The Opiate, Winter Vol. 8
Accidental Sabotage Mathew Michael Hodges
H
alf past eight in the morning, off to the side of Midway Airport’s security line, just beyond the metal detectors. Tristan sits, wearing approximately twenty-two t-shirts, two sweaters, a parka, a pair of jeans on top of three pairs of slacks and a pair of cargo shorts, eight pairs of socks and bulky, black dress shoes, his winter coat slung over the chair behind him on one of the last days of August. The TSA man behind a podium where an oversized computer screen no doubt displays everything the government knows about one, Tristan P. O’Neill, likely more than he even knows himself. “Mother’s maiden name?” the man in the vibrant blue shirt asks. He eases back in the chair. This might wind up easier than he feared. “Butler.”
30.
The man squints at the screen and nods. “What state did you get your social security number in?” The sweat from layer after layer of clothes turns cold. If he can’t get these questions right, he won’t be able to flee Chicago. He leans forward and tugs his ear. “Honestly, I don’t know,” he says. And if he is stuck in Chicago, he has very few options. The man scowls. “I’m gonna guess Rhode Island,” he says, then realizes the man might not like guess work with terrorism in the balance. “Only because I was born in Philadelphia, but my folks moved to Rhode Island when I was an infant, so they probably got it there for me.” The man nods in agreement with this
