find out that C24 is a further level down. ‘What do you mean the flight has left?’ ‘It’s still not 7:55 P.M. How can the flight leave before its time of departure?’ ‘What should I do now?’ ‘What do you mean you don’t know?’ ‘I need to fly today.’ ‘Why would I come to this colossal airport if I owned a private jet?’ ‘Can you call the flight back?’ ‘Ok, don’t call security I am leaving.'