Juke Box Hero

I remove my headphones, shake out my messy hair, wipe a small tear from the corner of one eye. That song DEFINITELY needs to go on The Playlist. 

I’ve been curating The Playlist for nearly 10 years now. I’ve yet to actually create The Playlist, because it really wouldn’t make sense to anyone but me. There aren’t many songs that tell MY story, not from my perspective anyway.  The Playlist is not populated by actual compositions, so much as by fragmented lyrics embedded in songs of heartbreak, betrayal, regret, and longing. These themes certainly underpin many failed relationships, but art tends to celebrate the feelings of the heartbroken and condemn those of the heartbreaker. Perhaps because heartbreakers are out enjoying what remains of their wasted lives, instead of sitting around sending angry and woeful missives at 2 in the morning.

I turn to observe a commotion in the row across and behind me. A man has jumped into the aisle, brushing the top of his pants. His wife is failing to contain a waterfall of orange juice with 2 thin cocktail napkins. There are four small bottles of vodka on the tray table. The flight attendant arrives with more inadequate napkins. The man asks for another orange juice — and a cup of ice.

I’m on an early morning flight from somewhere — I’ve already forgotten... Seattle, I think. It made more sense to have a delicious waterfront dinner and get up at the crack of dawn than to rush across town in commuter traffic and then drive 2 hours down country roads in the dark. Besides, airports are quiet in the morning, and there’s less chance of a delay.

I’d noticed the couple behind me in the terminal. They'd walked across the threshold of the bar while the bartender was still pulling back the folding metal gate. A lyric flashed through my mind — "Thought I saw my own shadow by the backstage door".  No, doesn’t really fit on The Playlist.

The couple has downed their screwdrivers and fallen asleep against each other, mouths hanging open, snoring. A Hollywood-style montage plays across my mental screen. I see our own tray table loaded with and orange juice, cups of ice, and “soldiers”, as we called them. I remember more than two occasions when everything was covered in red wine – him, me, the blanket and the pillows, back when airlines still offered such luxuries.  I think of the time I was almost denied boarding and of the time he nearly got his ass kicked by a large cowboy with better manners and more sense than him. I think of all the times we thought we were charming and hilarious – running to the gate from the lounge as our names were paged on the airport intercom - of all the reactions to our raucous stories that we ignored or chided. 

I put my headphones back on and wonder what’s on His Playlist. Probably a lot of the same songs, but probably for different reasons. That’s part of the magic in songs and poems, or good ones anyways — the interpretation doesn’t belong entirely to the author. A good love song can belong to the Heartbreaker as much as to the Heartbroken.

Ooh, except for THIS SONG...