Art Deco and a Piano Man

This was written on November 20^th.

I have never exactly considered art deco to be a light, open, “castle-in-the-air” style. Apparently no one told that to whoever designed the central atrium of the Atlanta-Hartsfield airport.

I lounge back with my trusty PowerBook G4 500MHz (“Trillian”) in a huge, red vinyl cushioned chair designed in exactly such a way as to preclude actual comfort (probably to as well preclude missed flights), while not being specifically painful to occupy.

A man of dubious ancestry (in that he could be part Arab, or part African, or part Indian, or part Hispanic) with an odd clerical-collared green-brown suit and a basketball-sized paunch accented by the simplicity of the suit front comes and begins setting up his drums. ‘Tis a pity, as I was enjoying the jazz piano in front of Houlihan’s. The arms of the chair are covered with a sort of faux-granite formica, which isn’t very convincing.

My goodness, he’s practically in front of me. Four drums, a fallen drumstick, a five-speaker cabinet, and an electric guitar case. This looks neither pleasant or cultured. And besides, he has a lazy sneer about his lips: I know that sneer from any- and everywhere. And here come the cymbals.

I was lying in the chair. Yes. Hmmm . . .

Above me — and ahead of me if I stare up through it, is a great eye of a skylight. Decagon bifurcating to icosagon bifurcating to whatever a forty-sided polygon is called in a great display of monochromatic stained glass. If I stared at the fog above long enough, I am certain I'd see my future in its swirling slight eddies.

In the grand tradition of Wonka’s square candies that look ‘round, the whole atrium is undecidedly a squircle. The rail-rimmed eye of skydome surrounded by what looks like a floor of grey slate tiles studded with fire-extinguishing circles, inscribed in the vast circumference of a round atrium with pillared and balconied corners. Running in recesses below each rim round and round the room are neon lights of an almost-pink, except for the three lights above the “Terminal South” — these are forebodingly out.

Around me slides the music from Houlihan’s. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him twice now in three days. Mayhap I’ll see him again next time I’m through this way. Mayhap I’ll give him a tip next time. Mayhap he’ll play “Piano Man” for me . . .