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Ironic looks

Ironic Good Looks By Martha Levison My husband, George, has been awake since one AM Pacific time. The shadows that underscore his brown eyes, just like they did those of his Greek father, look dark in the noon sun slanting through the kitchen shutters. “My flight was scheduled to leave from Philadelphia at seven, so I had to wake up at four to be at the airport by five,” he says then bites into a ham sandwich. I can almost feel the dull ache of fatigue evident in his face. “When I got there I had to check in at the counter. I wanted to carry my suitcase on but they wouldn’t let me.” “You’re kidding!” I say, thinking of the blue canvas bag he usually travels with. I can barely fit three pairs of shoes into it. “I didn’t get it either, especially when they let the woman ahead of me board with her purse, briefcase and a garment bag.” He shakes his head. “Then the check in agent unpacked my whole bag right there on the counter. She said it was too wide to qualify as a carry-on and checked it through.” I imagine my husband, a toothpaste sales guy and neat freak who vacuums the dog, standing at the check in counter at the Philadelphia airport with his worn, yet perpetually folded jockey briefs and t-shirts exposed to counter personnel and passengers alike. “I had to empty my pockets and turn over my nail clippers before going through the metal detector, then the guard wanded me.” George huffs and scratches his goatee. “When I got to the gate, security picked me out of line again. They frisked me and patted me down in front of everybody, business guys like me, dressed in khakis and golf shirts.” He looks past me out our kitchen window. “Looks like it’s time to refill the bird feeder.” I note the high cheekbones, Roman nose, and full lips in my husband’s profile. He is aging gracefully, not in the cool pinks and blues of a Paul Newman, more like the warm browns and russets of an Omar Shariff. Then I envision George, an avid bird watcher and father of two teenage kids, racing a black stallion across the desert with a turban sitting solidly on his head and a black robe flapping crow-like behind him. I bite my lip to keep from smiling. But I shiver also. Last week George flew to Philadelphia to work on his company’s restructure. His project was to transition his current job to an employee the company felt could bring something to the position that George could not: Diversity. Now I watch as my neatnik husband, who can’t take a nap until he fills the bird feeder, climbs the tree in our backyard. To his company he is merely a white American male. But Philadelphia Airport Security seemed determined to find a box cutter on him. These days I feel as unsteady as he looks, perched out there on a limb, filling our lighthouse birdfeeder with bird seed. About the Author: Martha Levison is a mother of two teenage boys, writer, wife, and Welsh Corgi owner who lives in Danville, California. She enjoys running, frequent trips into San Francisco, and boating with her family on the California Delta. Her work has appeared in the LA Times, San Francisco Chronicle and KQED Radio. She also sings with the Rolling Stones in her spare time.

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