Yield by Bryan K. Johnson

from the man ’ s baggy clothing. He looks like a body slowly withering under a fabric guise. She looks down at the identification, rubbing at the edges and picture to check for any signs of alteration.
    The Arab man sighs loudly. His crooked smile soon fades as he watches the warning signs of discrimination seen all too often during his travels.
    “ 8:35 to Seattle? ” Isabel asks. Her hardening voice makes it sound almost accusing.
    “ Yes, ” Abd answers.
    “ Checking any baggage? ”
    “ No. ”
    Unintentionally, Isabel ’ s hands freeze at the answer. She ’ s entered the same information mindlessly into her keyboard thousands of times before. But this time her fingers pause, frozen over the function keys. A male service representative next to her turns mid-conversation with another passenger to stare back at the Arab man.
    “ Look, ” Abd starts, talking slower to lessen his thick Arabic accent. His black eyes dart back and forth between the two Northwest agents. “ I ’ m not staying the night. I ’ m just going to a ballgame. ” He lifts the front of his jersey up above the counter to show the Mariners logo. “ Please. I ’ ve seen that look many times before. People like you always seem to flag people like me. ”
    Abd ’ s eyes shoot like machine-gun fire into both of their doubting faces. He can ’ t find even a glimmer of understanding in them. “ I just want to go see a baseball game. That ’ s it. ” Yellowed teeth emerge from inside his matted beard, forced into another uncomfortable grin. “ Alright, Miss? ”
    The Arab ’ s smoldering eyes send a shiver down the back of Isabel ’ s neck. She looks quickly down to the computer screen for answers, her mind racing. He ’ s going on my plane …
    Accusations of mistreatment and discrimination flash through her mind. Their threats slowly beat back her own intuition and fears. The safety of her plane, her passengers, and even her unborn child finally take a back seat to the chains of political correctness. Roughly, she stuffs the ticket and receipt into one of the purple Northwest paper folders.
    Isabel forces a smile as she hands the packet to him. “ C terminal, ” she says in her service representative of the year voice. “ Gate 4. ” Her eyes tell a very different story. Good luck making it to my plane.
    “ Thanks, ” Abd says. He tips his head grudgingly to her. An uncomfortable moment ticks by as he waits for the customary return tilt of acknowledgment. The lack of respect pulsing from behind her eyes is infuriating. Ignorant witch. In my country, you ’ d be beaten within an inch of your life for even looking at me. They both stand for an unyielding moment, just staring at one another. A thin veil of civility is the only thing holding back their slashing words.
    “ Run along now, ” Chris blurts out from behind them. The teenager takes a step protectively out from the line. “ I think she ’ s done with you. ”
    Abd spins. Anger fills his shaking hands. “ This doesn ’ t concern you, b ro, ” he barks contemptuously at the towering man.
    “ What ’ d he call you?! ” Darius asks. He pushes out from behind his friend and immediately moves towards the Arab.
    Chris ’ s long, muscular arm shoots out to slow his impulsive teammate. His deep brown eyes never leave Abd ’ s face. “ I ’ m sure he didn ’ t mean anything by it. Right? ”
    Disgusted by the colored stink of diversity in the air, Abd turns and pushes back through the line of people beside him. He moves quickly, his legs bitter with suppressed rage. The Arab storms past surprised travelers and stops at one of the cracked sinks in the restroom. He splashes the water up to his face, squeezing his smoldering eyes shut.
     
    *  *  *
     
    The noise of humanity steadily grows within the busy airport. Conversation and coincidence reverberate all around the cold structure. Lives echo off of brushed metal and tempered glass, their stories bouncing from the