a day (# 104)

It is the week before graduation at UMass, when non-graduating students are vacating the dorms. SUVs drift and flow, like a murmuration of sluggish starlings, into unpredictable eddies all over campus. Nearby, a boy crams milk crates stuffed with souvenirs of drinking binges, giant speakers, and sports equipment into a little hatchback. Double-parked in a semi-circular drive in front of a dormitory, I wait for Martins, who is making me crazy.  

I arrived early to collect Martins for his reserved ride to Logan airport in Boston, two hours away. When I told him I’d arrived, he quickly said, “Thanks. Be out in a few.” A few pass. Then, the scheduled pickup time passes. 

Now, into the five-minute grace period, we do the ritual driver-rider text dance: “Hi Martins! Just a reminder I’m out front and ready whenever you are” and “Great! Be right out!” Then: “Hey again, just want to make sure I haven’t missed you,” and “Nope, you’re good. Be there in a minute.” The grace period elapses. I can cancel if I want, but I’m not feeling that yet. I can wait another five minutes.

I do. Now, ten minutes past the pickup time, I text Martins as politely as possible: “Hi. Everything okay? I’m sure you’ve got a lot going on. But I really can’t afford to wait much longer.” Martins does not reply to that one. In the meantime, I must do two laps because other cars picking up punctual students need my spot. 

After that, I text him again: “Martins, I’m really sorry, but I just can’t afford to be sitting here. I’ll wait three more minutes, and then I will cancel the ride. I’m sorry.” In a moment, I receive a text: the letter “N.” A moment later, “I’m coming.”

But three minutes later, he has not come and yet I can’t bring myself to cancel. This kid, however infuriating, has a plane to catch in Boston. If I don’t take him, he’ll probably miss it. Plus, “Martins” sounds Portuguese. If he’s international and misses his flight, he might really be fucked. What is wrong with me?

Two more minutes pass. I text again tersely: “You said you were coming.” 

“I’m coming through the doors now. Where are you?” 

Where am I? Where the fuck do you think I am? I’m where I’m supposed to be, where I’ve been for half an hour waiting for you to get your shit together. Where are you? 

“I’m in front of North D.” 

“No. I’m at North A.” I pause. “Can you get me?”

“Yes. Don’t move! I’ll be there in one minute.” 

As I pull up, a powerful, muscled young man carries two enormous suitcases like two plastic bags from CVS. I pop out to open the hatch. 

“Martins?”

“Yes. I just have to run back in for one more thing.” 

“Wait, seriously?” 

“Yes. Just my breakfast. I’ll be one minute.” 

He dashes off, leaving me to hoist his luggage into the back. Miraculously, a minute later, he is in the car’s back seat, plugging his cell phone into the charger. He opens a styrofoam container., releasing a waft of bacon and eggs toward the front. Now I’m hungry too.

I learned that Martins is a sophomore biology major from Angola but is struggling because he hates it. When I ask him why he doesn’t study something he likes, he says he can’t. His dad wants biology, his dad is paying the bills, and his dad is a hard, hard man. I imagine his dad. I imagine my dad. 

Most of the way to Boston, Martins is silently absorbed in video games.

Only as Boston traffic snarls and we roll to a stop do I venture to break the silence. We’re about four miles from the airport, but the GPS tells me we’re thirty minutes away. I turn my head slightly toward Martins:

“You know, Martins, some people could run to the airport from here and get there before us.”

“What?! No way.”

“Yeah, man, the men’s world record holder in the marathon averages four and a half minute miles for 26 miles. We’re about four miles away now. GPS says 30 minutes. He could do it in 18.”

“He’d crush us!” 

I laugh.

“That’s right!”

“That’s like superhero fast.” Then he drops the name of a superhero or maybe a video game character I don’t know about. So I ask him to explain, happy that we’re almost there and that Martins and I have finally connected.

But as we curve into the Ted Williams Tunnel, I hear a sharp intake of breath behind me: “Oh no.”

“What is it? Are you okay? Did you forget something?”

“Oh no. What day is it?”

“Wednesday.”

“Oh no. My flight is tomorrow.” The tunnel’s surreal lighting and heightened sense of speed lend even more drama to this announcement.

“I’m so sorry. But it’s okay. Do you want to go back? I’m happy to take you back. You can just pay me off the app.” He thinks.

“No, because then I just have to pay to come back tomorrow. Anyway, I can’t stay at the dorms anymore.”

“So what would you like to do? Do you want me to take you to a hotel instead of the airport?” We are pulling out of the tunnel into the chaotic, wasted garden of bifurcating paths that is Logan Airport.

“What do you think I should do?” Holy shit. I didn’t see that coming.

“I think I should drop you at the arrivals part of the airport. You should go inside and ask someone at the information booth there to help you find a hotel and a ride to the hotel. There will be lots of Ubers waiting to pick people up.” Martins nods vigorously, but his eyes are blank. 

I navigate to the curb by arrivals, hop out of Milo, and open the hatch. I wrestle his luggage to the curb. Martins thanks me. I wish him luck, tell him it will all be okay, and then get back in the car. I look in the side mirror and see that he’s standing there by his luggage. I roll down the window.

“What is it, Martins?”

“What do I do?” My heart just dissolves. Martins. I leave the car again and go to him, scanning the area for entrances and signs.

“See, Martins, you just go through those glass doors. Look for a sign that says “Information.” If you don’t see one, just ask people until someone can direct you. Once you find the Information Desk, just explain your whole situation honestly. They will help you.” 

“Okay, thank you. Thank you, Mr. Santiago.”

“You’re welcome. No problem. It’s all going to be fine.” 

As I pull away from the curb, watching him trudge in the direction I’d indicated, I imagine his father again. Imagine mine again. And wonder if that’s true. 

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