Chapter 5 - The Gate Scene
Rain had turned to freezing sleet by the time Adrian abandoned his car in the red-curb drop-off zone outside JFK’s Terminal 4, ignoring the blaring horns and the shouted warnings of airport traffic agents. His drenched coat clung heavily to his back, his silk tie was askew, and water dripped from his unkempt hair down into his eyes as he charged through the sliding glass doors into the bustling departures hall. He ran toward the international security checkpoint like a madman, his eyes wild as he scanned the departure screens overhead. Flight 108 to Zurich: DEPARTED 17:15. The letters flashed in brilliant green, mocking him from fifty feet above the marble floor.
""No, no, no! That's impossible!"" Adrian shouted, shoving his way toward the Swiss Air check-in counter where an agent was quietly printing tags for a later flight to Geneva. He slammed both hands onto the counter, causing the agent to jump backward in alarm. ""I need to get through security immediately! My wife is on Flight 108! You have to call the gate and have the captain turn the plane around!"" The ticket agent, a professional woman in her fifties, looked at him with a mixture of apprehension and disgust. ""Sir, step back from the counter immediately or I will signal airport police. The gate is closed, the aircraft has pushed back, and nobody is turning an international flight around.""
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""Do you know who I am?!"" Adrian roared, his voice cracking into a shrill falsetto that drew stares from dozens of travelers queued nearby. ""I am Adrian Cross! My wife owns Sterling Aurora! She’s the primary corporate account holder for this entire airline! Call the tower right now!"" Two Port Authority police officers, their hands resting cautiously near their utility belts, strode quickly across the concourse toward him. ""Sir, you need to lower your voice and present your identification right now,"" the taller officer commanded, stepping between Adrian and the counter. Adrian looked from the officers to the giant display board, the brutal finality of the word ""DEPARTED"" finally punching through his manic denial.
He reached into his pocket to pull out his wallet, but his fingers brushed against nothing but empty fabric; he had left his credit cards and driver's license sitting on the bedside table back in the hospital suite when he grabbed his keys. When he pulled his phone out instead, the battery display blinked red and permanently shut down, leaving him staring at his own pale, hollow reflection in the black glass. The officers took him by the arms, steering him away from the counter toward a side holding area. In the span of three hours, he had sprinted from a luxury hospital suite to an airport terminal, burning every bridge in his life, only to find himself standing in soaked socks on an airport floor, entirely bankrupt, utterly alone, and facing arrest for disorderly conduct.
