Just past the final gate at the end of the terminal sits the bar. The last possible place you can find alcohol before strapping in and jetting off. Here sits the bar fly. Specific to the airport. Specific to the tropics.
Let’s start at the top.
Bad hair. Unkept, but innocent.
Bad glasses. Metal mostly. Kinda round, kinda square. Large.
Black, sleeveless t-shirt, but homemade sleeveless. Converted after one of the native sleeves was caught in heavy machinery. Faded to light black. Almost gray. A few years left.
Shorts. Jean or cargo. Too short.
White, New Balance.
9AM, red face. Happy.
He’s on this way to Costa Rica today. To sit at their bars and drink their beer.