I never hang around airport bars so why I dreamed myself into one is anyone’s guess. I was in a small group gathered around the end of one of those horseshoe-shaped counters that stick out into a too brightly lit concourse, this one with an open-sky glass ceiling that was actually a continuous arch with the high walls looking out onto the tarmac. Everything was too white. I don’t know how that exact group had collected or what else we were talking about to pass the time, but a man with a Russian style of speech was more or less across from me and when I mentioned “during the Boston flu epidemic” (there has never been any such thing, as far as I know), he appeared a little baffled. “What is ‘Boston flu’?” “You remember — there was a nasty flu that got going in Boston, everyone there was sick, but of course people travel so it got around the country and it was pretty bad for a while?” “Oh! yes!” he exclaimed, putting the picture together. “I spent the whole time at home, jerking off.”
I don’t make this stuff up. Consciously.