The Boy Who Wore Boat Shoes

32⎜The Airport

32⎜The Airport

           “What do you mean your ‘home’, Eric?” demanded the woman who had given birth to me. In comparison to a minute ago, it seemed as though she was now in a quieter place with less noise. 

           “I found a flight. I just landed. I’m at JFK with Ari.”

           “Ari?”

           “My girlfriend.”

           “Oh. Her.”

           “You’ll like her,” I promised, praying that the assertion held true.

           Out of all my past girlfriends, my mom had by far liked Liz the best. But it wasn’t even Liz who she had liked—it was her mom. Liz’s mom was some hip lady involved in the shoe industry, and she just so happened to move into a house on our street. Which was how I had first met Liz. Even though Liz and I’s relationship hadn’t exactly worked out, my mom and Liz’s mom were still going strong. It was so weird. Anyways, my mom liked Liz (and Liz’s mom). She didn’t like Mackenzie, though. Never did, and never would. Her insight was spot-on, but I wasn’t willing to admit it until it was too late. Then there was Ari.

           She just didn’t know Ari. I had a hunch that at first she wouldn’t like Ari, but that wasn’t uncommon. Most people probably didn’t like Ari initially. She was distant and indifferent, thus creating a not so amiable atmosphere for most. Neither people nor talking was her strongest forte, which my mom wouldn’t like, either. My mom was a social woman. She enjoyed small talk and chatting about gardening and neighborhood gossip and Bravo shows. Ari wasn’t that type of girl. At first, they would probably clash, and then my mom would (hopefully) grow to like her. In the meantime, though, all I could pray for was the best.

           “We’ll see,” muttered my mom on the other line. “So, you’re at JFK?”

           “Yep.”

           “How do you plan on getting home?”

           “Well, I was hoping that you or dad could pick us up, or we’d just take a taxi.”

           She laughed. It was at my expense. I didn’t mind, though. It was nice to hear my mother’s comfortingly mocking laugh once again. I had missed it. “As I said before, I’m at a holiday party. I love you, Eric, but there is no way that I am coming all the way into the city to get you. And you can just forget about a cab. This late at night—on Christmas Eve? Not a chance.”

           “Whose house are you at?” I instinctively asked.

           “The Campbell’s…” she replied, her tone suggesting that she had formulated some type of an idea in her mind about what needed to be done. I hated that tone. It always somehow ended badly for me. “I have an idea,” I restricted myself from replying with something sarcastic, “so just sit tight, okay, Eric? I’m sending someone to pick you up.”

           “Okay, thanks, Mom,” I said.

           “But you can’t complain about your chauffer, okay?”

           “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

           “I’m glad you’re coming home, Eric.”

           “So am I, Mom. Thanks.”

           “You’re welcome.” She ended the call. I glanced down to Ari, whose frame was still attached to me. She hadn’t entirely zoned out, but her eyes were drooping, and she looked to be a bit dazed.