it is her job

It is her job, she tells herself. She wears a buckskin vest (faux buckskin, of course) and a white cowboy hat tipped back, way back, showing off her silver bangs. She stands in front of the escalator for six hours, Tuesday through Saturday, give or take a minute or two, depending, usually, on how long she spends in the bathroom, hiding, mostly, from the reflections she sees of herself in the windows and mirrors that show her just what has become of her dignity. It is a job, she tells herself, though it is not much of one. “Where’s Gate 16?” “Is there a bathroom, nearby?” “Baggage claim? Which way?” She was once a teacher or a seamstress or a sales clerk in a downtown boutique and then she retired. Now she answers questions posed by mostly overweight tourists in jeans and t-shirts and Nikes and baseball caps and, yes, faux buckskin vests. It seems like a job, she tells herself, even though most of the passing idiots could, if they had a shred of intelligence or gumption or initiative, answer all the questions she answers just by looking at the goddamn signs. It is her only job, she tells herself, and thinks, again, now, almost longingly, about going home and putting up her feet and watching the daytime version of “Deal or No Deal,” like she used to before the market crashed her 401K and Bernie Whatshisname got outed. She does love that Howie Mandel. Always did.