There is a certain romantic fascination with airports. Bodies intertwined in a cocooned embrace move across the concourse with syncopated precision, parting ways when the dance finishes and one’s flight departs. Lives that touch for a brief moment in time, the lingered memories are not easily forgotten. Some scorned passengers vow never to return while others look forward to a reunion when their paths intersect with one another again.

If I had to fly on a regular basis, my feelings might be different. The alluring curiosity of airports would be demoted and become no more than a means to an end.

The last time I flew, a police officer pulled me aside to perform a thorough search of my belongings. In a post September 11th world, the additional security measures were expected, though it was surprising to be singled out as a potential terrorist. I asked about it and was told that using a one way ticket without checking any luggage were red flags. My boarding ticket had been marked with a special code that alerted officers of the suspicions. At least he didn’t expand his investigation to include a full cavity search. It would have made for an uncomfortable plane ride home. On the other hand, maybe he could have checked my prostate at the same time. Two birds, one finger.

The larger airports with international destinations are the ones where watching people hurry about are often the most enjoyable. Every traveller has a story, a reason for the expression on his face and motivation behind his interactions with others. It sometimes feels like cloud watching; creating a narrative from a third party perspective. Regardless whether my assumptions are accurate, it’s a great way to pass the time between flights on an extended layover. When space travel becomes available to more than just the mega wealthy, I imagine the perceived stories will become even more entertaining.

In between flights, I sat at the Atlanta International Airport watching passengers scramble between airline gates. Each in their own world, they remained unaware of my silent observations. In the middle of the concourse, a woman was engaged in an upsetting conversation on her cellphone while her ten year old daughter meandered into a crowd of strangers. Whoever she was on the phone with appeared to be a higher priority than safeguarding her child.

Upset by her ignorance, I said to no one in particular, “Cellphones are going to be the end of us.”

“I betcha she’s the type that blames all of her problems on someone else,” replied the man sitting next to me. “God forbid her kid gets snatched, she’ll tell the cops she was watching her the entire time and has no idea how someone took her.”

“Everyone is in a rush to go somewhere.”

“And yet most people haven’t got a clue where they’re headed.”

I turned and nodded with agreement. Although he was considerably older than I, we were dressed similar. He wore khaki colored pants compared to my cargo shorts which were the same color. Our polo shirts, both white, were also an identical style. Although each of us had white beards, his was short cropped and well manicured; mine was bushy and hung six inches off my chin. Too lazy to cut my beard with scissors, I gave up maintaining it when my electric trimmer broke.

“Did you raid my bedroom closet this morning when you got dressed?” I asked.

He pushed back with an equal amount of sarcasm.

“Well, I knew we’d be sitting together and thought it best to be color coordinated. You really should have trimmed that beard.”

“Who am I trying to impress? Besides, six more months and it’ll be a Santa Claus beard.”

The man leaned over and whispered, “You aren’t really Santa Claus, are you?”

“What if I am?”

“Then I’d bribe you to make sure I didn’t get coal in my stocking.”

“Wouldn’t bribery be an offense worthy of coal?” I asked.

“I never thought of it that way.”

Hoping to avoid any confusion between me and jolly Saint Nick, I extended a hand and introduced myself. Much like God, Santa Claus had a way of hearing everything, so I didn’t want to be the one that wound up with coal for suggesting to be someone I wasn’t. For all I knew, they both were the same person. No different from Clark Kent and Superman, God and Santa were never seen in the same place at the same time.

“Nice to meet you,” my new friend said as he shook my hand. “My name is Jesus. Jesus Christ.”

“THE Jesus Christ?” I asked.

“I know I haven’t aged well, but do you really think I’m over two thousand years old?”

Regardless whether he was the actual Jesus or just some guy with the same name, I was uncertain how best to respond. Part of me thought I should kneel down and confess my sins. The other part wanted to ask him for identification.

“If that really is your name, you must have gotten picked on growing up.”

“Middle school was pure hell. Every kid that passed me in the hall used to punch me. I guess they thought it was funny to beat up Jesus.”

I couldn’t help but chuckle at the characterization. When I noticed the offended look on his face, I felt like a heathen, no better than the classmates he grew up with. I apologized, then quickly changed the subject.

“So where are you flying off to today?”

“I’m returning home to Bethlehem. I haven’t been there in awhile. It’ll be nice to visit the old stomping ground.”

“In Palestine?” I asked, dumbfounded by the location.

Jesus sighed with impatience and shook his head from side to side, retrieving his wallet as he did so. He flipped it open to reveal his driver’s license and pointed to it.

“Bethlehem, Pennsylvania,” he explained.

“Oh, that makes more sense.” I glanced at the wallet and noticed the name printed on his license. He was exactly who he said he was; Jesus Christ. As I averted my eyes to the concourse, I asked, “How many gods does it take to screw in a light bulb?”

“Y’know, I’ve heard every joke about my name and, at this point in my life, they’ve all stopped being funny.”

“So much for suggesting we set up a duty free liquor store. With that water to wine trick, we’d make a killing.”

Before Jesus responded, I received a text message from the airline updating the departure information for my flight. The plane would soon be boarding. We shook hands and parted ways.

A few minutes later, a burly, clean shaven police officer leaned in Jesus’ direction and said, “I couldn’t help but overhear your conversation. Can you tell me how many gods are needed to screw in a light bulb?”

Incensed by another wannabe jokester, Jesus closed his eyes and sighed. He regretted sharing his name and wondered how many eavesdroppers were waiting to offer failed attempts at humor.

“None,” he replied. “There’s no need for light bulbs because I am God. I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness.”

“I thought that was you!” the officer said with enthusiasm. “It’s me, Nick. Nicholas Claus. You granted me sainthood a long time ago.”

A wave of recognition flooded the face of Jesus. He stood and hugged his friend from the past.

“I’m sorry, Nicholas. I didn’t recognize you without your beard.”

“You know how it is. Gotta be incognito during the offseason to stay off the radar. Otherwise, every kid will want to sit on my lap. The way the world is these days, if that happens too often, I’ll get arrested. Then Christmas will be cancelled.”