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Saturday, June 10—New York, JFK Airport
“You’ve been staring at those two plane tickets for almost an hour now. My role as bartender compels me to ask: what’s the big dilemma?”
I stare at the guy behind the bar for the first time since I sat on this stool an hour ago. He has a broad smile and a friendly face.
“If you stop pretending to be drying glasses just to peek at my tickets and pour me another drink,” I say, “I’ll tell you.”
“Sambuca, with ice?”
I nod and shift my attention back to my tickets. Maybe if I stare at them hard enough, the letters will magically move and spell out a solution for me. In the background, I can hear ice tinkle as it hits the bottom of a glass, then crack when the bartender pours the Sambuca. These sounds mingle with the general noises of the airport: flight announcements, passengers chatting, and luggage rolling on the floor.
“Here you go.” The bartender sets my drink on the glassy surface of the bar in front of me.
“You added coffee beans,” I observe. “Nice touch.”
“Pleased to please. But isn’t 7 a.m. a little too early for double heavy spirits?”
“I’m on U.K. time, and believe me, I need the double heavy spirits.”
“Which brings us back to the tickets. I’ve earned an explanation.”
I sip my Sambuca and take a closer look at the guy’s face. Young—mid-twenties, I’d say. Short sandy hair, intelligent eyes, and always the big smile. He’s back at his occupation of drying glasses that don’t need drying. Probably one of those people incapable of standing still with nothing to do.
I swirl the ice in my glass. “Is this on the house?”
“On the house, along with the free advice.”
“All right,” I say. “One ticket’s for San Francisco, the other one for Chicago. There’re two weddings today, and I need to choose which one to go to.”
“Two close friends?”
A loud public announcement blasts through the airport’s speaker system, and I wait for it to be over before answering...