There must have been a hundred of us making our way through the United ticketing counters at the west terminal of Denver International Airport. The parents tried to keep tabs on their kids. Spouses argued. Beyond that none of us really paid attention to each other.

I did notice the profane brashness of a bearded twenty something ahead of me. His attention, in turn, was on a meek and mild twelve year old boy United’s own staff had missed at the ticketing kiosks.

“You trying to check that fucking bag man?” I was unable to tell if his accent hailed from Jersey or the Bronx. “Naw, naw, man. Don’t check that shit. You can carry that on, Dude.”

My eyes finally found the boy he was talking to.

“Take that ticket and your bag and head to TSA.”

“TSA?”

“Shit, dude. Haven’t you ever flown before?”

The boy, overwhelmed, shook his head no.

“TSA. Down this hallway and then down the stairs. Be hundreds of people waiting in line. Can’t miss it. They’ll search your shit, and then you can be on your merry fucking way. You don’t need to check that, all right? You’ll be able to carry it right on, assuming you didn’t pack your Boy Scout pocket knife. You ain’t got one of them boy scout pocket knives in there do you, bub? All right then, off you go.”

Most of us carve out an identity by becoming whatever we feel we are supposed to be. Some inhabit it so fully as to become characters. Some become a caricature. It’s hard to figure out most times which is exactly which.

“Whoah, look at you my man. You must fly alot,” came the uninvited and unwanted voice from the kiosk beside me.

“Just sometimes.”

“Could have fooled me, man. You look like you got your shit together.”

“You should get to know me better,” I replied in an terse effort to create some space.

“I mean you look like you got it together just the right amount, ya know? Nothing I hate more than those sonsabitches got their shit too much together. Makes me nervous, you know what I mean?”

When I walked away he was still talking. And as I made my own way through TSA, standing in stocking feet without a belt to keep my pants up, I thought about the way he had adjusted the conversation. Perhaps he was lonely, I thought. Who in this world isn’t at times?

Perhaps he was nervous. Who isn’t that either? What a better way to slay both than to convince someone else you know something for certain this madhouse that is anything but. I tried to find that boy. I could not.

Later, on the second story of the B concourse, having a cold beer, a sole seat separated me from a fellow patron at the bar. The television was on, and the Yankees were down three runs in the ninth, about to loose to Boston.

“Anyone fucking sitting here?” came a familiar voice. I looked and saw the face of a bearded kid, not very old himself.

“Suppose he made it?” I asked.

“Who?”

“That boy you helped.”

“Oh my God, it’s fucking you. Dude.”

Over the next few minutes the Yanks would load the bases, only to finally succumb to the inevitable. Profanity flowed embarrassingly freely, as the kid I would find to be from Jersey spoke to anyone that would listen. During it all, a twelve year old was boarding his first flight.

God works in mysterious ways.

I said little, but in the end I extended my hand, “What’s your name?”

“Name’s Mike.”

“Good luck, Mike.”

“Thanks, man. You too, you know? We fucking need it. It’s a madhouse out there.”