Below The Fold

The line at the airport in Portland was 30-40 people deep. There were no ropes or guides to keep it orderly or unobtrusive, so it jutted out from the ticket counter and ran directly across the concourse to a wall on the other side of the wide walkway. There was a snowstorm in Denver, and the flight out had been delayed.
I was coming back to Denver after spending a week in Portland for North By Northwest in 2000. It was before 9/11, and people hadn’t grown accustomed to long waits in airport lines as much as they have since.
There was a little man in front of me. He had a beer gut and bulging biceps; the kind of guy who drinks beer out of a can in one hand while he’s lifting a weight with the other one. He wore a tank top, red, and had a moustache. His hair was greasy and brown, and he smelled strongly of chewing tobacco. It was sickly sweet and made me a little nauseous.
He complained non-stop. There was no one with him to engage his rambling monologue, he just kept looking around at the rest of us for approval. I studiously avoided eye contact.
“This is A-1 absofuckinlutely ridiculous!” he fairly shouted. “Unfuckinbelievable! This is the longest line I ever been in, I tell you what. Hey! Move this thing along!”
His constant barrage made the whole process far more unbearable. This went on for several minutes, and at one point I was looking down the length of the terminal and noticed a tall, older black man pushing a large cart full of luggage slowly towards us. Next to him was a much younger black woman, smartly dressed and attractive. I watched them slowly meander towards us, trying to tune out the jabber of the jackass in front of me.
Suddenly, I realized I knew who the man walking towards us was. I was a little stunned to see him here, a totally random and unexpected happenstance. I watched him push the car directly up to the line. Then, I realized I wasn’t the only one who recognized him. The jackass recognized him as well. He stood there gapemouthed and slackjawed, riveted in a stare at the black man.
“Excuse me, please,” Danny Glover said to the jackass, nodding his head to indicate that he wanted to pass through the line and continue walking down the concourse. The jackass didn’t say a word. He just stared at Danny Glover, eyes wide with disbelief. The girl, I think she was his daughter looked at the jackass expectantly.
“Excuse me, please. Can we get by?” he asked again, trying to be polite, yet a little irritated at the jackass’ reticence. Finally, the jackass snapped out of it.
“Hey!” he said with a huge, gap-toothed grin. “Where’s Murtaugh?!” he asked. It was painful to witness. Like a comedian who completely bombs in front of a full house. I looked at Danny Glover for his reaction. His daughter groaned softly, and put her hand over her eyes.
He didn’t miss a beat. He pushed past the jackass, looked him directly in the eye and said, “I played Murtaugh.” As he stepped past the man, he looked away and muttered one more word. “Jackass.”
At that point, I burst into a boisterous and loud laugh and pointed directly at the jackass, just to add an exclamation point to Danny Glover’s statement. The Jackass was red-faced and humiliated.
As Danny Glover continued past, he shot me a quick wink of the eye and a small half smile.