Don’t sit next to me!

You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s Crazy!

Flying on an American Jet-liner. That is crazy!

Compared to the cab ride from hell, the airport arrival is a piece of cake.

Baggage check in? Nothing but smiles and quick moving line. The only concern would have been are the bags too heavy? Since I stood on the scale the night before holding each bag, we knew that was not going to be a problem.

Security was also relatively uneventful. There was only one issue when the TSA man stopped to examine my documents. He looked at them like it was a copy of the DaVinci Code. The problem; The name on my license doesn’t precisely match the name on my boarding pass. Something about needing to include middle names on airline documents now. After a few heart pounding moments, He waved me through. It’s funny how that moment makes you feel. You are a law abiding citizen who has no intention of blowing up the plane. You don’t have a gun or even bad breath. But you stand there before some TSA guy with the power to ruin your day. You feel like maybe he knows you dumped your lunch milk down Mary Beth Patty’s back in 3rd grade. You start feeling guilty, start wondering if maybe your carry on bag has a nuclear device in it that you were unaware of.

Next!

Without so much as a smile, the man waves you through.

Relief.

The bigger concern at this point is reminding the kids not to joke about blowing up an airliner with three ounces of shaving cream in front of TSA security people.

“They won’t care,” my 10 year old wise cracked.

“They’ll care all right. Just keep your mouth shut please.”

We had “A tickets” so we got our choice of seats for the first leg of the trip to San Diego.

It’s always nice to board an aircraft where no one is seated, no one is staring at you, and you have your pick of the litter. It’s like walking into a bakery and someone hands you a basket of fresh hot bread right out of the oven. They are all so warm and tasty, you just don’t know which one to pick, but the luxury of choosing is the beauty of the moment.

I chose the window seat. The wife sat next to me in the center and the three kids sat behind us.

I figure if anyone kicked my seat back I could stop the madness without DCS being notified.

Seat belt? check. SKY Mall magazine? Check. Phone turned off? check.

As a monsoon of passengers began slowly filling the plane, I tried to occupy my time. I looked out the window and watched the activity. A baggage cart rolled directly below my window. I was delighted to see all three of my bags. What are the odds of that? I suddenly have the urge to buy a lottery ticket.

“Hey look,” I said to the wife who was opening up her book. “The man is putting our bags on the conveyor belt.”

She glances over. “That’s nice.”

I continue to watch as bags with bright pink transfer slips glide up the belt and into the dark recesses of the plane.

The baggage handlers seem to be overweight, even out of breath as they slowly, and I mean slowly place bags on the conveyor belt. One bag, then a rest break. Then another bag, and another rest break. The workers are going remarkably slow. How can these guys be so out of shape, I think to myself. They lift thousands of pounds a day. They curl thousands of suitcases a day. They pick up 45 pound bags at their job like you lift a coffee cup at yours. They do it over and over and over. It’s only morning. They should feel strong, they should feel the power of Sampson with hair. These guys should look like Popeye with ear protection, not cover boys for a health emergency in America warning pamphlet.

I watch as a Fred Sanford looking handler grabs a suit case that is black with white spots. Maybe it is white with black spots. It reminds me of a dairy cow.

The line is still filtering in as the pilot clears his raspy throat over the intercom.

“Ladies and Gentlemen. Sorry for the slight delay. We have a few straggler bags being put on board. Shouldn’t slow us down too dramatically. Once we get airborne, we’ll see if we can’t make up that time in the sky. Once again, thanks for flying Southwest and sorry for the inconvenience.”

I glance at my watch. We are suppose to leave at 8 am. it’s now 8:15.

“Make it up in the sky!” I watch as the baggage handlers smoke cigarettes and read novels and eat mocha lattes with whip cream. How much slower can a non unionized work force move?

“Come on you lazy bastards. Throw the rest of that cart into the plane and be done with it.”

I look to see if anyone else is bothered by this announcement. The pilot says he will make up the time. Yeah right? Like a pilot can just put the hammer down and fly faster than the FAA says he can. Like a pilot can suck up expensive jet fuel to make up time lost by indolent baggage handlers.

I look at my wife who is now reading. The book is open to the middle which usually means something juicy is happening on the page. I want to discuss timing issues with her, but I am not sure I should break her concentration. I watch her eyes darting from side to side. I can only imagine the vampire hero in her novel is doing something super sexy-evil that you ladies seem to love in Vampire novels. I weigh the pros and cons of opening my mouth. She is oblivious to the time situation. If I bring up a problem that won’t happen for four hours, will I piss her off. Is it really worth bringing up a possible dilemna that I can’t control in the slightest?

I decide it’s important enough to interrupt the goings on in Translyvania.

I watch her eyes for a moment to break in. Like timing the tides for a cliff dive, I wait, for the perfect moment, then when her eyes seem to meander, I go for it.

“Hey, how much time do we have between this flight landing and the next flight taking off?,”

I see her eyes stop in mid sentence. It’s like watching a silent train wreck, as the engine implodes into the side of a mountain and the rail cars begin rolling off the track.

Suddenly her big Vampire book with the red title dripping blood turns into a 300 page do not disturb sign.

I can see that she is not pleased that I crashed her Vampire train.

“35 minutes,” she says, her pupils reacquiring the lost sentence on the page.

“Well we’re losing 25 minutes right here on the tarmac waiting on a some yahoo with luggage decorated like a Holstein Milk Cow.”

I thought that was pretty funny. She says nothing. Her eyes begin devouring words and her attitude tells me she doesn’t care. But she will!

With nothing to do but worry, I start playing the who is going to sit next to me game.

The aisle seat is open next to us and it is only a matter of time before someone sits there; BUT WHO?

I eye ball the passengers strolling down the aisle. They all seem to be carrying more than the FAA allows.

That guy looks like a terrorist to me. keep moving.

That dude has a sweating problem, I can just tell. Back of the plane for you stinky.

That woman with kids, don’t even think about sitting here and then pawning your kids off on some other poor slobs in the back. Just keep walking.

One after another, these zombies of air travel file down the aisle. Fat ones and skinny ones. Men and women and parents with small children hanging off them like baby orangutans.

People that are dressed so inappropriately for public transportation, you wonder what their life is like outside of this tin can with wings.

I don’t really care who is walking by. I have decided that I don’t want any of them. If it was Heidi Klum I’d tell her to keep on walking. I mean what am I gonna do. Try and hit on Heidi Klum in the aisle seat, talking across an angry woman reading a vampire novel in the middle seat? I don’t’ think so.

A kaleidoscope of humanity is parading forward. Oh please don’t sit here I think to myself. Maybe if I don’t look, they will just assume the magic aisle seat is taken and when the doors are shut ;viola! 2 people in a 3 person row. HEAVEN!

It was not to be!

“Is that seat taken?” A woman who looks like she is going camping in the mountains hovers above us.

“No,” my wife says with a smile.

Sure! I ask her something and I’m Bobo the Circus boy. This perfect stranger utters 4 words, and vampire books go down, eyes focus, and polite responses are initiated.

What’s with that?

My wife smiles inviting her to join row 8 seat C. The woman is toting lap tops and carry on bags. She looks like a Sherpa sans pick ax. The woman is portly and slow on her feet. Gravity seems to have more of a hold on her than the other passengers in the plane.

Bang! Smash! Boing!

bags smash into the seat she is trying to acquire. A lap top falls onto the floor. Large arms grab onto the head rest as she attempts to stabilize her slow motion implosion.

I quickly decide this woman would not make a very good jungle cat. How many gazelle are going to wait to be eaten while the lion bangs symbols screaming “DINNER!”

Bags under the seat. A lap top on the seat. The woman is entering this row as quietly as a rhinoceros scratching its hind quarters on a coconut tree.

My wife has her vampire book tucked across her chest. She has backed away from the passenger, pushing into my personal space.

Oh sure? Now I see what I’m good for; a seat back.

I watch as the woman slowly positions herself to be a member of our row. If I had a shoe horn, I would offer to ease her into this seat which is obviously a size too small.

Her spandex clothing seems stretched to the molecular limit as she inhales and tries to drop her load into the seat cushion under her.

It’s all a guess for this woman, because I don’t think from where her head is positioned, she can even see her seat. I haven’t known her long, but it seems like her ass takes up a good portion of that view.

She hovers over the target like a WWII bombardier preparing to drop bombs from the sky. I have always felt that this job is 50% calculations and 50% guess work. We’re about to put that theorem to the test.

She hovers over the seat for a few more seconds. Then she lets the gravitational force she has been fighting, be her ally.

Woosh! There is a disruption of trapped air as old ass-molecules left behind in the seat cushion from previous passengers are ejected into the cabin.

There’s a momentary eruption of a smell that is stagnant and unpleasant. The sun is shining into the cabin and I can actually see the molecules racing away from the seat. I don’t want to breathe in stale ass dust so I hold my breath waiting for the cloud of toxins to settle or move on.

The woman looks at me with a smile. I smile back. Am I suppose to clap like I’m at Sea World and the seal has just balanced a beach ball on his nose.

I look back out the window. Cocktail hour is over and the last of the luggage is being stowed away. The luggage handlers high five each other, place Hawaiin lays around their necks and drive aimlessly on luggage carts into the labyrynth of luggage-tarmac world.

Suddenly, more bustling from the aisle seat. It seems the woman sat on her seat belt. Now the strap is trapped under a massive rear end with no beginning and no end.

I watch as the woman thrusts a lamb chop sized hand under her thigh, searching for the metallic clasp. This takes an aggravatingly long amount of time, as she presses her feet against the floor and her back against her seat. I hear the metal fatigue screaming Uncle!

Finally, like a pirate that has located his rum, she finds the belt buckle and settles down.

The row stops rocking and I can go back to worrying about flight connections that will ultimately occur four hours from now.

The rest of the flight is pretty typical. No abrupt tears in the fuselage. No air masks descending from the ceiling. Just the usual prison food disguised as a peanut butter cracker. Just the usual 2 ounces of beverage and 6 ounces of ice. Just the usual child screaming from somewhere just as I am drifting off to sleep.

The only thing that really gets my dander up is the announcement that I have to return my seat to its upright and locked position. Though I only get to recline 4-degrees, I have grown accustomed to this angle and I do not want to change.

“sir please return your seat to the upright and very uncomfortable, pretzel bending, 90-degree position please!”

Yeah I hate that.

I glance at my watch. We are way behind schedule.

There’s a scratchy voice on the intercom. It’s the pilot again.

“Ah folks. We are making our descent into San Diego. We tried to make up that time we lost a the gate in Nashville, but we had a strong head wind working against us. We’ll try and make it up to you next time. We apologize. Thanks for flying Southwest. We know you have choices.”

Suddenly my wife puts the vampire novel down. She turns to me and says; “Do you think we’ll make our next flight?”

I laugh out loud and look out the window, imagining Heidi Klum’s head being ripped off by a cloud vampire on the horizon.

“Maybe,” I say against the glass. I watch as my breath fogs up the scratchy window. “Maybe.”

to be continued…