Charles 

If it had been any other type of car, I probably wouldn’t have cared. People drive like idiots; it’s just how it is. But a classic Eldorado, I mean, come on, you just can’t drive one of those and be anything but happy. But there he was, cutting me off in a mad rush to get to the airport exit. I did the usual stupid human tricks; middle finger salute, horn blaring, and a general cuss out from behind the relative safety of my windshield.  

Geez. What an idiot.  

The last thing I needed was to be trading paint with some nimrod during rush hour.  

What I needed was to catch a plane and I didn’t have time for this crap. All I could see were the frosted tips of his hair as he forced the nose of that beautiful Cadillac into my path. I’m a fairly nice guy most of the time, but right at that moment, I wanted to squish that guy flat…he’s lucky he was in the Eldorado. 

It’s kind of funny, I had that same Eldorado once; it was my first car. My dad had given it to me when I was learning to drive, and I thought I was king of the friggin’ world driving that sled. The way I saw it, anybody fortunate enough to pilot one of these beauties had to be just about the luckiest folks in the world. I’d smile and wave at everybody when I drove around town, and no matter where I needed to go, I went in style with an easy comfort. It never occurred to me that a person could be in a bad mood if they were wrapped in the luxury of an Eldorado. It’s just how it was.  

Yet there I was, watching with dismay as a frosty tipped idiot pushed past my patience. He returned my single finger salute with a finger of his own, and we both managed to make our way into the crush of the airport without any further violence. I parked my car and followed the other half dead zombies into the terminal to catch my flight. I would fly several times a month as part of my job advising clients with financial issues. It’s mostly boring stuff, but I like it and it pays me well. I’ve gotten used to the routine and I’m at home with the processes of travel. The one thing I’ve never gotten used to, however, is the security line and the absolute loss of intelligence that overtakes the average person as they move through the line. For reasons that escape me, my fellow passengers seem to be suffering from one big brain fart when it comes to emptying pockets or taking off shoes. It’s amazing to watch and painful to endure and on this particular day, the latest contestant in the security line game show was none other than Mister Frosty tips.  

Yep. The idiot had returned.  

I didn’t think he recognized me from the freeway finger exchange, and I used this to my advantage. Here he was, holding up the line with his slow as molasses routine of shoe removal and what seemed like one coin out of the pocket per trip through the metal detector.  

Funny...I remember he was in a big hurry just a few minutes ago.  Idiot.  

After his third trip through the scanner, I had had enough. With as much sarcasm as I could muster at such an early hour, I loudly and fully inquired as to when he thought he might, possibly be, thinking about, getting the eff, out of the way? 

Well. You can guess how that went down. A few choice words over his shoulder towards me, and a couple from me back towards him; with neither of us risking eye contact, a fist fight was avoided, but only by the shared knowledge that such a fight would certainly result in the removal of both our sorry butts from the airport and the actual boarding of our respective planes. And as it had quite suddenly dawned on both of us simultaneously that we might in fact be removed, we quickly put on our get-along pants and parted ways.  

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Coffee in hand I scanned the terminal, amusing myself with a game of guessing what my fellow travelers did with their lives. The women and men, young and old, families and solo’s, all shapes, colors and styles. Harried business people on their way to one deal or the next. College students heading to or from home. Tourists and vacationers off to exotic locations for well-deserved rest and relaxation.  

And one frosty tipped idiot standing in the middle of it all.  

Sure enough, that jerk was going to be on my plane. Unbelievable. It’s a big plane, how bad could it be?  

Try the seat right beside me. I’m not kidding. The Idiot is now my co-pilot. 

I did my best to ignore him, knowing there was simply no purpose in carrying on the earlier BS and yet not able to actually be, you know, human. I busied myself with a crossword puzzle while idiot pretended to sleep. So far so good. Since it was only a three-hour flight, I figured I could play this charade of ignorance for the duration.  

Eight across, clue: Tormentor. Six letters. Fourth letter is a C.  

I’d been pondering this clue for a few minutes when the idiot mumbled,  

“Rascal." 

I could not believe my ears. That jerk had been looking over my shoulder and eying my crossword. 

 Who does that? And now he offers an answer? Not on my watch, sir. Not on my watch.         

 But damn if he wasn’t right. Rascal not only fit, it filled in the blanks for other lines as well. I muttered a listless ‘thank you’ his way and quietly continued my puzzle as I became acutely aware of his presence over my shoulder until I finally surrendered and asked him if he had anymore answers he needed to share.  

“Eldorado,” came his response. 

He knew.  

He knew it was me on the freeway, the security line, all of it.             

He knew.  

My laughter broke whatever tension remained between the two of us and we began to talk as the flight wore on. We talked about cars, we talked about girls. We talked about life and we talked about nothing at all. He told me about how his dad had given him that Eldorado years ago and it was the only car he’d ever owned. I told him about how my dad had given me one, but I had carelessly sold it years prior. I learned his name and he learned mine. By the time the plane touched down, we were friends.  

That flight was twenty-four years ago. Twenty-four years of weddings and funerals, kid’s birthday parties, camping trips and vacations to the lake. He’s held my children and I’ve held his; we’ve shed tears and we’ve laughed so hard we thought we’d pee our pants. We buried pets in our yards and parents in the cemetery. He knew my secrets and my dreams, and I know his.  

I named my son after him. No, not Idiot: Charles.  

I never thought of him as a idiot after that first day. He never gave me any reason to. Charles was my friend in the truest and most sincere way I know of. And today, I drive his old classic Eldorado (I bought it from him years ago) to the airport to catch a flight back home for yet another funereal.  

Today I have to say goodbye, goodbye to my friend.  

Give ’em hell at the security gate, Charles. I’ll see you up there soon.