Arnold Schwandogger, the Spy

I belong to a writer’s group at the office that meets once a week. When we don’t have enough material to review for the hour and a half, we often do writing exercises. Below is my last endeavor.

The scene (for all of us) was a small airport in Arkansas socked in by bad weather. It was amazing how many scenarios we came up with for such a simple setting.

Arnold Schwandogger, the Spy

Arnold Schwandogger lifted his myopic eyes from the newspaper he was reading at the scratchy sound of the cheap P.A. coming to life. “What now,” he sighed.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the tinny voice said. “Flight 2195 to LAX has been delayed until tomorrow. We have bad weather between here and Atlanta.

“Jesus H Christ!” Schwandogger threw his paper on the floor and struggled to his feet. He’d sat so long that his short leg refused to work with the built-up, platform shoe. He collapsed back into the low-slung, awkward chair.

“Mommy, look at that ugly man," a young girl stage whispered.

Schwandogger glared at the kid but said nothing. He rose again, his shoulders hunched and his head thrust forward like a turtle. He stumped toward the men’s room. “Nasty little brat," he said, passing the mother. “You need to get your kid under control.”

He pushed into the restroom and checked beneath the stalls for occupants. “Hello?” he called, but no one answered. “Thank, God,” he breathed and moved to block the door.

He then straightened to his full six feet four inches and peeled off the bushy eyebrows. He kicked off the uneven shoes and rinsed the gray from his hair. “That’s better,” he whispered.

Twenty minutes later, he stuck his head out the door and strode forward unnoticed and unrecognized.