#but like without having to lay low in shitty conditions. i liked the luxury of it

[bombz-n-bluntz]

Man I really softened up in overwatch

[bbangsoonie]

one more minute

member: sangyeon genre: angst word count: 2,487 synopsis: survival of the fittest is the reigning rule of nature. so when a zombie apocalypse breaks out, you don’t have much hope but sangyeon is set on keeping you safe. warning(s): death

When the apocalypse first broke out, you lost all hope and will. With your physical condition, you knew you wouldn’t be able to last long. And quite frankly, you didn’t want to.

Your chances of survival were low. Your asthma and lack of athleticism didn’t give you a good hand. And on top of that, you weren’t sure if you wanted to survive if it meant being unable to live.

What were you fighting so hard for? To merely stay alive in the midst of chaos?

But Sangyeon refused to let you give up. He claimed responsibility for your life and pushed you to fight. You two banded together with a group of other survivors. And for a while, you created a system that worked. The thirteen of you managed well by relying on each other.

Until you lost Hyunjoon.

Then the group was shaken to the core. Fear kept you all locked up in an abandoned warehouse. And inevitably, food and supplies began to run low. Including necessary medical supplies.

You always felt bad about having to risk everyone’s lives to raid hospitals. You knew that your existence was more of a burden than of help. You couldn’t contribute much but required a lot of things. Honestly, you were tired of it as well. But you were too ashamed to tell that to Sangyeon, who had given his very best into keeping you alive.

After another asthma attack, you were laying on a makeshift bed with your hand tightly wrapped around the last inhaler. And as always, Sangyeon remained by your side.

Meanwhile, Jaehyun, Juyeon, and Kevin had returned empty handed. Their search for food had been futile and only ended up with Kevin sustaining an injury. You watched as Jacob tended to his wounds and Changmin rationed the remaining cans of food.

“This world has gone to hell,” your breath rasped in your throat.

“Hey, it’s not completely unbearable. We still have each other,” Sangyeon forced a smile.

You and Sangyeon had grown up as childhood friends. Of course, you were no longer just friends anymore. Yet, you also weren’t anything more. You couldn’t afford the luxury of dating in the middle of a zombie apocalypse. You were too busy meeting basic needs to pursue a romantic relationship.

The love between you two remained unspoken but you both knew each other’s feelings. It was why you continued to live in such a shitty world. Sangyeon was quite literally the reason you were alive. Without him, you would have died long ago.

But you had a feeling you wouldn’t be able to last much longer. At least, not without obtaining more inhalers.

“How are you holding up, Y/n?” Haknyeon asked.

You weakly offered a thumbs up in response. He understood the true meaning behind your answer.

Chanhee was discussing logistics with Younghoon, who was quietly nodding his head as he listened. Seeing Sunwoo and Eric having a serious conversation brought you a sense of pity. Hyunjoon’s death had stripped them of the last sliver of joy that they had left.

Sangyeon, who had been observing your features, brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face. At his touch, your attention returned to him.

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you more medicine,” he reassured.

“I want to go alone this time,” you hesitantly stated.

His expression immediately hardened as he quickly rejected your idea. Not wanting to hear more, he stood up to leave but you caught a hold of his wrist.

“I can’t keep placing you guys in danger for me. It’s time I pull my own weight,” you insisted.

“Then I’ll go with you,” he said.

You knew he wouldn’t back down. So with a sigh, you meekly nodded.

When Sangyeon brought up the proposal to the group, Jacob instantly shook his head. He asserted that it was way too risky. The group had always traveled outside in trios, minimum.

But you held your ground, even after Jaehyun offered to go as well. Unable to win over your stubbornness, the group reluctantly agreed to let you and Sangyeon go by yourselves.

When the morning came, you awoke to Chanhee packing you a backpack full of emergency tools. He had tried to stay aloof during his time with the group but you could tell that he had grown fond of everyone. He didn’t show it but Hyunjoon’s death had impacted him a lot.

“You have to return. No matter what. You must come back unharmed,” he demanded as he handed you the bag.

You surprised him with a hug. It took him a second to register what was going on before he slowly patted your back.

“Thanks for everything, Chanhee,” you smiled.

“Don’t say that. It sounds like a good-bye,” he frowned. “You can thank me later.”

Chuckling, you nodded as you slung the bag around your shoulders. You said your farewells to the rest of the members, promising to come back by the evening. Eric, as always, teared up watching people walk past the doors of safety.

You and Sangyeon stepped into the pending hands of doom, unaware that it would be the last time walking down these flight of stairs for one of you.

Sangyeon’s hand tightly held yours as you two navigated your way to the hospital. Luckily, the trip there was rather uneventful. The streets of Seoul were eerily quiet. You could barely remember what the booming city used to look like.

Once you got to the hospital, you snuck past roaming zombies in the hallways to quietly reach the supply room. Carefully closing and locking the door behind you, you let out a sigh of relief.

You began to grab bottles of whatever medicine there was and stuffed them into your backpack while Sangyeon searched for inhalers. Unfortunately, there were only a couple left in stock. A wave of disappointment and stress washed over him.

Peeking at his troubled expression, you tried to show him the bright side. You now had a bunch of disinfectants and pain killers.

At that moment, a crash was heard outside. You clung onto Sangyeon’s shirt and your eyes widened in shock. He held a finger up to his lips, signaling for you to stay silent as he tried to hear what was going on beyond the door.

“Bomin!” a female voice shrieked before another crash was heard.

Then you heard it. The crowd of growling zombies rushing towards whoever was outside. Your heart pounded fiercely against your chest as they struggled to fight off the monsters. And then broke when human voices were no longer heard.

When you and Sangyeon didn’t arrive by nightfall, Sunwoo couldn’t help but assume the worst.

“You don’t think something went wrong, do you?” he nervously bit his lip in concern.

“No. There must have been a slight delay. They’ll be back tomorrow,” Younghoon gulped. His words were more to convince himself rather than Sunwoo.

“Let’s trust them and wait,” Juyeon said, comforting Eric.

Meanwhile, you were stuck inside the supply room. Leaving was no longer a feasible option with the hoard of zombies outside the door. So you spent the night there, sleeping next to Sangyeon to stay warm.

When you woke up, you knew that you couldn’t hide forever. If you didn’t die outside, you would die of starvation inside.

After coming up with a strategy, you and Sangyeon prepared to escape. You waited until most of the groaning sounds faded further away to slowly open the door and check your surroundings. To your relief, there were only a few of the creatures nearby.

Sangyeon’s heart sank at the sight of blood on the floor. It hadn’t been there the day before.

Quietly, the two of you crept towards the emergency staircase. As you went down a few floors, you relaxed, thinking that you were now safe.

It turned out that it was too early to let your guard down.

Right before you got to the basement parking lot, you heard a familiar noise that sent chills down your spine. You didn’t have time to warn Sangyeon before a zombie jumped on him. He fought with all his strength but the surprise attack had caught him off guard. He was struggling to stop it from tearing him apart.

Without thinking, you flung forward to shove it off of him. The action prompted the zombie to focus on you instead. You yelped as you were thrown to the ground and panicked as you tried to avoid its aggressive mouth.

In unlucky timing, you felt a sharp pain in your lungs.

“Oh no,” you thought. You couldn’t be having another asthma attack. Not now. Not when you were already on the brink of death.

That brief moment of weakness was enough for the zombie to gain an advantage. You screamed in pain when you felt another sharp pain. This time, it was on your arm.

Sangyeon barely managed to kill the zombie by bashing its head into the wall. Your hands shook as you desperately rummaged through your bag to find an inhaler. By the time you sprayed the drug, Sangyeon rushed to your side.

In a hurry, you tugged your sleeves to cover the bite mark. He helped you sit up as he made sure you were okay.

“Y/n, are you crazy? What were you thinking?” he yelled.

“You’re safe. That’s all that matters,” you weakly smiled. You tried your best to act fine but your mind was occupied with the pain from your arm.

You leaned on him as you entered the empty parking lot. Finding refuge in an unlocked car, Sangyeon urged you to rest for a few hours before making your way back home.

Home. What a funny word.

In the span of a year, a rundown warehouse had turned into your home. And before you knew it, a group of strangers had become your new family.

Your head was already starting to blur. Flashes of memories flooded your thoughts.

Sangyeon, your best friend. Your could’ve-been, should’ve-been, would’ve-been lover. You still vividly remembered the day he pounded on your door after the mayhem first broke out. Since then, he had been your survival partner. Even throughout all the turmoil, he always brought you a small gift from every outing. In the spring, it was a flower. In the fall, it was a cookie he managed to find.

Jacob, the angel. He was a breath of fresh air in a society where people’s hearts had turned stone cold. He had been the one to gather the survivors together.

Younghoon, the quiet one who took care of people behind the scenes. Like Chanhee, he seemed distant at first. But he was just shy and clumsy at expressing himself.

Jaehyun, the fighter. He was the first to volunteer for any task. He always burdened himself with the responsibility of keeping everyone out of harm’s way.

Juyeon, the one everyone relied on emotionally. He could sense when you were down and brought it upon himself to cheer you up.

Kevin, the selfless one. He prioritized others’ needs before his own. He had trained extra hard to become one of the strongest members.

Chanhee, the secretly soft-hearted one. Your last memory of him handing you the backpack brought a small smile to your lips.

Changmin, the level-headed one who turned into an innocent child when hanging out with the younger members.

Haknyeon, the goofy one who had matured way too early. Despite his young age, he was skilled and dependable.

Sunwoo, the one whose heart was too pure for this world. You hated to see the light in his eyes slowly fade throughout the months.

Eric, the moodmaker who received so much love from everyone. He truly cared for each and every member and never lost touch with his humanity.

And lastly, Hyunjoon. The one who had departed from the world too soon. He had so many unfulfilled dreams and you missed his bright smile.

By the time you regained consciousness, Sangyeon had fallen asleep next to you. You shakily took a breath as you examined the wound on your arm. You knew you didn’t have much time left.

You glanced over at his sleeping face. He seemed at peace. Wanting this to be your last memory, you spent some time watching his chest slowly rise and fall in rhythm. You endured the growing pain as you prayed for just one more minute with him. Just one more second.

Eventually, it became too hard to hold back the groans that fought to escape your throat. You dug into your bag to find the gun meant to be used as a last option. Your grip on the weapon tightened as you trudged away from the car.

Before you got too far, however, Sangyeon stirred from the sounds. Alarmed by your sudden disappearance, he quickly exited the vehicle to see you with a firearm.

“Y/n,” his voice held so much fear. You didn’t have the confidence to face him.

“It’s too late,” you choked.

It was only then that he finally noticed the blood dripping from your arm. He felt his world crumble down as you started to convulse.

“It’s okay,” he said as he approached you. “I’ll still take care of you. I’ll make sure that no one hurts you and that you won’t hurt anyone either.”

“I don’t want to become one of them. You know I’d rather die than become something that’s stuck between life and death. Something that threatens your life,” you cried.

“But I can’t let you die!” he yelled.

“It’s time to let me go, Sangyeon,” you begged as a tear rolled down your cheek.

“Y/n, look at me. Please,” he pleaded.

You didn’t want him to see you like this. But you didn’t have a choice when he tugged at your sleeve to make you turn around. Your skin was already beginning to discolor and he knew what was coming.

Full of desperation, he pulled you in for a hug. One arm clung onto your torso as the other embraced your head. He sobbed into your neck, making you weep as well.

“I lived a lot longer than I should have,” you assured.

“24 years is not long at all,” his voice cracked.

Wanting to spare him from having to shoot you himself, you slowly detached yourself from him. You had to do it yourself soon.

“Take the bag and go back to the others,” you sadly smiled.

“I can’t leave without you,” he cried. But he knew he had to.

You told him to close his eyes so he wouldn’t have to see your end. With your vision clouding more and more, you stumbled away from him and hid behind a van. You fell to the ground and your hands trembled as they brought the gun to your head.

“I love you, Lee Sangyeon,” you whispered before pulling the trigger.

a/n: heavily inspired by the character park yoori from sweet home and golden child’s “burn it” music video

[michaelfallcon]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

The post I’m Just Digging Out From My Email appeared first on Sprudge.

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email published first on https://medium.com/@LinLinCoffee

[shebreathesslowly]

I’m Just Digging Out From My Email

“Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player. Press back to return to the video player…”

I woke up with a start, neck crooked, with a cold sheen of sweat on my brow. The headphones were still somehow in my ears, but the movie, another vainglorious biopic, had long since ended. Lights were on in the cabin; the drink cart jostled my elbow.

How did I sleep? There was the worst fucking turbulence for a couple of minutes, and then I was just…went out for an hour and a half at least, maybe longer, in a twilight, twinkly state of half-rest.

I’d slept through my allotted in-flight work time, which was extremely unusual. Totally unlike me, honestly, but this was a long, long travel day, a set of two international flights over unfamiliar destinations, split up by a three hour layover. And that meant I could make it up in the International Lounge.

Flights like this—work flights—afford few if any luxuries. Once, exactly once, I was upgraded to Delta One, for reasons I don’t totally understand. I know other people in this business who fly business class every time: the international CEOs, the Executive Directors Emeritus, the consultants who demand it in their dignity riders, and the sort of folks for whom money doesn’t matter, whose careers in coffee are really more like hobbies.

The rest of us sit in coach.

But the International Lounge, well. On flights like these, access is complimentary, which means between flights I can put my feet up, grab a handful of snack mix, maybe a soda water with lime, and relax for once in my life. I hate traveling for work, and affliction I can’t seem to shrug off or numb myself out to it no matter how much I fly. It’s something really hard to explain to people who never travel for work, and look at travel as being intrinsically connected with holidays and fun. Traveling for work is neither. But the lounge, of all things… I find myself looking forward to it.

In what felt like a fast-forward batch of seconds we landed an de-planed. My feet were numb. My hands, too, numb all through my extremities, first like my fingers and toes had been rounded into clubs, and the there were thousand fire ants inside my skin. I couldn’t shake it off. I started doing a little dance, right there in the aisle, the people around me politely looking away into their cell phones. It faded a bit but not completely as I walked out into the terminal.

“May I see your ticket please?” She stood tall, blonde, in a perfectly manicured blue and grey uniform with a tiny silver nametag. It read Leentje. 

I handed my ticket to Leentje, awaiting her next direction. It came efficiently. “Oh! Welcome Mr. Mike-El-Man, you are welcome to International Courtesy lounge at Gate 52. It is this way.” She pointed down a vast concourse of numbered gates.

“Thank you, Leentje.” I’m pretty sure I pronounced it right.

I walked and walked, in what felt like another batch of fast-forward moments, still just slightly numb, shaking off the combination of a flight and a nap, running through my task queue in my head. I owed a bunch of email replies; I’d assigned myself a couple of stories to edit; I needed to dig out from a half-dozen different things.

At the lounge they checked my ticket—their nametags read Marieke and Jopie—looked at their computer, checked my ticket again, looked at another computer, and then finally admitted me. I glanced at the ticket before tucking it back into my passport, and for just a second it looked jumbled, like the words and letters were all mixed up. Have you ever broken a digital display screen? It looked like that, but on paper, and for just an instant.

The lounge was massive, an interconnected series of rooms dotted by service areas with row upon row of breads, cold salads, Segafreddo superautomatic coffee makers, self-service Diageo booze, and entry level charcuterie. I wasn’t hungry, but my feet still hurt, and I needed somewhere to set down my shit, plug in to a power source, and start finishing all my work.

There was every possible seating configuration: low tables, private desk nooks, huge high-backed privacy swivel chairs, bar stools near the food, and a set of long lounger daybeds with a raised portion, like what you lay down on in a cartoon shrink’s office. I chose that one, finding a lounger with nobody else on either side. A small mercy that lasted just a moment, barely enough time to put on my headphones and plug in my laptop.

He was maybe 50, or 55, and had that rumpled suit coat with shiny elbows thing that people get when they live their lives in the same set of suit coats. He sat down on the lounge directly next to me and made hard eye contact.

I looked up from the computer.

“Hey! How ya doing? Crazy running into you here!”

“Sorry, I don’t really like to smalltalk when I travel,” I heard myself saying in reply, which is what I always say in these situations. Yes, I know it’s rude, but it’s rudeness as a sort of self-defense, which I consider at worst a menial sin. “I have travel anxiety,” I said; I like to add this bit in to sort of buttress the self-defense posture. It’s not my fault I don’t want to talk to you, it’s my medical condition, you understand.

He didn’t understand.

“Whoa, sorry, hey—you’re the guy from Sprudge, right?”

I was.

“I’m sorry, hey! Good to see you!”

I always say this—good to see you—because I’m shit at remembering if I’ve met someone before, and so good to see you functions as kind of a catch-all salutation without causing offense. Of course I’ve seen you before, and I remember, and so it’s good to see you—but if we have never met once on this earth in life or death, well, it’s still really good to see you now, in this moment we’re sharing.

“Good to see you, too! I’m really glad to catch you here, you know. I sent you that email last week but maybe we can just talk about it now? I’m gonna run to the bar and grab a hot toddy, you want anything?”

I did not want anything. I wanted to be left alone. What I wanted most of all was for him to get up and walk away so that I could furiously check my inbox, and cross check its contents with this interaction so as to best figure out who this person was, what they wanted to talk about, and how to manage the rest of this interaction as efficiently and inoffensively as possible.

“No I’m good, let’s talk when you come back! I’m just digging out from my email.”

The man walked away in his rumpled suit coat, leaving his bag behind in the lounger next to mine. I had to know this dude, but I couldn’t for the life of me… couldn’t remember. So I opened the laptop.

100 new messages

My heart started pounding very quickly. My cortisol levels spiked. I had just looked through this shit before the 10 hour flight and there was what, maybe a dozen emails that needed replying? I had to scroll back to a second page of the inbox to get to the last tronche of read messages. I started to feel the fire ants again running up and down my legs…

Maybe I need some tea or something, or a glass of whatever shitty wine they’re pouring. It’s unhealthy to go straight from a flight to more work, after all. A big glass of spa water—that’s the best thing they serve here, you know, in these lounges, is the tower of water with cup up fruit inside. I stood up from the lounger, surveyed the room, and in that very instant felt the creepy-crawly sensation of a hundred eyes upon me.

I knew everyone in the room. And, I suspected, they were waiting on me for an email.

They were all there. Rob Riggle, Director of Coffee at Pik-Kwik Coffee in Nashua. Helga Ingiborg Gunnarsdottir, the international green coffee buyer and coffee competition judge. Ezekiel Christian, owner/founder/marketing manager at Hallowed Coffee Roasters of Grand Rapids. Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, a third generation Salvadoran land owner and general manager of a network of washing stations. Dizzy Morris, editor of the industry-focused trade publication Bean Teen Magazine. Hector Hernandez of Finca Hernandez in Chiapas, whose Finca Hernandez Yellow Bourbon (roasted by Goatyard Coffee) just received an unheard of 96 rating on Coffee Scores. Tina Sonsgard and Ricky Kim, who owned Construction Yard Coffee Roasters in the Bay Area. Constance Marino, the national barista champ and green coffee buyer. Hercules Siffaretti, the current international president of the World Coffee Association. Julio Trocas, the land management advisor and UC Davis trained agro-chemical salesman.

There was Lev Piav, the Ukrainian-cum-Australian international coffee consultant. Next to him sipping an Amstel was Matty Morely, son of Mickey Morely, who since the 80s had run Morely Roast Academy, a ten day $12,000 independent coffee shop owner certification. Hiroko Mayamara, who had personally judged more coffee competitions than any living person, and lived in a state of perpetual travel. Tim Wright, the Dean of Coffee Studies at Texas A&G. Dane Copeland, the hard-living Gen X bad boy founder of Little Beirut Coffee Roasters. Giacomo Olio and his team of staff representing La San Luigi Produzione, makers of the world’s most expensive espresso machines.

It went on. The entire coffee industry, it seemed, was sitting in this lounge, as though it were one of those invite-only executive after parties that pop up around the international trade shows.

I sat back down. I rubbed my eyes. My hands were completely numb, and fumbling, stumbling, I opened my laptop.

1,000 new messages

The words and addresses became like a floating jumble of crushed LED display. The whole lounge started to float. The man—I still didn’t know his name—came back over and sat down next to me, holding two large glasses of liquid.

“I went ahead and got ya a spa water, looks like you need it. You look tired! Ahawhawhaw…”

“Oh, yeah, you know, long flight—so do you!”

I hate it when someone says that—”you look tired!”—as a way of making conversation. I don’t look tired, you look tired. Of course I’m tired, I just flew 10 hours, and I’m starting to get the sinking suspicion that in fact I am dead, and this is hell, or at least purgatory.

“Listen—that thing I wanted to talk to you about. I just think it’s crazy that nobody is reporting on it yet!”

“Oh definitely, me too, me too. Listen—these days for news tips your best bet is to email my colleagues directly…”

“Of course,” said the man—I still didn’t know his name—”but since I’ve got you here right now I just figured…” but his dialogue was broken by a second man, looming before us, his enormous mustache gleaming in the early morning airport lounge light.

“Jon Luis Fitzcarraldo, what are the odds!”

What are the odds indeed. I stood with my spa water, smiled at both men, and began walking back through the lounge. There was Lettie Dinklage, PR emissary for Toraji Springs Syrup Company. I had to write her back. There was Duke Iannucci, who I’d known for a decade, whose nominal job was fixing espresso machines for Metallico Espresso but who functioned as a sort of all-around brand emissary for the company. He’d emailed me two weeks ago asking for travel recommendations and I just… well, I still needed to dig out. I hadn’t written back. I kept walking, my eyes focused, my numb hands slipping on the water glass, back to the front of the lounge.

Marieke and Jopie were still there, standing in their crisply pressed blue suits. I approached with my ticket and passport in hand.

“Listen… your colleague Leentje sent me here… am I pronouncing that right?

“Leentje, yes.”

“Anyway, is there a way I can get on an earlier flight today? There’s something weird going on here and I need to… know my options.”

“Yes of course,” said Jopie, in no-nonsense lilting English. “Let me check your layover.”

“I think it was just supposed to be like, three hours. I have it in my email…” Reflexively I looked down at my phone, opening the Gmail app. My lock screen was now a digital spiral, like a black hole or a vortex or the gaping mouth of hell IDK…

10,000 new messages

“Were you on the 8am from Portland?” asked Marijke.

“I… was but something is… very wrong…”

“The computer here says there was a delay in your connection,” I heard Jopie say. “You will be delayed on your next flight. I suggest you enjoy the lounge, and we will call your name when there is an update.”

I paused for just a beat. My head felt numb now, like my extremities had from the moment I woke up on the flight. The lounge buzzed and hummed behind me, a service cart of fresh pastries clattering through the room.

“Give it to me straight, Jopie. Am I dead? Did my plain crash? Is this hell?”

She paused for a moment. Jopie and Marijke looked at each other, spoke briefly in Dutch, and turned back to me with a smile.

“Our records show you will be here for some time. The WiFi password is ‘relax’ spelled in English. That’s R-E-L-A-X.”

“I know how to fucking spell relax!”

“Alright sir. Perhaps you want to chat with the other guests in the lounge, and enjoy a complimentary drink? Or use this time to catch up on some emails?”

I thanked them, Jopie and Marijke, and apologized for raising my voice. How terribly American and embarrassing of me, to act like that. Totally unlike me, really. I try to be the most polite American of all time when I travel. It’s just, this had been such a long travel day, and it was only getting longer.

It’ll be fine. I’ll just go sit back down in the Lounge. You know, I do have some stuff to dig out from. I did have some emails to send.

Jordan Michelman (@suitcasewine) is a co-founder and editor at Sprudge Media Network. Read more Jordan Michelman on Sprudge.

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