Binney Bincent

The place was packed with irritated and salty, wet bodies. There was barely enough open space to breathe. I was very lucky to have scored an end seat several hours earlier. I always try for the end seat to minimize public contact. As I was sweating and waiting uncomfortably in a hard, sticky plastic seat, this proudly over fed Cuban guy unrolled something in tinfoil. He was jammed into the seat right next to me and he started eating a greasy pork sandwich; a Media Noche to be exact. He kept wiping pools of oil from his face with his hands. No napkin, just hands. I couldn't stop looking as he then rubbed his buttery paws on his legs.  

The smell of the Cuban eating a Cuban was confusing me. Was I hungry or sick? He finished the meal and then stared at his empty, shinny hands. He started to attempt to stand up, but his bulgy legs were trapped by the arms of the seat. As if he had Mission Impossible Tom Cruise foresight, the grease on his legs kicked in and allowed him to slide out and rise to his feet. Would he go for a napkin, I thought. Surely he needed more like a wet towel to clean up properly. As he stood, my Cuban seat neighbor reached each hand, one at a time, around his back side to unpack the wedgie out of his ass crack. He let out a sigh of relief and dropped back down, popping back into the seat. 

He squirmed one hand into a pocket filled with keys and junk looking for something. A napkin?Wrong pocket. He started searching the other pocket. Nothing. A look came to him as if a memory light went on. He pulled a tooth pick from behind his ear and went to work on his chompers.


The worst part of that, with all of the sucking and lip smacking, he was making me hungry.  Sucking on a worn out tooth pick, he leaned over and asked me, “hey meng, are jew on dis flight?”

As he was sucking his teeth and talking to me, I was busy trying to catch the moment this pretty college girl, seated directly across the isle in a skirt, re-crossed her long, tanned legs.  My ridiculous fascination with the Cuban’s eating habits distracted me; I kept missing the shuffle.  He repeated the question.  I did not want to miss the next opportunity. Every time I was side-staring from behind my shades at the Cuban guy, she unfolded and re-crossed her sleek legs. I was determined not to miss it again. I was on stake out and couldn’t be bothered.  I was focused. He pushed my shoulder with his lump of a finger and said, “bro, jew on dis flight cause I gotta know if we leave or no today.”

Since when am I the guy to give answers to anyone?  I didn’t want to move.  My shades were dark dark and blocked my eyes. I was no threat.  She couldn’t see me.  I was invisible.  I was the tiger hidden in the brush as the young lamb got too far away from mommy.  I started to analyze what I was doing. Did I see too many Discovery Channel episodes?  Was I really that warped?  I was side tracking myself.  I do that too much; overthink the moment.  Stay focused I thought.  Focused on what I asked myself.  The girl you idiot.  The legs.  Right.

The Cuban guy was talking to me and I couldn’t understand the static. I was zeroed in on my target. All I heard coming from him was a noise that sounded like Charlie Brown’s teacher talking to her students, “wa wa wawa wa.”  Not that this was such an unusual thing for me.  Too often, when people introduce themselves to me, just as they offer me their names, I can only hear cartoon music coming out of their mouths.  I don't like cartoons.

The Cuban guy nudged me repeatedly as he was talking. She just had to make the cross over, I thought.  It was beyond hot in the terminal.  This must have been the oldest terminal at Miami International.  Her legs must be wet with sweat.  She couldn’t keep them together too much longer.  It was way too hot.  Not doubt, this was an original terminal from 1930.  It was probably built before there was a such thing as air conditioning.  Hours ago they apologized over the loud speaker for the AC being broken.  They were “working on it,” they said.  A fucking broken AC on a hot, scorching, humid, sultry July afternoon.  

He wouldn’t shut up.  Did the Cuban think I was involved in a conversation with him?  What the hell was he talking about?  Why wouldn’t he leave me to my work?  I reluctantly looked over to my right and my Cuban friend was smiling at me with a tooth pick hanging from his lips.  His Italian wife beater tank top was tight like spandex, really accentuating the roundness of his tanned belly.

I said, “what?” and that was too much for me.  He shoved his meat hooks at me, grabbing my hand and shaking it as he said, “my name is Jorge, jew gringos call me George.”  I said, “my name is Vince, but you Cubans all call me Binnie or Bincent.”

“Oh, berry nice to meat you Binnie Bincent.  Are jew on dis plane,” he was pointing to the flight board directly in front of us.  I nodded and gave him a half smile.

He smiled back and winked at me.  He said  “Jew know, me don’t know if I want anymore to get on da plane now.  Jew know what I mean?” he said as he jabbed a left elbow into my arm.  I jerked as he hit some bone that wasn’t funny.  He went on, “I mean, jew know, first dey tell us its da hydroculator,” 

I interrupted, “you mean the hydraulic line.”

“Right,” he said.  “Only 20 to 30 minute she say.  Na-na-na.”  

I quickly thought of Sha Na Na Na.  Man, I realized how dated I was at 49.  50 was coming quicker than I wanted, but for some reason time seemed to stand still at this airport.  I considered staying there for a couple of years, just to hang on to my forties.  No, it was way too hot, I’d die.

“Bro, dat was an hour before dey says dey habing da part ship’d over,” Jorge said.  “Sonsing sound berry fishy to me,” he said as his eyes darted back and forth.

I had been sitting so long my legs were beginning to go numb.  Even worse, I could feel those two beers I had at the bar 90 minutes ago starting to push for independence.  I crossed my legs, which made me look quickly over to the young future star of Chicks Gone Wild at the Airport.  I missed the crossover.  Shit!  She was gone.

Jorge grabbed my shoulder.  “And another ding, jew know dat airport in St Thomas?”  he asked.  I was forced to look at him.  “Mida, quidado, da runaway, right, she is between two mountains.  So when da plane come in, da airopressures, they pushing up,” Jorge said.  He used his hand to simulate a plane coming in for landing and then used his other paw to demonstrate the upward air pressure as he flipped his plane hand over and made a loud crashing noise that drew way too much attention for me.

Jorge grabbed the giant, gold Virgin Mary that was hanging on a gold necklace thick enough to secure a motorcycle and kissed it three times before he nicely tucked it under his stained wife beater.

“Dat airport, she has de bery worse landing record in todo del mundo bro,” he said.

He finally got my attention.  “Are you sure it’s really that bad,” I asked.

“Meng, I got a small business ober dere.  I sellen cars is chip to my cousin Erwin.  He libe dere and take care o de day to days.  So I go two ting a monf.  We partners and split 50-50,” Jorge said proudly and he folded his arms so he could more easily display his Rolex watch.

But was it fake?  If it was real, it was worth $3,500, I guessed.  That’s a lot of smack.  This guy probably makes more than me.  Who was I to look down at him?  Was I looking down or just being observant?  Was it fake or real?  The second hand had the perpetual motion.  Then again, the new fakes fake the motion.  How do they fake the perpetual motion?  Why would that be hard to fake anyway?  I was getting side tracked again.  What was I thinking about?  Oh yes, the Cuban guy has a friggen business in St. Thomas and flies there twice a month.  Geeze.

“Really, so how long you been doing that,” I asked.

“About four jear now,” he responded.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet which was as thick as a phone book.  I wondered how he sat on it.  It was filled papers, business cards, pictures, some typical wallet stuff and many things I couldn’t make out.  He whipped out a shiny  platinum card and said, “Yo tengo mucho mucho miles.” 

Thankfully an announcement broke the pace of our pointless conversation.  One thing I was told a long time ago, if you have to say something, have a point.  It makes it that much more interesting for the listener. No, I wasn’t told that at all. That is a line from the movie Planes, Trains and Automobiles. Steve Martin says it to John Candy. Come to think of it, most of my thoughts, lines and references are stolen from movies. I began to wonder if I even have an original thought.

“All passengers on American flight 637 to St. Thomas, we now have the tubing for the hydraulic system an once we get that part on, we will begin boarding in 45 minutes,” a voice said over the intercom.

The thick, sweaty crowd was silent.  What the hell did that mean?  Were we boarding in 45 minutes?  Or, after they were done with the installation, at some unknown time, then after another 45 minutes, we’ll begin boarding.  The crowd erupted into shouts and chaos.

Jorge, like everyone, looked confused.  He scratched his armpit as he said “what do that mean?”

I stood up as the pains in my groin were becoming intolerable.  I looked at Jorge, “could you do me a small favor George?”  I asked using all of my “kind” powers.

“Chure, any sing,” he quickly responded with a smile.

“I gotta run to the men’s room.  Will you hold my seat for me.  It’s a mad house in here and I don’t want to be forced to stand for the next 2 hours,” I said.

“Yeah.  Chure meng.  I can feels what you say.  When jew gotta go you go,” he said.  “Chit meng, I gotta go too,” Jorge said as he started to stand and rub his belly.

“Ok, just let me run over there first.  You wait here and then I’ll hold your seat when you go, ok,” I said firmly.

“Si, yeah, yeah right bro.  Jew know I wasn’t tinking.  I wait right here.  I’ll be right here when jew get back Mr. Binnie Bincent,” he said.

I held my crotch as I pushed through the thick crowd.  Where the hell were all of these people going I thought.  Don’t these people have jobs to go to?  I figured this must be that hangar for all flights to the Carribean.  Everyone looked either Cuban, Haitian, Jamaican, Dominican, Puerto Rican, Mexican, Bahamian or the like.  I am sure that I heard a chicken, and some other livestock, chirping and snorting somewhere in the crowd.

Wait, was it called a hangar or a terminal I thought.  A hangar is where they store the plane, right?  Yes.  It’s a terminal.  It must have been the terminal for all of the Carribean flights.  No wonder no AC.  The white man is always abusing and taking advantage of people of color. I bet the AC worked, they just didn’t want to waste the electricity.

I found the men’s room after walking the wrong way for far too long.  There was a long line of smelly, sweating drunk people snaking out of the bathroom.  I wasn’t at a fucking concert.  I had to go and go immediately.  I put on my “I belong here” attitude and slyly tried to walk in the exit door.  The entire line caught on.  A 6'7" guy that looked like Jose Conseco said “you go in that door, it will be your last mistake today.”  I quickly turned to the voice and caught his eye.  Seeing his physical superiority, I calmly walked to the back of the line.

Shit, I thought.  I had just left my brand new lap top computer with Jorge.  I don’t even know this guy.  How stupid could I be to leave my new Mac Book, that cost me over $3,000, with someone I don’t even know.  How could I trust him? I clearly wasn’t thinking.

Even worse, I came to this realization after  I was standing on line for the bathroom for over ten minutes.  Only a few minutes were left before it was my turn.  I was practically on deck.  I knew there was a good chance that if I left my spot to check on Jorge that I might not physically be able to wait on this line again.  I decided that I would have to give Jorge a chance.  I would have to trust a stranger with my new computer.  As my wife says, there is a lesson in everything.  So did I learn a lesson here?  I couldn’t see the lesson to learn.  Don’t drink two beers at 9am? Don’t trust Cuban’s with greasy hands?

I made my way finally to the door of the bathroom.  It was my turn to go in.  The door handle looked filthy.  I have a bathroom thing.  I can’t touch anything.  Elbows in and out.  The door pulled open so I had to wait for someone to exit.  No one was exiting.  Why?  I waited.  The crowd behind me was becoming pushy.  One guy told me to go ahead.  I ignored him.  No one came out.  How many stalls could there be in the bathroom?  Still, how long could these guys pee for?  Someone had to come out.  No one came out.  When the guy behind me became frustrated enough to make the passing move, he reached and opened the door and I jumped in, hands free.

The bathroom was jammed packed.  A massive crowd was surrounding that tall guy that challenged my move in the exit.  People were mauling him.  They were shoving toilet paper and pens in his face.  Shit, it was Jose Conseco! The famous ex-baseball player.

Everyone wanted his autograph.  Couldn’t they wait?  Really, in the fucking bathroom.  Even worse, he was having a good time with it.  I wondered if anybody had even gone yet.  Was the line still a line?  Did I have more waiting to do?  I had no time to think, the pain was clouding my mind.  I had to go. 

I made my way around the swarming crowd.  I squeezed over to one of the many open urinals and began my business.  It seemed like I was taking a squirt at a Mexican cock fight.  At the American brand urinal, I hit the lever with my elbow for the pre-flush.  I gotta pre-flush.  This gets the last dudes leftovers out of my water.  There’s always some splashing, even if you don’t see it.  I don’t really want to wear someone else’s urine on my pants all day long.  Hence, the hands free elbow pre-flush.

The two 9AM beers had grown into a six pack.  I barely got the wonder worm out of the cage as the dam broke.  Wow, what relief.  What a feeling of total euphoria. At that moment, I wondered if sex was any better.  I was thinking more of the final part.  The cumming part only lasts for a few seconds.  This two gallon piss could last over two minutes.  I think I may have wept a little from the pleasure and relief as I purged my system of the waste water.  I never cry during sex.  Well, once, but she drew blood.

As I was lost in my debate, and in full flow, the crowd became even more unruly and made a run for my border.  That’s the two foot border of privacy I feel surrounds all of us.  Well, there were no border patrols that day.

All these guys wanted to get an autograph or just touch him.  He was a god in Miami.  They were getting out of control, especially for a bathroom.  All at once, the four thousand pound mass of bodies crashed against me at the urinal.  It nearly broke my back.  My torso was catapulted into the urinal.  I think the flush handle actually went into my mouth.  I won’t even touch that thing with my hands!  I lost my balance and took a bath in the pee water.  My lips were dripping with I don’t know what.  I only hoped it was a dream. Was it all just a dream?

Not a dream.  It was a nightmare.

I was wet. Wet with....?  I was grossed out.  I generally don’t have too many phobias, but I think I have some sort of bathroom phobia.  Or is it really a germ phobia?  Many years ago, I was watching 60 minutes, before they started that stupid 60 minutes 2, and I saw a special on public bathroom germs.  The door handles, the flushers, the water spouts and knobs, even the button you press to get a paper towel or hot air, are all critically contaminated with bacteria, fungi, virus and e-coli.  I’ve never entered a public bathroom the same way again.  I touch nothing.

I was in the new Denver airport a year ago.  There, I entered the garden of eden of all bathrooms; minus the snake of course.  There was no door to touch, only a bluff wall that you walk around.  The toilets flushed automatically.  The water came on automatically.  The soap was dispensed without a touch and the paper towels, or air-drying machines, operated without a touch.  It was a dream come true.  Why couldn’t every public bathroom be like that one.  I came out of there on cloud nine. I actually walked back in just to see it all again.  Perfection is to be admired.

Somehow, I was day dreaming about a bathroom in Denver after being shoved into a urinal in Miami.  I was amazing myself with this level of subconscious thought.  I was too side tracked.  As I gained balance and started to come out of my thoughts, I realized that I never stopped pissing.  I got my pants all wet.  Shit, the flow was still coming out.  I watched as the last little tinkle fell on the grimy tile floor.  The bathroom was quiet.  Everyone was staring at me.

I might as well have been an illegal alien the tunneled up in the middle of crowed meeting in Trumps’s Oval Office.  Everyone was staring at me with their mouths drooped wide open.  The crowd was around me in a half circle.  Standing a few feet directly in front of me was Jose Conseco.  I gave him a “what’s up” nod.  His face was blood red.  And that’s a hard trick for someone who is so dark skinned.  Was he blushing?

I noticed that the crowd’s eyes shifted.  I followed it.  Jose’s left leg was wet.  When I regained my balance, I must have spun around, still delivering a fire hose like stream of urine.  I peed all over his leg.  I peed all over Jose Conseco’s leg!  Shit!

“Wait wait wait” I said.  “Jose, it was an accident....I, I, I...I was knocked,” I pled.

I noticed that his right fist was clenched.  His left fist was clenched also.  The crowd erupted.  I was at a Mexican cock fight.  The big problem was that I was the dick about to get cocked.  Jose took one step towards me.  I felt my knees go weak.

I used to box, I thought.  Left hook, right hand.  True, it was a very long time ago.  But I can hold my own.  I can fight.  I kept telling myself, I can fight.  I remember the saying, “the guy that throws the first punch wins the fight.”  I figured I could use my Mike Tyson left hook, catch Jose on the chin, and drop him like a wet rag.  I rather fight than just take a beating, I thought.  Who knows, I mean, anyone can go down.  I remembered the saying “the bigger they are the harder they fall.”  I clenched my left fist.

Did you know that hitting a baseball is one of the hardest things to do in sports.  The actual contact surface of a round baseball bat hitting a round baseball is smaller than the size of a dime.  In the pro’s, the ball comes at a batter at speeds approaching 100 MPH.  This means the batter has to have lightning reflexes, tremendous upper body speed and cat like agility.  Jose Conseco was one of the best in the pro’s.  I know this and I’m not even a sports fan.

I also forgot that he was publicly an advocate for the use of steroids.  A 6'7" 250 pound advocate for the use of steroids. He was a mountain.

I went for it.  I let my Mike Tyson left hook fly.  Before my hand got above my waist, Jose grabbed my arm at the shoulder and lifted me off the ground.  He pushed me, chest forward into a urinal and it somehow flushed. I fell to the floor.

I was dazed and never saw the crowd and Jose leave the bathroom.  Did I lose consciousness?  What is consciousness?  Am I ever really aware?  Are any of us aware?  There on the bathroom floor I was lost in nonsensical thought.

After the crowd and Jose left, a few people had come in the bathroom and were staring at me.  Too many times that day, I was the center of attention in a public men’s room.  They were afraid to approach me.  Not one of them offered help or asked what happened.  At least my pants were on, I thought.  I stood up and started to brush myself off like I had accidentally tripped.  I was dripping wet.  They were starring at me, hard.  It wasn’t friendly.

As I was trying to gain composure, I suddenly noticed that I never put my junk back in my pants.  It was hanging out.  Just hanging right out there.  I smirked and quickly put him away.  What the hell did these guys think I was doing?  Whatever, I just got to get back to my seat, I thought.  I missed my friend Jorge at that moment point.

I needed to try and dry off a bit.  There was no paper towel; only air dryers.  Shit, I hate when I don’t have a choice between paper and air.  I like paper.  I needed paper.  No paper to be found.  Wait, I thought, they must have toilet paper.

As I was walking back to my seat, trying to pick the thousands of toilet paper balls off my black shirt, I could feel the stares from the crowd.  I even caught a few guys pointing me out to their wives and kids.  I was disgusting.  My only change of clothes was somewhere out there on the tarmac, or under a broken plane.

I came up to Jorge and I could see that he had someone sitting in my seat.  Damn it.  I had asked him to hold my seat.  Can’t I trust him, I thought.  Well, I realized, at least he’s there which meant my lap top was there also.

Jorge had a woman in the seat.  No, not just a woman, it was that sexy co-ed with the long, tanned legs. He surely upgraded company.

I went into cool mode.  My pace slowed a bit.  I began to swagger.  I reached into my front pocket, pulled out my wallet and took my comb out.  I keep my wallet in my front pocket to prevent pick pockets from easy access.  I keep my comb in my wallet so I don’t lose it.  Anyway, I combed my wet hair.  The comb went through easily.

As I ran the comb through my hair, it reminded me just how much hair I was losing.  I had plenty on the sides.  The top was thinning.  Thinning is a bald guys way of saying disintegrating.  The divot in the back of my head was growing at a rate faster that our national debt under Trump.  Why did I lose the hair lottery, I pondered.  For a decent set of hair (is hair a set? I thought but continued anyway) I would surely give up something.  What would I give up?  My car?  That’s an easy one, yes.  With a great head of hair, I calculated, I was sure I could impress that co-ed.  I’m married and not looking for side action. However, knowing that you can inspire some attention from a hot chick is golden. Maybe her dad was bald and she liked balding guys.  It was a distinguished look, right?

Jorge interrupted my thoughts as I was paused, just behind them.

“Ay yay yay, wha happening to jew?” he asked.

She turned around and looked at me.  Her eyes caught mine.  What beautiful eyes. I turned my gaze away.  It stung.  Where was my swagger?

Jorge jumped up and ran to me, making way too much of a commotion.  “Bro, jew ok?” he asked as he started to try and pat off some of the toilet paper debris.  He quickly pulled his hands off me.

“Jew all wet!” he shouted. Jorge then took out what seemed like an endless supply of napkins from his pockets to dry me off. He had napkins all along; I was baffled.

“Shhh, don’t worry, I’m ok,” I said.

The beautiful co-ed was looking at me.  I could tell, from the corner of her eyes, that she was laughing inside.  Eyes can laugh, you just have to know what to look for.  I would have felt better if she just laughed out loud, I thought.  I was so embarrassed.

Right then, a tiny laugh somehow snuck past her teeth and slipped between her full lips.  It just kind of popped out there.  She tried to catch herself and covered her mouth.  It was too late.  Her gorgeous eyes opened wide with her hands still over her mouth, and then she began to laugh out loud, uncontrollably.

Jorge started laughing with her.  I laughed a little, as if someone just told a joke that I already heard.  They kept on laughing and laughing.  Their laughing would suddenly stop, they’d look at me again, and then they’d start laughing even harder.

“Jew....(laugh)...falling...(laugh)...in da toilet” Jorge said as they continued hysterically.