flying sucks, except for the occasional bacon

It’s early; 4:30 in the warm Hawai’an morning. An hour ago I was thankful the rain stopped. Now I wish it would start again so United might cancel my flight. I like this place. Too much to leave.

Footsteps hit the top of the stairs and the mid-last-century wood creaks with disdain. It didn’t want to get up either. Each step wakes the next without enough warning to anticipate the 200 pound bitch slap. So they all cry foul. Good thing the girls sleep so hard.

“Hey Dad.”

“You ready?”

No, but time clicks on anyway and I like my job. It pays for the booze.

I manage to utter something about “as I’ll ever be,” grab my bags and head for the car. Rain starts again, just light enough to tease me. Mother nature is a cruel mistress with sleeves of tricks and death. You can’t tell me She isn’t having fun exploiting global warming. I dare Her to freeze hell over so I can see my morning bacon get airborne, but nothing. Just the spattering of rain, feeling how I would imagine dove tears do.

It’s still early; now 5:30 in the tourist infested airport. A tour group jams the first bag check, and of course they don’t speak much English. One hundred people, six bags each, the 1.3 children per adult national average and a lot of confusion over which line to stand in first and where to place your belongings. Shit.

I approach the front of the line, present my ticket, get my underwear x-rayed and move on to the next line. Just like the entire tour group equation did before me. Now I’m stuck again, kicking my toiletry tote in the outermost pocket a few feet every time someone decides to invade more personal space. For some reason I start thinking about Pearl Harbor and Ben Affleck. Ugh. I don’t see any kamikazes, but if one of the kids pulls out a toy boat I’m going for cover. The x-ray machine looked sturdy.

Line # 2 takes longer than the first. I think they prep you with the easy one to get your hopes up just for fun. Still, I admire Hawai’i’s effort to ensure I’m not sneaking an apple onto my flight. God forbid I take poison fruit back to the mainland, where it was grown and poisoned in the first place. If there’s an airline lobbyist group, and I’m sure there is, they have something to do with this. I can’t bring my apple on the plane because they can’t extort $5 for a cracker if I did.

I hate waiting in line; like the Dali Lama probably hates China. Can you blame his holiness? He’s only human. I think.

Finally, 7:00, boarding call. Now’s when all the non-English speakers get to try their hand at printed numbers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we appreciate your patience,” sure you do, “and would like to begin boarding with group number one. Will all passengers holding a group one boarding pass please come to the front.”

You’ve never seen so much hustling, bustling and confused hysteria over how to board a plane. How did all these people get here in the first place? I can’t imagine this is their first time, but shit, there’s no other explanation.

“… I’m sorry sir, we’re currently only seating group one.”

Incoherent response.

“No, no. See this number? This here? This has to be a one. See? Like this gentleman’s pass.”

I’m sorry lady, he doesn’t see, and it would go a lot faster if you’d stop being so egomaniacal about the numbers one through three. Let him go and get on with it. For that matter, just let them all go.

“… group three…”

“Good morning Mr. butchered last name, thank you for flying United.”

I’m not thanking me for flying anything; that’s what the fucking pilot is for, and if you aren’t thanking him too then you just don’t give a good God damn about your employer sponsored health insurance enough to deserve it. Thank me when I get off so you can convince another asshole to spend $5 on an ounce of mystery meat.

I startle awake about 8:30, wondering how I found my seat, where I put my bag and whether or not we’ve left the ground. A quick inventory out the window and I’m sure. We most definitely have. Oooh, beverage service.

“Would you like something to drink sir?”

“Apple juice, if you have it.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks,” and she walks off. What the hell? I give your company $700 to take me home and you walk away with my apple juice? Is she forgetful or a bitch? In this situation how the hell am I supposed to know the difference? I’ll go with bitch. At least that way it occupies my time with frustration and small fantasies of telling her off. I have a long flight.

Too bad hell didn’t freeze over. At least then I’d have some bacon up here.

7 January 2008 | uncategorized | Comments