I got to the terminal a little early, so I bought the latest copy of National Geographic Adventure and sat down. It's really a great little magazine. I'm going to buy the 2-year, $15 subscription when I get a chance. It awakens that inner, manly side of you, making you think you can climb an open face mountain and survive on roaches and ant larvae should you get lost on the way back to the lean-to you constructed out of salmon carcasses near the bottow of the mountain.
I had just settled into a cockpit with a pilot named "Steve," as he took me through a near fatal thunderstorm over Wisconsin's Door peninsuala. We had lost all radio contact and Steve was preparing to make an emergency landing when I heard a voice.
"You going to carry that?"
I knew it had to be God, scolding me for all my pack rat tendencies over the years. But I was a liitle aghast. I was 500 feet from a lake of concrete, being tossed like a streamer through the wind, and God was judging me for saving a few extra, worthless baseball cards. Nevertheless, I was at the "dealing point." You know, that imaginary time in a stressful, life-threatening situation where you are willing to make a deal with God. I think it's ammusing that we do such things. Like God really cares about the mildew-stained dolls we promise to throw away if he gets us out of a bind. I think he's got more important things on his agenda. But I was there. I was ready to say so long to that 1994 Topps Cal Eldred Brewers card if God would somehow crawl into Steve's balding head and give him an idea of how to land the 3,000 lb sardine can I was stuck in.
But then I realized: Steve was a good writer. He had drawn me into the story. I was a mute of sorts--I couldn't tell the time. For a moment, I didn't know who was around me or what was going on. That is until I looked up and located the divine voice.
He was anything but a deity.
I glanced up and knew it was trouble. In front of me was an image that would send any airline passenger running back to the ticket counter, haggling with the attendent like a Chinatown tourist in an attempt to change his seat. He was overweight, but not fat. He had a tall, skinny frame. I figured he must have been a taste tester for Miller because his shirt struggled to cover the sunken beach ball that was his stomach. He had an old pair of New Balance running shoes that never once were asked to beat the pavement faster than 3 miles an hour. He only took time to shave his face so as to clear a runway for the fermented beverage he would frequently allow to wet his lips and skid down his throat. He was a 40 year old man who thought he was a 21 year old, 80's rocker, as evidenced by they shoulder-length mullet he wore like a crown of glory. He was clearly intoxicated.
"Umm....ya." I realized now who he was talking to.
Next to the man was a fairly attractive, middle-aged woman. She had a short black skirt on that hugged her waist like a two year old leaving for his firt day of daycare. The matching black suit coat wrapped around her shoulders and torsoe like an annaconda. However, it was by no means distasteful or an attempt to suck roving eyes into her vacinity. She was modest and appeared slightly shy yet confident. Her oral response was accompanied by a you're-creepy-I-don't-know-what-to-do smile.
"Oh, cause I always just carry my bags on."
At this point, his eyes weren't wandering, they were sprinting. Up and down her body they ran, two scouts looking for any signs of life. She was becoming uncomfortable.
"Mmmhhmm." She reached out her left toe and inched her bag closer to her other foot like a young toddler testing the water with his pudgy appendages before entering the lake.
As I sat there smiling in disbelief, contemplating if I was going to walk over and pretend she was my girlfriend to rescue her, an attendant come over the garbled PA system and announced that our plane would be slightly delayed due to its international arrival from Costa Rica.
"Oh God! Can you watch my stuff?" He swayed like a willow as he made his request.
"Ahhh, sure," she responded hesitantly, as the recording came over the speaker asking that no one ablige those who ask you to watch their stuff. At that moment, I knew what was about to happen would not be pleasant.
See, "Mullet Mike" (as I playfully named him) was too busy concentrating on "Single Stacey's" anatomy, that he failed to actually listen to the attendant's announcement. He become upset when he saw our flight status change from "on time" to "delayed" and would have none of that. The new ringleader of the circus terminal (french accent added) marched right up to the counter and demanded to know why our flight was delayed. He was going to be the one who saved Stacey from those mean airline execs who try and stick it to the customers. The "man" was not going to sabatoge his plans for the night.
It was classic. The type of thing you only see in a Chevy Chase movie. He began to raise his voice, demanding the stalky man behind the counter tell him why the plane was going to be late. The attendant scanned the waiting area, looking for confirmation that he wasn't crazy. His eyes caught his fellow empolyee, widened, and begged the question, "Didn't I just make an announcment 30 seconds ago letting everyone know what was going on?" His partner confirmed his suspiscion.
Like I'm sure he's rehearsed a million times, he looked Mike straight in the eyes, lifted the microphone to his mouth, pushed the button gently with his thumb until it clicked and cockily said, "Let me just remind all passengers in the gate area that flight 449 to Denver will only be late by approximately 10 minutes. Your plane is arriving internationally from Costa Rica, so we need to take extra security measures. This is standard procedure. Also, I want to remind you that you WILL make this time up in the air and arrive in Denver on time or earlier than your scheduled touch down time. Thank you."
He placed the microphone back in its holster and thanked Mike for his concern. I looked around and saw a smirk on the faces of 449's passengers. Like me, they too had seen Mike trying to play it smooth with Stacey, finding it humerous when his velvet attempts were turned to sandpaper by a mere gate attendant who probably drove a '92 Honda Accord and was working his way through college.
Mikey sheepishly made his way back to Stacey and got his bag. For some reason, I was pleased. It was like watching that guy in the gym, the one who always stares at his own chest for hours on end, drop the 55 lb. dumbell on his leg--you cringe and smile at the same time. However, I didn't so much cringe as I did smile. But that only lasted for about 10 more minutes.
I hate the smell of alcohol breath, and God has a sense of humor. Why? Because wouldn't you guess who was seated in chair 23B, right next to me, on flight 449 to Denver--Mullet Mike. All 225 lbs. of his mullet, gut busting, alcoholic self. Never pray for patience--you just might be put in a position to have to get some. He wouldn't shut up. Every time we hit turbulence, or he felt like the flight was taking too long, he had to make a comment that usually included a four letter word.
"Oh, shit!" he would yell. "When the fuck are we going to land?"
I put my headphones on, even though my i-pod was dead. No way was I going to let him invade my space.
We landed and Mike stumbled down the terminal and into the future. Stacey followed, but at a distance. Finally, relief. I actually felt a little drunk just sitting by Mike--the alcohol seeped from his mouth and pores and must have staged an all out invasion on my epidurmus. As I passed by the other passengers waiting to board their flights and see their girlfriends, mothers, business partners, and friends, I could not help but think about Mike.
What a guy, I thought. If he wasn't drunk, I would have talked to him. In fact, Stacey might have too. Maybe she wouldn't have given him what he wanted, but it would have been more than he got. Ironic...I think so.
I had just settled into a cockpit with a pilot named "Steve," as he took me through a near fatal thunderstorm over Wisconsin's Door peninsuala. We had lost all radio contact and Steve was preparing to make an emergency landing when I heard a voice.
"You going to carry that?"
I knew it had to be God, scolding me for all my pack rat tendencies over the years. But I was a liitle aghast. I was 500 feet from a lake of concrete, being tossed like a streamer through the wind, and God was judging me for saving a few extra, worthless baseball cards. Nevertheless, I was at the "dealing point." You know, that imaginary time in a stressful, life-threatening situation where you are willing to make a deal with God. I think it's ammusing that we do such things. Like God really cares about the mildew-stained dolls we promise to throw away if he gets us out of a bind. I think he's got more important things on his agenda. But I was there. I was ready to say so long to that 1994 Topps Cal Eldred Brewers card if God would somehow crawl into Steve's balding head and give him an idea of how to land the 3,000 lb sardine can I was stuck in.
But then I realized: Steve was a good writer. He had drawn me into the story. I was a mute of sorts--I couldn't tell the time. For a moment, I didn't know who was around me or what was going on. That is until I looked up and located the divine voice.
He was anything but a deity.
I glanced up and knew it was trouble. In front of me was an image that would send any airline passenger running back to the ticket counter, haggling with the attendent like a Chinatown tourist in an attempt to change his seat. He was overweight, but not fat. He had a tall, skinny frame. I figured he must have been a taste tester for Miller because his shirt struggled to cover the sunken beach ball that was his stomach. He had an old pair of New Balance running shoes that never once were asked to beat the pavement faster than 3 miles an hour. He only took time to shave his face so as to clear a runway for the fermented beverage he would frequently allow to wet his lips and skid down his throat. He was a 40 year old man who thought he was a 21 year old, 80's rocker, as evidenced by they shoulder-length mullet he wore like a crown of glory. He was clearly intoxicated.
"Umm....ya." I realized now who he was talking to.
Next to the man was a fairly attractive, middle-aged woman. She had a short black skirt on that hugged her waist like a two year old leaving for his firt day of daycare. The matching black suit coat wrapped around her shoulders and torsoe like an annaconda. However, it was by no means distasteful or an attempt to suck roving eyes into her vacinity. She was modest and appeared slightly shy yet confident. Her oral response was accompanied by a you're-creepy-I-don't-know-what-to-do smile.
"Oh, cause I always just carry my bags on."
At this point, his eyes weren't wandering, they were sprinting. Up and down her body they ran, two scouts looking for any signs of life. She was becoming uncomfortable.
"Mmmhhmm." She reached out her left toe and inched her bag closer to her other foot like a young toddler testing the water with his pudgy appendages before entering the lake.
As I sat there smiling in disbelief, contemplating if I was going to walk over and pretend she was my girlfriend to rescue her, an attendant come over the garbled PA system and announced that our plane would be slightly delayed due to its international arrival from Costa Rica.
"Oh God! Can you watch my stuff?" He swayed like a willow as he made his request.
"Ahhh, sure," she responded hesitantly, as the recording came over the speaker asking that no one ablige those who ask you to watch their stuff. At that moment, I knew what was about to happen would not be pleasant.
See, "Mullet Mike" (as I playfully named him) was too busy concentrating on "Single Stacey's" anatomy, that he failed to actually listen to the attendant's announcement. He become upset when he saw our flight status change from "on time" to "delayed" and would have none of that. The new ringleader of the circus terminal (french accent added) marched right up to the counter and demanded to know why our flight was delayed. He was going to be the one who saved Stacey from those mean airline execs who try and stick it to the customers. The "man" was not going to sabatoge his plans for the night.
It was classic. The type of thing you only see in a Chevy Chase movie. He began to raise his voice, demanding the stalky man behind the counter tell him why the plane was going to be late. The attendant scanned the waiting area, looking for confirmation that he wasn't crazy. His eyes caught his fellow empolyee, widened, and begged the question, "Didn't I just make an announcment 30 seconds ago letting everyone know what was going on?" His partner confirmed his suspiscion.
Like I'm sure he's rehearsed a million times, he looked Mike straight in the eyes, lifted the microphone to his mouth, pushed the button gently with his thumb until it clicked and cockily said, "Let me just remind all passengers in the gate area that flight 449 to Denver will only be late by approximately 10 minutes. Your plane is arriving internationally from Costa Rica, so we need to take extra security measures. This is standard procedure. Also, I want to remind you that you WILL make this time up in the air and arrive in Denver on time or earlier than your scheduled touch down time. Thank you."
He placed the microphone back in its holster and thanked Mike for his concern. I looked around and saw a smirk on the faces of 449's passengers. Like me, they too had seen Mike trying to play it smooth with Stacey, finding it humerous when his velvet attempts were turned to sandpaper by a mere gate attendant who probably drove a '92 Honda Accord and was working his way through college.
Mikey sheepishly made his way back to Stacey and got his bag. For some reason, I was pleased. It was like watching that guy in the gym, the one who always stares at his own chest for hours on end, drop the 55 lb. dumbell on his leg--you cringe and smile at the same time. However, I didn't so much cringe as I did smile. But that only lasted for about 10 more minutes.
I hate the smell of alcohol breath, and God has a sense of humor. Why? Because wouldn't you guess who was seated in chair 23B, right next to me, on flight 449 to Denver--Mullet Mike. All 225 lbs. of his mullet, gut busting, alcoholic self. Never pray for patience--you just might be put in a position to have to get some. He wouldn't shut up. Every time we hit turbulence, or he felt like the flight was taking too long, he had to make a comment that usually included a four letter word.
"Oh, shit!" he would yell. "When the fuck are we going to land?"
I put my headphones on, even though my i-pod was dead. No way was I going to let him invade my space.
We landed and Mike stumbled down the terminal and into the future. Stacey followed, but at a distance. Finally, relief. I actually felt a little drunk just sitting by Mike--the alcohol seeped from his mouth and pores and must have staged an all out invasion on my epidurmus. As I passed by the other passengers waiting to board their flights and see their girlfriends, mothers, business partners, and friends, I could not help but think about Mike.
What a guy, I thought. If he wasn't drunk, I would have talked to him. In fact, Stacey might have too. Maybe she wouldn't have given him what he wanted, but it would have been more than he got. Ironic...I think so.
2 comments:
"The matching black suit coat wrapped around her shoulders and torsoe like an annaconda." : )
This is Hope, reading your blog and enjoying it.Thanks!
www.hopeanne.blogspot.com
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