Pop 89: Where Are You Headed?

by Madonna Hamel

We both slide onto our bar stools at the same moment and order an IPA on tap. Mine arrives first. I sip and smile to myself. 

There is something about airports. I like finding a place to plop myself down and watch the world pass by. An airport is, technically, an international transit zone, belonging to no one and so belonging to everyone passing through. For that reason, I don’t mind long layovers. They give me a chance to seat myself and watch and listen, and if the chance arises, talk to someone I would never, ever otherwise meet.

The young man next to me takes a sip of his beer and grins. 

“Wow”, he says. “That’s great!”

“Right?” I laugh. “Something about the hoppiness. I love IPAs. Cheers.” I toast him.

“So where are you headed?” he asks.

“Home. Saskatchewan. I was with my brother. He had a stroke. He’s brave. He’s learning to let go. That’s a big learning curve.” I shrug and give a little laugh. “I’m learning too. From him. And you?”

“I was with family, too. In India. I must get home to my wife before Thanksgiving. It’s the busiest day of the year in America, and I don’t want to get stuck in an airport. It’s chaos. So much to be thankful for,” he says in a mocking voice, raising his beer glass.

“Well, we’re lucky enough to be sitting at a bar in an airport lounge drinking $15 a pint beers when most people in the world will never afford to take a plane trip, anywhere,” I say, toasting him back with my glass. “So, there’s that.”

“Oh my company pays for this. I have a great job, as my mother reminds me, constantly. But, your point is taken.” He takes a long sip and stares at the glass as if sussing out its ingredients. “My father is not well. I probably will never see him again.” He smiles wanly, removes his wool over-coat and leans his forearms onto the bar. “So, are you doing anything special for Thanksgiving?”

“We’ve already had ours,” I say. “Last week.”

“You Canadians - Canada Day, Thanksgiving, always must be ahead of everyone. Always gotta be number one.” He rolls his large brown eyes. “That’s a joke. I’m being sarcastic. I live in the greatest city in the world.” He winks. “New York. The city that never lets you sleep. Where you can get whatever you want. Even if you don’t need it. Or shouldn’t have it.” He takes another sip. “Of course, with online shopping, you can get whatever you want wherever you live without having to go anywhere or talk to anyone. And the deals! Especially on Cyber Monday.”

“What exactly is Cyber Monday, anyway?” I ask. “It sounds ominous.”

“Online shopping day.”

 “Not to be confused with Black Friday?”

“Nono. Black Friday kicks off the season of Christmas shopping. It’s been around far longer.”

“Practically a revered ancient tradition.” 

He gives a guffaw, then holds up his drink. “Like Thanksgiving. Thanksgiving has become tainted. Frankly, with all the anger around colonization and dispossession - something, believe me, my homeland knows all about - I would not get near the Thanksgiving Day parade. Too risky.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe they should have the parade online,” he laughs. “Have everything online: Black Friday. Thanksgiving Sunday. Cyber Monday. And don’t forget, Giving Tuesday. Which is really too bad because by the time it comes around, everyone’s broke.”

“Giving gets a day?” Now I’m the one being sarcastic. 

“To balance things out.”

“I suppose one day of giving is supposed to ease our conscience? Relieve our guilt for over-doing it the week before? In that case, the less fortunate had better hope we sin big, or they’re getting zip!”

“Oh the less fortunate won’t get anything anyway. The British Empire described the people of India as The Great Unwashed Masses, and I can tell you, the masses are still begging on the streets. The poor of the world have no online presence. How did we get onto this subject?” 

“Giving Tuesday. Whatever happened to baking cookies and carrying them on a plate across the street to your neighbour? I’m proud to say I live in a village where, when somebody dies, everyone in town gets a call to bring squares or a plate of sandwiches to the community hall before the funeral.”

“I won’t even be there for my father’s funeral.” He knocks back his beer and offers to buy me another one. “This is an interesting conversation.”

 “Isn’t it?”

“Usually, I end up talking to some guy about a new app, or car. And by now, you’d have asked me what I do for a living. Another beer?” I decline, but he orders himself orders himself another IPA. “I’m in cyber security, by the way.”

“I have no idea what that means. Is Artifical Intelligence involved?”

“It’s involved in everything, my friend. It’s my generation’s Industrial Revolution.”

“Right. And my parents’ was television, and mine was computers, and then came social media. And we’re still messed up. Nothing’s changed.

“AI is where we’re headed. It’s the ultimate information-generating system. And information is power.” 

“Says who?” I leaned toward him. “I don’t hear a lot of people saying: You know, I could use more information. Or power, for that matter. People don’t want power. They want food. A home. They want to be warm. They want weekends so they can sleep in, watch the game, or get out of town. People want to love, and they want to be loved. They want to belong. They just want a cold beer and a good conversation with a fellow human being willing to talk about things that matter. The number of people who actually want power are so few it’s a waste of time to even talk about them. Do you?”

“No,” he said. “I just want to get home.”