It’s 5:30 a.m. in West Palm, FL. June 10, 2010. Traffic on I 95 is already moving along at a fast clip. Blocks away from the curbside check in area of Delta Airlines I see a line of would-be travelers. There are 4 lanes and I wait in line three, watch the others move smoothly while I am stuck behind one woman with four suitcases who has mis-placed her confirmation and is insisting on a wheelchair that she swears she ordered in advance. There are new people already increasing the other lines while I stand where I am hoping for a miracle. It doesn’t happen. I begin to worry about the future security tie ups, the distance to gate # 14 that has to be the furthest of all. I get more and more upset as each minute flies off to Never Never Land. Angry, ready to burst, I calm down as a wheel chair appears and the lady disappears.
Fortunately and wisely I came totally prepared. Driver license, Delta’s confirmation notice, tip money, my charge account card for one bag ($25) are all paper clipped together and are resting in my deep pants pocket. Twice I have to show my driver’s license and boarding pass to guards before I even reach the security endless lines. There must be 500 people ahead of me, pushing roll on’s, being counted off and divided into several lanes. I think momentarily of the Jews with their Star of David being sent to the ovens, blink, blink and I almost come back to reality, except I don’t like where I am and wish I were back in 1980.
With my heavy purse over my shoulder, a large cloth bag of magazines, medications, notebooks, I manage to get hold of 4 gray plastic trays, toss my jacket in the first and get it started toward the x-ray machines. In the second tray I drop my shoes. With the next person in line breathing down my neck, I get my over-loaded purse in tray 3, but cannot lift my small travel case that holds my pride and joy computer, necessary wires, a book and odds and ends.
Using my best interpretation of being decrepit, woe-begone, I shrug, meekly ask the nice looking black man with a small gray beard behind me to lift my case onto the conveyer belt for me. With no hesitation he does. His 2 trays move quickly, so quickly I don’t notice he is next to me and has my puter sitting on the floor waiting while I’m just able to tie my shoes. ‘Many thanks.’ ‘Thanks a lot.’ ‘Enjoy your trip’, I call to him.
Gate 6 is miraculously close to me which makes my heavy load bearable. Delta’s waiting area is huge but I don’t see a single empty chair. Inconsiderate, oblivious travelers rest their packages on seats while one entire wall is held up by people resting, sleeping on the floor. An Asian woman has taken ownership of an entire length of a bench by covering it with an extremely bright colored sheet, blanket and pillow. Her young daughter is cozy, comfortable. The mother is oblivious of all those standing. Noticing a husky, balding man, his legs splayed out as if to trip the next person coming near him, I sweetly ask him to put his paper bag on his lap or under his chair so I can sit down. His eyes roll and he sends daggers into my heart, but moves the bag.
The wait to board is endless. Time has taken a holiday. I’m edgy, talk, smile, wave at every passing child who turns her head in my direction.
At last boarding is announced and I stand first in line for early boarding, stand where I am told in the Special line. I wait and wait until am told I am in the wrong place. I’m in First Class ‘Special Passenger Entry’. These people ARE first class.? ‘Please move over and let them thru, burns my ears. Looking straight at me, the ticket taker tells me ‘After the 5 wheel chairs are safely on board, you may follow.’ Making no fuss I wait and have the highlight of my morning. Slobs like these big shots, big wheels, amaze me. Hair uncombed, pants well below the waist display big bellies with underwear clearly non existent. Ragged jeans, perhaps purposely and foolishly worn, should have been tossed long ago. Flip flops flip off. A tall gal, at least 6 feet 3, broad and strong wears khaki short shorts that are cutting her crotch into a larger than normal slit. Her white shirt has something down the front that doesn’t belong there. It is deep red and has dripped from her over-sized boobs to her waist.
At last boarding is announced and I stand first in line for early boarding, stand where I am told in the Special line. I wait and wait until am told I am in the wrong place. I’m in First Class ‘Special Passenger Entry’. These people ARE first class.? ‘Please move over and let them thru, burns my ears. Looking straight at me, the ticket taker tells me ‘After the 5 wheel chairs are safely on board, you may follow.’ Making no fuss I wait and have the highlight of my morning. Slobs like these big shots, big wheels, amaze me. Hair uncombed, pants well below the waist display big bellies with underwear clearly non existent. Ragged jeans, perhaps purposely and foolishly worn, should have been tossed long ago. Flip flops flip off. A tall gal, at least 6 feet 3, broad and strong wears khaki short shorts that are cutting her crotch into a larger than normal slit. Her white shirt has something down the front that doesn’t belong there. It is deep red and has dripped from her over-sized boobs to her waist.
I wonder if she has spilled cherry coke or is lactating blood. Grateful I am, I will not be sitting near her. As the last 1st class passenger disappears , I pull up a mental picture of what has passed me by and realize that I belonged in the first class line and all of the raggedy, unkept group that is wending its way to their slightly wider seats than my group will have suits me fine. The privacy door between the 18 passengers and the 158 is to my advantage.
Aside from crew and the lowly 1st class passengers I am third to board, check out my seat C3 aisle, sit down on a hard, ungiving seat that barely lets my slender, bony rear end fit in. The middle and window seats have a bit more room. Right behind me is a young fellow I had noticed in the waiting area. He had his white MacPod puter open, earphones already dangling around his neck, an almost empty Dunkin’ Donuts paper cup of coffee in one hand. He took a moment to stuff a decent sized piece of a previously large blue berry muffin into his mouth, brush off his fingers and start typing. He had no carry on luggage. Nada. He faced the 5 ½ hour flight totally involved with his pod. I liked him. He asked me if I needed help getting my luggage in the overhead and didn’t wait for an answer. Up and in it went, fitting perfectly, right above my lowly, tiny seat. Almost silently he whispered he would get it for me when we land.
I sit in my minuscule seat, bitching aloud that I never saw a plane seat without 2 arm rests until then. Is the person who will sit next to me going to hold my hand? Should I call the stewardess and bitch? No, she wouldn’t be able to get thru the 185 passengers less one as I already had my 12 inches of space. The couple next to me appeared. Nice looking, talking to each other until I butt in and mentioned my not having a right arm rest. The pretty and warm woman who would sit next to me smiled and in an instant pulled an arm rest down that I hadn’t noticed. I was terribly embarrassed but we all three made light of my stupidity. There are wiser, more trained people than I but the head of Delta isn’t one of them. Delta has no plan, no sense, no control of how passengers should board. Just get on when you are pushed to move it and find your seat. Ho ho ho. Chaos rocks the plane. We lose a miserable hour of delay as the aisle is constantly blocked by overheads being filled. I begin mentally typing a letter to the President of Delta to suggest he fly South West where passengers board according to seat number. When those people are organized, seated, another large group comes on. The aisle is free and movement is easy. I will do that when I am home safely and a bit calmer but still smarter than Mr. Wickfield, Exec. President is.
Across the aisle from me the window seat is taken and finally the center and aisle people sit down. The handsome man on the aisle seat has an odd hair cut that reminds me of a mohair only it is extra long and stands up like the petrified trees of Arizona. He rings for a stewardess, who I see battling her way thru the disgruntled trying to reach their seats. She gets to him and asks Mr. Indian Chief what the problem is. I don’t hear his reply but see him show her his confir- mation slip. Then she looks across at me and asks for my seat assignment and I show it to her C23. ‘Madam, you are in D23. You are on the wrong side of the plane.’ I inhale deeply and ask how that can be. ‘I looked very carefully and was sure I was correct.’ ‘Madam,’ she replies, ‘You have to move over here.’ I am abashed, want to crawl in a hole, but feel Mr. Mohawk touch my arm to tell me he is perfectly fine where he is and I can stay in my seat, leave my stuff under it and enjoy the flight.’ My thanks are pay enough for him. Somewhere during the hours of discomfort on that flight a crazy thought comes to me. If we crash and I am killed, my family will wonder why my body was in a man’s seat. No matter how many irritations I have had so far today, my scale of justice, good luck is heavy and to my good.
I try to re-set my small watch to LA time and break a finger nail into a jagged mess. My file is in my luggage and won’t be seen again until I unpack at my destination-----if it reaches there. With whatever mind eclat I still have, I can’t figure out how to use the t.v. screen on the back of the seat in front of me. Other hands around me touch it and all sorts of things appear. I touch it and quickly realize I don’t want to watch pay for old movies that I didn’t want to see when they were new movies. I don’t want to order anything listed for lunch as my little cheese sandwich is ready for me when I am ready for it. To the devil with this semi-new technology. With no fingers willing to move the menu elsewhere, the screen goes black and stays that way while I write this story, work some puzzles, read about Carol Burnette’s life and talk and talk to the young couple beside me. My mouth has found wonderful ears. If they want me to shut up, they have been most discreet, and let me tell them tale after tale for 3 hours. I never tire. They never fall asleep. Chalk another one up for me, I tell me.
Although it is a sunny, clear day and we are 35000 feet above the earth, 95% of the plane is dark. 100% of us, including staff, have been at the airport since 5 a.m. My guesstament is 15% of us is still alert. I have not heard one mother say, ‘Hush, Tootie Pie,’ to a crying babe. The tots must have a code. One screams, wails at a time and when it runs out of wailing juice, another let’s go. It is a welcome phenomena.
My eyes are weary from too much people watching. My pen, one of 5 I brought along, is running dry, but I can’t recall in which bag the other 4 are. The stewardess passing me has a bag for trash and I have only my one pen to discard. As I stop her for a second I honestly thank her for her for her constant happy smile, the interest I have noted she has given every passenger who rings her bell. While I am still in the beautiful blue sky with white candy clouds far below me, I make a wish that the time machine will accept my quarter and let me go back to the world I knew and loved. ‘Come fly with me, fly back to 1980. Get your best suit pressed. Be sure to wear a handsome silk tie and shine your shoes. I’m flying to London wearing my black wool dress, suede wedgie shoes, black nylon panty hose and a brimmed felt black hat with a white silk gardenia on the band. I’ll also have the new black leather short kid gloves you gave me and will casually sling my mink stole over my shoulder as if it were golden sunshine. Pan Am has us in wide leather seats, 23 A and B. There is lots of leg room and the seats tilt way back. You can probably snooze all the way to Heath Row Airport. I’m suggesting you not bother bringing anything to eat. Lunch is going to be hot, tasty and free. Are you in?’ Pete looks dazed, isn’t sure what he wants to do‘ Just be careful. You will not remember 1980 once I leave you. If you decide to stay in 2010, 2012 will be upon you soon.
There will be an Apocolypse and you will have nothing, no memory, no place to hang your gray fedora. ‘
There will be an Apocolypse and you will have nothing, no memory, no place to hang your gray fedora. ‘
Slowly Pete raises his arm and waves to me.
Whoosh! Whoosh! I am gone.
‘Come fly with me, Pete, fly back to 1980. Get your best suit pressed. Be sure to wear a handsome silk tie and shine your shoes. I’m flying to London wearing my black wool dress, suede wedgie shoes, black nylon panty hose and a brimmed felt black hat with a red silk gardenia on the band. I’ll also have the new black leather short kid gloves you gave me and will casually sling my mink stole over my shoulder as if it were golden sunshine. Pan Am has us in wide leather seats, 23 A and B. There is lots of leg room and the seats tilt way back. You can probably snooze all the way to Heath Row Airport. I’m suggesting you not bother bringing anything to eat. Lunch is going to be hot, tasty and free.
Are you in?’
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