Johnny Carson in Transit

Johnny Carson’s Burfie is tapping and chirping and blinking, increasing in intensity.

“Concord K,” it flashes.  Blinking red.

“Is that where I am or where I am supposed to be?” Johnny Carson asks.

“Both,” says Burfie.

Carson looks around but sees no signs.

Burfie starts vibrating and chirping and flashing but Carson will not be rushed.  He knows what he wants.

He steps against the wall.

Before he does anything else, he will relieve his body of its pressure…

No pictogram of a man promising relief.

People are rushing back and forth in front of him – like a freeway at its fastest – weaving between each other with suitcases, children, backpacks, and bags.  Everyone has a place to go and the others are just shadows in their way.

Announcements are constant. Carson hardly hears them.   “Seattle leaving now from Gate 7.”  “Dallas arriving at Gate 2…”  Briefly he sketches the monologue in his mind – seeing the Seattle Needle skidding to a stop and the oily cattle stampeding Gate 2. 

There’s something about this…

This Cathedral.  Or Casino.  Or Airport…  Or Theatre…

Something they all have in common…

It comes to him now. 

You can’t hold on to the past and you can’t escape the present. 

It is as if you only exist now and never before — except in a lingering mist your cells remember and your brain forgot. Pavlov’s dogs could not explain salvation with a bell; Seligman’s could not explain why they did not move when shocked; Bandura’s boys could not explain why they hit the clown.

Seven generations the curse. 

Someone along the line of succession must finally come to realize that the bell is just a bell; that pain is sometimes worth the cost; and that you choose who you are by who you choose to be with. 

Otherwise, like Sisyphus, a lifetime is spent pushing a rock up a mountain to watch it fall again.

Generation after generation.

Change is the key.

Constant change. Constant growth. 

Yet people seek contentment and wealth and objects.  Like babies huddled in their cribs with all their toys around them.

Routine is the enemy of growth. 

Nothing changes in a well-worn groove. 

Nothing grows in ground that is too hard. 

Without growth there is no life.

This Carson knows. 

His Burfie is yellow and the pressure on his groin is becoming unbearable.  Soon, he is sure, his desperate body will absorb the poison back into itself.

Looking up, he finally sees that welcome pictogram of a man with an arrow, and he sets off.

To be stopped by a security line. 

More accurately.  Four security lines.  Labeled:  Private – First Class – Extra – Coach.

King of Late Night television, after all — one of the richest men of his generation:  Carson heads for the Private line.

He sees entourage after entourage mounting the steps to their private jets.  No security for them. 

He passes four frowning Darth Vaders.

He touches the gate and his Burfie drags him by the neck to a pole with a blue blinking light saying “Blue light special! Blue light special!” and the announcer is shouting: “Trespass!  Trespass!  Trespass!” 

Dath Vaders surround him —  ten fat muzzles within three inches of his face.

Darth Vaders emblazoned with LMT, NOC, RTX, GD, BAH, LDOS, HII, KTOS.

Plastered against the pole, Carson sees a parade of the rich of all nations walking without security to the private jet.

“Take them to O’Liargram,” Carson hears.  “They’ve got a room and a bar tab.”

Carson’s Burfie has been downloaded and reprogrammed with new instructions.

He is picked up, brushed off, and released.

Darth Vader  says, “Just a misunderstanding, Sir.  Safety first, you understand.”

“Whose safety?” Carson asks.

“We’re just following the law, Sir,” Darth Vader  says.

“Whose law?” Carson asks.

“I don’t make the law.  I just follow it,” says Darth Vader .

“Who does make the law?”

“The people we need to keep safe,” says Darth Vader.

“How can I become one of them?”

“It’s a private club,” says Darth Vader .

Money trumps all.

Carson steps away. 

There are three other lines.

This time he thinks its wise to be a little more careful and watch before he chooses.

The first line to his left has no one in it at all.

A single Darth Vader guards the gate. 

An old woman approaches.  She looks like she might be Mexican.  She shows Darth Vader some documents and they are handed back to her.

She walks away.

A young man sidles up with his headset on. Darth Vader  takes his documents and returns them with a head shake.

A father approaches, carrying a toddler wrapped in a frayed blanket. Darth Vader scans their papers, then gestures silently to the void behind them.

A woman in a fast-food uniform steps forward, grease stains on her shirt. She offers a pay stub. Vader doesn’t touch it. She bows slightly, then leaves.

A teenager with a skateboard and a backpack stitched with patches—“Free Palestine,” “Jesus Was a Refugee”—tries to smile. Vader doesn’t flinch. The boy rolls away, slow and silent.

An elderly man with a walker and a veteran’s cap arrives. He presents a discharge paper, yellowed and folded. Vader returns it without a word. The man salutes, then shuffles off.

A mother with three children in tow—one asleep, one crying, one asking questions—offers a birth certificate and a utility bill. Darth Vader glances, then shakes his head.

Over and over — it is the same.

People approach with documents and are turned away.

Johnny Carson walks up to Darth Vader .  “What do I need to get through this gate?” he asks. 

“No one gets through this gate,” Darth Vader  says.

“Why do people keep coming up here?”

“They don’t read the fine print,” Darth Vader  says.

Carson looks very closely at the sign.  “I don’t see any fine print,” he says.

“It’s understood,” Darth Vader  replies.

Carson goes to the next line.

It looks nearly infinite.  Winding like a snake down the hallway, back and forth so each person is always facing another person going the opposite way. 

The sign overhead says:  “Cattle.” 

The next line looks better.  It says “Bulls.”

Johnny Carson doesn’t feel like a bull, but he qualifies. 

He approaches Darth Vader  cautiously.  He does not touch the gate.  He keeps his hands visible.  

“Is this line just for bulls?” he asks.

Darth Vader says, “Yes. Sir.”

“So what must I have to be a bull?” he asks. 

“Nothing trumps like money,” Darth Vader  says.  “We don’t check anything else.”

“What’s the advantage to being a bull?”

Darth Vader  brings out a form with boxes listing hundreds of thousands of potential legal issues.

But points out only a few:

Bulls load first.  Their luggage is carried and stowed for them. They are given orange juice and nice cool wipe when they sit down.  Their seats recline to beds.  They have enough room to cuddle or curl. They have their own lights, blankets, televisions, and fans. A servant remains in their cabin to make them comfortable – to bring them blankets, pillows, ice, compression socks, headsets and covers so the bright light won’t disturb their sleep.

They are fed what the Privates eat. 

But still, the steak is fat and sizzles when served.  The asparagus is fried with just a tinge of lemon butter.  The potatoes are fluffy and the bread melts in the mouth.

Most importantly:  A curtain separates them from the rest of the herd.

Also:  They get their own bathroom.

“All this,” says Darth Vader , “can be yours for gold.”

“How much gold?”  asks Johnny Carson.

“More than you have,” says Darth Vader .

And, he’s right, of course.

Johnny Carson turns around and walks half a mile down the line to get behind the rest of the herd in the main line for coach.  The one that stretches over two thirds of the plane and holds ninety percent of the passengers.  Democracy in action.  Money trumps all.

After his Burfie is examined for seditious speech, goods, thoughts, products, or questions, Carson is seated in the middle. 

Between a woman by the window eating Cheetos while laughing on the phone while little orange crumbs are falling on his Best Dressed Pants like snow. 

The man on the aisle has the temper and build of a grizzly bear with back pain. His headset is firmly on his ears and, still, he is growling.

Carson squirms with discomfort. 

He can’t climb over the man, he can’t climb under the man, he can’t go around the man. 

His Burfie, on airplane mode, is moaning instead of flashing.

When landed, they wait.  And wait.  And wait.

The man unplugs himself from the seat but blocks the aisle. 

When Johnny Carson finally can stand, he gets hit in the face when a woman pulls her purse from the overhead bin. 

He practically trips on the man with the tiny suitcase dragging behind him. 

And is stopped by the teenager getting his luggage from the front of the plane after sitting in the back.

But, finally, he is through the jet bridge.

In the Concourse, the line to the men’s restroom extends to infinity.