Our trip to New York got off to a rocky start, with me laying on the carpet at gate A19 in Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport, clutching my abdomen, writhing and moaning in hopes of exorcising sharp spasms that had incapacitated me completely.

I’ll back up just a bit to how I got there. After baggage check-in and passing through security, we were standing in line at the mini-Paschal’s in the A-terminal food court. An announcement from the Department of Homeland Security echoed through the P.A. system, warning us that the terrorist threat level had been escalated to orange. Amber and I laughed, and we played out paraphrased lines from a David Cross bit.

“The terrorist threat level is orange. Should I be afraid?”

“Yes!”

“Well, what should I do?”

“Just obey.”

Laughing Department of Homeland Security threat levels off is a helpful defense mechanism, for me anyway. I didn’t feel any panic, but I also couldn’t help but follow a train of thought about who I would call and what I would say to them if our plane to New York was hijacked. I determined I’d call my parents’ house, tell them I loved them, and not to fear the people who hijacked the plane because they’re weak-minded cowards. I didn’t really know this about the theoretical hijackers, but that sounded like a good thing to say nonetheless.

I wonder if I’m deranged.

As we were packing the last of our clothes for our move last weekend, I encountered the only suit I own and a couple of sport coats. They had dust on the shoulders, making them unwearable even in a pinch. With my grandmother in the hospital, catatonic for days after falling in my parents’ driveway, it occured to me then that I would need to get my suit dry-cleaned at the soonest opportune moment in case she kicked off.

Before you say that sounds a little monstrous, I’ll defend myself by saying she’s been in pain for a long time, that her quality of life is practically untenable, and that we suspect it would be a relief to her to move on.

Amber had rotisserie chicken, and I fried chicken. Both were excellent. It was a bright idea to place Paschal’s in the airport, as the food is top notch and their presence might even lead to a discussion of the city’s civil rights history.

We finished and were walking up the A1-A18 side of the terminal, away from our gate toward the Starbucks for some lattes. Sometimes my Cobb County upbringing kicks in and I feel like a pussy ordering a sugar-free, fat-free, no-whip Cinnamon Dolce Latte. But I also know my insecurity about my effete drink would only be magnified if I voiced my concerns out loud. A guy with a popped collar once did this at a Starbucks near Emory, and we mocked him for it mercilessly. So, I’ve made my peace with it.

As we were standing there waiting for our drinks, I felt a twinge of pain in my mid-section. I thought (or maybe just hoped) it would pass. As we walked back toward the terminal, it got progressively worse. I was carrying my laptop in a bag, and found myself having trouble keeping up with Amber, whose legs are much shorter than mine.

We finally got to the gate, but there weren’t any places to sit. I needed to sit, as the pain was getting worse. A few moments passed, and a seat finally opened up near the window.

Then the spasm hit like a cannonball with tacks welded to it.

I tried to hunch over, to sit up straight, to lift my arms over my head, but nothing helped. Amber held me gently and tried to console me. I said, “I love you, but please get off.” I was hypersensitive to all stimuli, and none of that sensitivity could be harnassed for good. I started to groan.

“I can’t get on the plane like this,” I said.

“Is there anything I can do?” Amber asked.

“I need medical attention.”

It wasn’t long before I’d slumped to the floor and was rolling around, wailing like a mangy dog being sodomized by a rhinocerous. This should have been completely mortifying, but by then keeping up appearances didn’t really occur to me.

Amber talked to the gentleman calling out ticket zones that were eligible to board the plane. He walked up to me, saw me writhing, said the paramedics were on their way, and asked for my last name. Then he asked where the pain was, as I clutched my stomach. Fucking toolbox, use your goddamn eyes and ask Amber the rest of this shit.

By then the sweat was pouring out of me, and I could feel the whole gate staring at me, wondering whether looking or looking away is the more polite response. This carried on for a few more minutes, until the pain vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

I laid there until the medic arrived. He asked me who the President of the United States was, and I said, “I don’t like that guy.”

He laughed, then said, “Really, what’s his name?”

“George W. Bush.”

He pointed to Amber and asked “Who’s that?”

“Amber.”

It’s just necessary to make sure someone is coherent before they can choose not to be taken to the hospital, he said. We chatted for a little while as I signed the release paper. He ran track in college. My episode cut off the start of the Master’s. Somehow, those topics were all relevant at the time.