GONE GUY

Here I go again—and thank the Lord for that!
Sucka be gone, ya dig?
I sit, legs crossed, at the gate, ears perked, listening for the boarding call as "Skyfall" echoes in the rafters.
My flight is announced by a generic dweeb at the front desk, his voice blasting into the continuous rush of footsteps and the sound of suitcase wheels and zippers.
Heads turn.
People on laptops and tablets and phones--airport people with shifty eyes--fidgeting in their seats.
His words initiate panic.
Nervousness skirts the crowd.
Did I hear that correctly?
Was that mine?
For me?
If I miss my flight...
They turn back to their electronics. Some open books. A man wearing a scarf sneezes and everybody thinks of Ebola at the same time, glancing out the windows and at each other.
The Premier Package ass-holes form a line at the gate, gripping their briefcases and iPhones, clenching their teeth.
I'm a single section away from boarding and think, "escape".
I board.
Shut off my device.
Shut off my mind.
Gone.