Dustin Duby-Koffman
Cake
My feet ache in my new dress shoes. I decided to wear my suit so that I’d need only my lightest carry-on. I’m trying to compensate for a heavy heart, so full of mixed-up feelings that it presses on my other organs. Sunlight pours through rosy stained glass. Music plays, all in a major key. The aroma of chocolate chip cookies wafts through the cool air. I’ve heard that one airline has brought in labradoodle puppies to their gates. Through the windows, I see planes lined up for boarding. They look like balloon animals, a far cry from the tin cans from just a decade ago.
I get in the security line behind a gaggle of beach-bound teenagers. One by one, they practically conga through the scanner. The monitor blinks sunflower yellow. I step forward, trying to visualize the ocean but instead seeing traffic on the bridge, my last bad sunburn, and headlines about sharks and jellyfish. When I manage to call up a picture of the shore, Rita is lying on a lounge chair, auburn curls waving in the breeze, with William sitting by her side. When my turn comes, I walk hesitantly into the scanner. The agent shakes his head and hands me a pamphlet and brown card, directing me to secondary screening.
I read over the pamphlet describing Advances in Mood Physics. I’m already familiar with the basics: Passengers’ positive emotions fuel flight while negative feelings create drag. The newest scanners can distinguish among joy (yellow), sadness (blue), and anger (red). They cannot yet precisely measure intensity, complicating weight calculations at boarding. The mud color I’ve triggered signifies completely mixed emotions, presenting a particular challenge to the system.
In contrast to the rest of the airport, the secondary screening area feels dank and cramped. It reminds me of interrogation rooms from old cop shows I’ve watched with my parents. A desk, some hard chairs, no windows. A uniformed pair of agents greets me. The woman smiles kindly; the man, a real bruiser type, scowls. I have never faced this hurdle before, but screening interviews feature in many films and stand-up routines. I know that I have two options: convince the shrinks that I will be fine and the scanner has erred, or beg for an exemption and hope to fly as a charity case, floating on others’ positive energy.
The woman introduces herself as Rhonda Albright, a psychologist employed by the TSA. She holds her hand out for my tickets and smiles when she sees I’m heading to New England. I do my best at small talk about Cape Cod towns. Then we get down to business as the scowler takes notes.
“So, what is the purpose of your trip?”
“My college roommate is getting married. I’m best man so I really do need to get on that flight.”
“That’s so exciting,” says Dr. Albright. “Are you maybe worried about your toast? That’s a very common source of anxiety for folks who don’t do a lot of public speaking.” I feel for the folded paper in my pocket. Dr. Albright notices and guesses correctly. “Why don’t you practice on me, and maybe we’ll get your confidence up.”
I picture Dr. Albright as a high school cheerleader. I had my first crush on the head of the cheer squad in middle school. Susan Siddons is probably in the next room over, giving pep talks to businessmen who worry they don’t measure up. I pull out the speech. I figure it’s safe. I labored over every word, trying to express joy I could not feel. I decide to go all-in. I stand, raise an imaginary glass, and begin. “It’s my great honor to toast William and Rita. Rita and I were fast friends in high school, bonding over Mr. Stevens’ incomprehensible lectures in chemistry. When she visited me during freshman year, she could hardly contain her interest in my enigmatic roommate, William. I became a third wheel faster than I learned my way around campus. And it was a very small school. Though I would not have thought to match them up, William and Rita simply make each other better versions of themselves. I hear that that’s what love should do. So join me in toasting my two best friends as they start the next chapter of their lives.”
Dr. Albright frowns for the first time. “Well, I don’t think nerves about that short speech are what set off the scanner. What do you think the problem is?”
“He’s in love with the bride. Hopeless case. Sorry, buddy, but you won’t be flying today.” The scowler unnerves me. I have to get on the plane.
“She’s a dear friend.”
“She’s a dear friend you’ve been in love with for years, I’d guess. Your plane lifts off in an hour. I don’t think you’re going to fall out of love before the boarding call.”
“I am not in love with Rita. She and William are perfect for each other. I even loaned Will money for the ring. I’ve helped them sort out a dozen arguments about the wedding. I planned Will’s bachelor party—golf and a baseball game and a fancy dinner. Why would I do all that if I were in love with the bride? It doesn’t make any sense. How can you know what’s in my heart, anyway? This is nuts.” I’m nearly screaming. I probably seem unhinged.
Dr. Albright sighs. “Either way, Leo, I’m not hearing an explanation for what our technology is telling us. I’m sure you know that its accuracy is very high, as are the stakes involved. You have the right to phone a friend for help working through your emotions. You can also take time in our rehab room to pull yourself together. I’m not recommending an override. You can try the scanner one more time when you’re ready. Good luck to you, Leo.”
I pass by the phone-a-friend booth on my way to the rehab room. The only friends whom I trust to help me figure out my own mind are the last people on Earth I can call. I imagine how that conversation would go: Hi guys. I’m so excited for your big day, but the mood machine at the airport is finicky today. Any good news to share that could help me yellow? I mean, besides the obvious?
The rehab room strikes me as a cross between a kindergarten classroom and a spa—peopled by sad sacks who should head directly to the bus station. Anywhere else, people would be doomscrolling or playing crush games on their phones. With phones disabled here, the Downers have chosen a mix of strategies for relaxing. I see a teenager doing yoga in the corner and an older man knitting what looks to be a pair of socks. I sit down next to a woman about my age who is sketching on a large pad. When she takes a break from her drawing, I decide to say hello.
“Hey, I’m a first-timer. Do you know how this works? In the movies, there are kittens and ice cream.”
“Hi. Yeah, the bigger airports go all out. Here you can buy cake or use the treadmill to boost endorphins. Where are you trying to go today?”
“Oh, I’m going. I’m best man at a wedding. What about you?”
“I’m supposed to go to my college reunion. The grouchy guy in secondary screening proclaimed me an embarrassment to my alma mater, too ashamed of my unemployed status to fly. I think I blued because I’m nervous, and the machine tracks that as sad.”
“You think you’ll make it?”
“I’m counting on some deep breathing and some chocolate cake. I’ve read the rehab rate is almost 50%. How come you’re not happy to go to the wedding?”
“The grouchy guy looked deep into my heart and decided I’m in love with the bride.”
“Are you?”
“No. Maybe once upon a time. She’s great. But we would never work.”
“So why did you blue?”
“I muddied out. Probably just a result of too much caffeine or something.”
“I’m not buying it.”
“Well, are you married?”
“You need a date to this shindig?”
“No, I mean, yes, that would be awesome, but that’s not where I was headed. I guess I feel like everyone is moving on to bigger things, and I’m being left behind. Does that make sense?”
“You’re talking to a single, unemployed thirty-two year old who doesn’t even have a goldfish or furniture I didn’t find on the sidewalk. But what’s the rush?”
I think about William and Rita moving on with their lives. New condo. New married friends. Probably a baby in a year or two. The whole montage plays in my mind, as it has hundreds of times before. I’ll go from best man to honorary uncle. I’ll be a smaller and smaller part of their lives. I picture myself reading their Christmas letter and being surprised at how little we have in common. In my mind, I fold the letter without finishing it.
I try to explain the whole mess. I unpack my heart, shaking out each item. Yes, my years-long infatuation with Rita, but also my gratitude for William. My fear of being left out. My resentment at being taken for granted. My bafflement at letting years go by as the third wheel. The great emptiness that stretches ahead.
“Wow. That’s a lot. So when you’re not daydreaming about your friends’ future, which you clearly have all planned out, what are you doing about yours?”
“That’s harsh, you know?”
“Just trying to help. When does your flight leave without you?”
“I’ve got time.”
I don’t really, though. I know I’m screwed. I try to focus on what William and Rita mean to me. How much they are counting on me. All the good times we’ve had. Arguing about the meaning of song lyrics. Playing endless rounds of Scrabble with our own lingo added to the dictionary. Walking with Rita to take pictures in the city. Playing Horse with William. I really do love them both. But this feels like an ending. My heart still feels heavy, a weight that smushes my good intentions.
I look over and see that Ella is drawing me. She stops and grins like my sister when she’s cheated at Monopoly. Silently, she hands me the sketch pad. Ella draws with minimal fussiness, all clean lines and expressive shading. I look surprisingly handsome with sad eyes and a half smile. I tell Ella she’s too kind, and she laughs. She rips out the page, but not before captioning it with Leo. I stare at my own likeness for a while. I think this guy has a chance.
The chocolate cake from the cart has too much icing, even for me. I’ve always thought I would never outgrow the double frosting that William and Rita get for me on my birthday cake each year. Now, alone, I realize I’d prefer something new. Maybe some tropical flavored cake with just a glaze of something sweet. Maybe something I’d never imagined. I gently drop the plate with the uneaten slice into the trash by the door, then head toward the scanner.
A resident of Rockville, Maryland, Dustin Duby-Koffman writes poems, song lyrics, and short stories. He has published two chapbooks, Eating Broccoli on the Moon and Dedicated to the Seekers. Dustin has also published in The Sligo Journal and The Westchester Review.
