Benjamin Culbreth

Issue 16

Flash Fiction

Sleeping in an airport is not as bad as you think. Sure, it takes half the morning for the backache to go away, but the pain is much easier in air conditioning. And the muffled sound of planes taking off is a welcome alternative to trains rumbling overhead.

I came to this conclusion after the first few months on the job. My shift starts at 5:00 am. At first, I pretended to go home but hung around and slept in the chairs like all the other trapped souls. After a while, I realized that no one noticed I was a repeat offender.

Once I had a lay of the land, I tried to pick out the best spots. The cushioned seats or working areas. But when I showed up there, I got dirty looks. I didn’t fit in with my cleaning cart and uniform, even with people who hadn’t showered in two days and were nursing an overpriced hangover.

The floor became the best option. It gave me privacy. I could find seats with outlets to charge my phone. And no one said a word. If you’re lying on an airport floor, no one bothers you. They figure you already have it rough enough.

I got into a routine. Each day, I picked myself up off the ground and went on my morning commute to the McDonald’s, about 100 yards from my bed.

Reggie has the cup of coffee ready for me when I get there.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

Reggie knows.

“Not too bad last night,” I always reply.

For the next eight hours, I clean floors that get dirty again as soon as I walk away. I see people run, cry, scream at each other, laugh, and drink themselves to sleep. You can really get to know humanity in an airport. You see the dark side. And sometimes kindness. But if you’re someone like me, it all passes you by.