Freewriting Detroit

I am in Detroit, supposed to be in Maine right now, already having landed, already having made the ride in my rental car from Portland to Freeport, already settling into my room. But I am not: the flight from Detroit to Portland was oversold. I was bumped right off, last on the list, never stood a chance. Never even held the promise of an assigned seat. Instead of a rainy drive and stormy coast, I am sitting in the place oh-so-uniquely christened Wings Bar and Grill in a Day's Inn off the highway, a half-eaten feebly limp salad to the left, a much better Cubre Libre to the right (at least there's not much you can do to damage good old Captain Morgan). I am eavesdropping. I can't help it. The dyed-blonde bartender with the dark, almost orange tan and triple Ds pushed right on up to the ceiling with a low-cut hot pink camisole, says wisely to the man at the bar: well if she was able to just leave like that, then she was never a good mother anyway. He is seeking consolation--an ear, a nestle, a little bit of snuggle if he's lucky--that gray-haired man with white socks pulled up mid-calf, running shoes, and t-shirt with a spray-painty beach scene reading Margarita on the back. I can't tell if they have just met or if they have known each other for years. It's the flavor of bar conversation: it wouldn't matter either way. In here is out of time, the conversations are fast and loose, all happening within seconds in this dingy, low-ceilinged room lined with TV screens out on the highway, where you look out the window and see concrete buildings, the view of an industrial park and you remember that you aren't near the beach, but just that close to the airport after all. A few stragglers walk in and out of the bar, stepping cautiously over the brown-swirled carpet, like the middle-aged woman who walks through the doors, blinking a little like she's not quite sure why she's here, but where else will she go, what else is there to eat tonight, because she looks like she was bumped off too and finds herself in that strange, fly-by-the-seat-of-your pants, because you have no choice, night of suspension. So instead of Maine, I'll toast Detroit. Straight to Detroit from the Captain as the Margarita man walks out. After the bartender turns away.