(Readers: I thought the Randy there’s almost no one else here, save for some maintenance people dealing with trash cans and such.
I find a seat away from the baggage carousels and wait.
My watch pings that it’s 11:00 a.m. and directly across from where I’m sitting, a non-descript door opens outward. It reveals Maggie, accompanied by a rather burly security guard, in full dress gear.
Maggie spots me right away and smiles. “You’re here!” she exclaims as she crosses over to me. The guard waits at the door, holding it open as I stand at Maggie’s approach.
Maggie comes straight to me with her arms wide. Then she wraps me in a big bear hug… like we hadn’t seen each other in months, instead of just last Saturday.
But that’s okay. Maggie is a great hugger, and so am I.
“You’re right on time,” she announces as the hug breaks. “Come on in.”
We’re back to the door in three steps. The guard is holding the door, but doesn’t move aside.
“Randy, I’d like you to meet Kelvin from our security team,” Maggie declares. “K, this is my friend Randy.”
I’m holding the USAF folder in my left hand. I extend my right, which Kelvin glances at but doesn’t shake.
“Sir,” the guard says gruffly with a slight nod of his head.
There’s a crackle that comes from a radio on his belt. The wire to the radio’s handpiece is draped over his left shoulder and the microphone is clipped to his uniform shirt.
Kelvin has a large, official-looking firearm on his right hip.
Maggie comes to my rescue. “Randy,” Maggie interjects, “since you’re not going through TSA today, Kelvin needs to authorize your clearance into the building… if that’s okay.”
“Oh, sure,” I reply. “Absolutely. That’s fine.”
Kelvin glances at Maggie. That turns out to be the signal for her to take control of the door. Once Maggie has done that, Kelvin moves to stand directly in front of me.
Head Voice: [Jesus… he’s a big guy!]
Kelvin looks straight into my eyes.
“Sir,” he begins, “are you in possession of any firearms or any other weapons that you may have concealed on your person?”
“I am not,” I reply, formally.
“If you would, please, turn around and permit me to verify that statement,” Kelvin states, very officially. “Extend your arms, please.”
I do as Kelvin asks. In the process of the turn I glance at Maggie at the door. She’s got a huge shit-eating grin on her face.
With his giant hands, Kelvin efficiently completes his pat-down and declares,
“Thank you. You can lower your arms now.”
I do so, and turn to face Maggie standing at the open door. Kelvin has moved from where I was standing to the door and is holding it open with his right hand. He’s clearly expecting me to walk through it.
Maggie takes a few steps backward into the passageway and beckons me to come through the open door.
“Thanks, K,” she chirps. “Appreciate you letting me interrupt your morning. I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”
“You’re welcome, ma’am,” Kelvin replies as the door closes behind him. “Enjoy your afternoon.” And he lumbers past us in the hallway.
“Sorry about that,” Maggie coos as she places a lanyard around my neck. She’s careful to tuck it beneath the collar of my sport coat. There’s a plastic tag hanging from it that says “Official Visitor – All Access.”
Maggie pivots, slips her right arm inside my left and we begin to walk down the passage in the same direction as Kelvin.
“No worries,” I reply. “You have your own security guard now?”
“Sort of,” Maggie responds. “We had this whacko get into one of the terminals the other week. Nothing came of it but TSA insisted that we beef up our internal security. So we hired a private company.”
“A whacko?” I exclaim. “I hadn’t heard anything Kuzey ankara escort on the news about that.”
Maggie raises her gorgeous green eyes to meet mine. “That’s because they’ve got ME here,” she purrs in reply.
A few more steps down the hall and we’re at a stairway heading up. Maggie unlinks her arm from mine and starts up the stairs. I follow behind her.
Today Maggie is dressed in tight, rose-colored slacks that end just above her ankles. A coordinating floral silk blouse is tucked tightly into the waistband.
For someone who’s on her feet all day, I’m a little surprised at Maggie’s footwear; pumps in a color that matches the slacks with about a three-inch heel. Her bountiful red hair is clipped up in a manner similar to our meeting last week when I saw Zoey before her return flight to Portland.
“Must be the way she wears her hair on the regular,” I think to myself.
Maggie has a couple of steps head start on the stairs, so her gorgeous ass is nearly directly at eye-level as I ascend behind her.
The wiggle of her toned butt cheeks is impossible to miss, and definitely alluring. I don’t see any panty lines and wonder right away if she’s wearing a thong.
Head Voice: [Mmmmm… that looks tasty.]
“Ssshh,” I command him silently.
At the top of the stairs Maggie pivots to her right and pushes open a single-wide exit door. The door opens to the left and Maggie holds it open and smiles invitingly at me as I finish my climb.
I step through and realize we’re now at the concourse level of the terminal. It’s a much busier passageway than the one downstairs and the flow of people has had to move around me and the door we just came through.
I don’t know where we’re going and so I wait for guidance from Maggie.
“Come on, this way,” Maggie coos as she relinks her arm in mine and we head down the concourse.
“I promised you Italian,” Maggie reminds me. “That still okay?”
“It’s perfect,” I reply.
“There’s this delightful man who’s been at the airport longer than I have,” Maggie says as we walk together.
“Everybody always calls him ‘Pops.’
“So, when he quit the restaurant he was working at and opened his own place, that’s what he decided to call it.
“I have lunch here waaaayyy to often.”
And at that moment, we’re standing at the entrance to an establishment on the concourse called… you guessed it… Pops.
As advertised, an elderly bald-headed gentleman in a long white apron looks up from halfway through the restaurant and spots his target at the entrance.
His voice rises across the sounds of other patrons as he immediately makes a bee-line toward Maggie and me:
“MAAGGEE!! Mah-geer-rah!! “Mag-nee-fee-co!!,” the little man booms during his approach.
Head Voice: [Jesus, he has more nicknames for her than YOU do!]
He grips Maggie by her shoulders with both hands and places exaggerated cheek-to-cheek kisses on both sides of her head.
“You’re here!!! R-r-r-right on time!!” The rolled “Rs” sound genuine… and enthusiastic.
Maggie is laughing… and embarrassed… at the little man’s display. Travelers are looking up at the commotion, wondering who these celebrated guests are.
Maggie manages to extract herself from Pops’ embrace.
“Hi, Pops,” Maggie says through her laugh. “Thanks for taking care of us today.
“I’d like you to meet my friend, Randy.”
“Hello, R-r-r-randy,” the little man booms as he turns to me and grips my hand. He pumps it quickly and repeatedly… again, with much enthusiasm.
“Any friend of Maggie’s is a SPECIAL friend of mine!” His accent made the word sound like “spatial.”
And now I’m laughing too. It’s impossible to not. It’s immediately evident why the little Maltepe escort man is so popular here.
“Nice to meet you, Pops,” I reply.
He stops pumping my hand, releases it, and spins to scurry into the restaurant.
“Come!” he commands. “I have a table waiting just for the two of you.”
Maggie and I are both still laughing.
I allow Maggie to lead the way toward the table. There’s the typical flurry of chairs, napkins and menus as Pops works to get us settled.
Once that’s done, Pops declares:
“You can have anything you choose. But today, I’m bringing my special guests my special…” he pauses for dramatic effect… “Lasagna!!
“On the house!”
Pops claps his hands twice and spins away, heading for what I guess is the kitchen. A waitress quickly delivers water for each of us.
The restaurant then seems to settle into what must be a more normal din of activity.
Maggie looks across the table and gives me a beautiful smile that also seems to convey an apology for all the hubbub.
“He’s such a character,” she says. “And… I told him that you’re an old friend.”
Maggie looks down and picks up her water glass. Still looking down, she continues:
“And… I told him, that when you go to a new Italian restaurant for the first time, you always want to try the lasagna.” She takes a sip of water.
Then she looks back into my eyes: “I told him you always said that, if the lasagna was good… other things would be good too.”
Head Voice: [Wait… she reMEMbers that?!?]
I can’t believe that she remembers it, either.
“It pleases me…” I reply softly, “…that you remember that about me.
“And it’s true. It’s still true.”
I break my gaze and take a sip of my own water. When I return the glass to the table Maggie is still looking into my eyes.
“There are many things… so many things… that I remember about you, Randy,” Maggie whispers softly.
“And so many things… I would never forget.”
Head Voice: [Okay… something’s happening here.]
And I think he’s right. This isn’t “just lunch,” as the website proclaims. Maggie has something else in mind.
(Loyal Readers: Here are a couple of paragraphs as background for those who aren’t familiar with my story.
Maggie and I worked together years ago. We were work partners and we were very successful at the profits we generated for our firm. Our commissions were correspondingly high, and we both did well.
We grew close… probably too close, work-wise.
We knew intimate details about each other’s marriages. About each other’s sexual wishes. About each other’s sexual frustrations with their partner.
After months — maybe years — of build-up to an eventual release, we finally made plans to attend a multi-day out-of-town work conference.
We intended to fuck like rabbits as often as we could while we were at the conference.
The night before we were supposed to leave, Maggie’s husband (who was out of town on *his* business) came down with appendicitis and needed emergency surgery. Maggie called off her trip and I went alone.
Something happened while I was gone because everything was different when I got back to our office.
Maggie and I both left that firm shortly thereafter.
We didn’t stay in touch and only re-connected recently when Maggie did me a favor concerning a visit my daughter was making to this area.)
Back at our table at Pop’s, this is all interrupted by the waitress coming back to take our drink order.
“Do you want some wine?” I ask Maggie.
“I’m still working,” she replies quickly, “so none or me, thanks.
“And none for you, either,” Maggie declares, looking straight at me. “It’s not allowed because of our next… um… Mamak escort activity.”
That must have been in the fine print in the blue packet, which I didn’t read like Maggie did, apparently. I smile at the waitress and declare,
“Water’s fine for me, thanks.”
Our lunch is a time to catch up with Maggie’s life since we worked together. Neither one of us wants to take this time to address why we’ve stayed out of touch. It’s more small talk, rather than addressing the screeching halt of our personal relationship.
Maggie is the Director of Communications for the airport authority. She came to this job about a year after she left the firm where we both worked. Her marriage to Mitch was breaking down in the later years that we worked together, and continued to deteriorate afterward. Maggie initiated divorce proceedings shortly after we both went our separate ways.
The food arrives in a timely manner. I dig out a corner of the piping-hot lasagna and allow it to cool a little before I sample it. It’s delicious.
“Pops knows what he’s doing,” I compliment. “I’d eat here often myself.”
Maggie smiles. “I’ll be sure to tell him,” she replies.
“So… you and Mitch are divorced,” I re-start our conversation. “What then?” And Maggie continues with her story.
Their big house was a part of the divorce settlement; Maggie retained possession of it. She sold it and bought a smaller one, which she renovated. There was plenty of money left over, so Maggie put an in-ground pool behind the house… the only pool in the neighborhood.
“I shot the shit out of my property values with that one,” Maggie declares with a laugh. “There’s no way I’m gonna get back what I put into my new little place.”
It makes perfect sense that Maggie had to have a pool. She loves the water and loves to swim.
“It helps me keep my girlish figure,” she says with a twinkle in her stunning green eyes.
Head Voice: [With a figure like she has, she must swim a LOT!!]
Maggie was on her collegiate swim team, then got into triathlons.
“On the bike leg of a race I would always pick the second-fastest guy and get right in front of him,” Maggie giggled.
“I would spend a couple of miles wiggling my ass at him until he got distracted.
“Then I’d take off and use the lead guy as my rabbit. Now I only had to beat one guy. It worked about 7 times out of 10.”
Maggie laughed at the memory. I laughed at the imagery, and because I know Maggie has the incredible spirit to do that very thing.
“Remind me,” I interject. “You have an advertising degree from college?
“And that was where?”
Maggie answers the second question first: “I graduated from a tiny private school back east. My Dad’s sister paid for it, because I’m her favorite niece.” She flits around in her chair, not unlike my daughter Zoey when we met last week.
“My degree is in advertising and public relations,” Maggie continues. “It matches well with what they needed here… as does the work you and I did together.
“Those projects we did for the Pentagon carry a lot of weight in the aviation community,” Maggie says, still with a little awe in her voice.
The exact nature of those contracts is still classified information. But Maggie and I made our company a hell of a lot of money when they were completed.
It makes sense that aviators would still talk about them, considering how many former military pilots now fly for the airlines, or work in the aviation theater.
A beeper goes off on Maggie’s phone. “Whoop, whoop!” she exclaims. “Time to go see what you came to see!”
We say our goodbyes to Pops and his crew and take a nearby elevator to a lower level of the building. The doors open to a wide utility space with a row of golf carts along one wall.
Maggie walks directly to one and steps into the driver’s seat. The key from her pocket goes into its slot and the cart starts a steady beep as Maggie puts it into reverse. I step into the passenger seat and Maggie backs away from the parking space.