Tray Tables Locked
Come on. Who misses flights?
But we’re still a long way from the airport.
This isn’t some Sandra Bullock romcom featuring the delightful British actor Hugh Grant. It’s real life. And I’ve never been so late for a flight. It was supposed to be a simple 23-minute Uber ride. How have I been sitting in this slow-moving Buick for over an hour?
My driver has a hard-to-identify accent which accompanies his mysterious odor. I have many questions. Why does it smell like cabbage in his car? How does he have so many vowels in his name? And why won’t he just follow his maps? Nobody is smarter than technology, sir. Nobody!
Ok, just breathe.
Miracles happen every day, right? Paris Hilton has a career…the Kardashians are billionaires…and Herchel Walker impresses actual human beings with his brainpower.
I can make this flight.
The driver with 6 vowels in his first name speaks calmly into his iPhone. Not a care in the world. Does he know how close we’re cutting this? Also, what language is he speaking? It sounds totally made up. How do I know there’s even a person on the other end of that phone line? Maybe this is a movie. A Halloween thriller about being trapped with a slow-moving, cabbage-hoarding lunatic.
Beads of sweat are marching down my forehead.
I decide to initiate conversation…
“Maybe just follow the map? That’s probably the fastest way, right?”
He glares back at me coldly in the rearview mirror without saying a word.
The silence is deafening.
I scroll through ESPN scores as if I’m not trapped in a deathmobile at 3 miles per hour. This is fine. I’ll just ignore the fact that my left leg is starting to twitch. Who needs body control anyway?
Miraculously, the deathmobile begins moving at a normal rate of speed. Then much faster. The Man With Too Many Vowels In His Name has found a hidden reservoir of motivation. We race through town. All of his terrible shortcuts are now working. He’s actually a hell of a driver. It’s as if a switch got flipped – moving him from comatose to caffeinated.
We arrive at the airport. I thank him profusely and he stares at me like I just called his mother a prostitute. Alright, time to go. I hustle over to the Clear security area. They scan my eyeballs and escort me to the front of a very long line. People stare angrily as if they’re all related to The Man With Too Many Vowels In His Name.
I have 9 minutes to make it to the gate. Nothing can stop me now.
(Right then, security stops me)
They need to look through my bag. Either because of liquids or because I’m a hairy brown man with sweat pouring down his face. Not sure which. They run a quick test on my saline and I’m free to go. I now have 3 minutes to make it the gate.
I run as fast as these hairy legs will move.
I can still make this flight.
Luckily, it’s Southwest Airlines. I arrive to find the usual clusterfuck of humanity. Two overflowing lines of confused people trying to figure out where to stand. I’m covered in sweat. So I squeeze in between all of the other flustered, sweaty people. Just in time to board our Greyhound bus through the sky.
This is quite a group. Even the flight attendants look like characters straight out of The Grapes Of Wrath.
Hungry.
Tired.
Covered in dust.
I stumble to my seat in the back of the bus plane. It’s quite possible the two other people in my row have never been spotted outside of a DMV. One of them is a tall lady wearing the most makeup I’ve ever seen on a face. It looks almost like Ronald McDonald is sitting in that window seat. She’s just staring at the tray table in front of her. Completely still.
No reading.
No music.
Just staring.
Who’s in the middle seat? An elderly gentleman wearing multiple sweaters. At least 3 of them. All underneath his extra-thick winter coat. Do I understand avoiding checked bags? Absolutely. But this guy is a human walk-in closet. He’s overflowing out of his seat area. And why on earth would he choose a middle seat? He’s clearly not with Ronald McDonald over there.
Has anyone in the history of Southwest Airlines made the choices that this old dude is making?
Ok, let’s not assume. Maybe he isn’t aware that he can sit wherever he wants. So, I decide to let him know. He’s roughly the size of Texas right now and could use some extra space.
“Would you like to take the aisle seat, sir? It’s yours if you want it.”
He smiles and nods. And thus begins the lengthy process of watching someone try to roll out of a middle seat cocoon. I debate whether I should give him a hand. Or maybe a push. Eventually, I realize the choice is clear…
Do not touch anyone on this plane.
As I finally settle into my seat between Grimace and Ronald McDonald, I realize something. There’s no way I’ll be able to use the bathroom on this flight. It might take hours or a crane to move him again. Could be wise not to order any drinks. I mentally pat myself on the back for helping out a man buried under 42 layers of clothing. But, wow, it’s a tight squeeze. I decide to request a small bit of comfort…
“Just lemme use the armrest please.”
Grimace nods and smiles.
(And then immediately takes over the armrest for the duration of the flight)
Yup, travel is definitely back.
