By Gregory Rodgers
The blood froze in my veins at the sound of the metal detector going off a third time.
The security person (I think it was a woman but she had mandibles similar to the Predator) directed me to one side and proceeded to swipe my body from head to toe with what looked like an electronic paddle.
The infernal machine beeped a few times at the fillings in my teeth, then having proved that I did not have the makings of an Ak47 hidden in any cavities, she led me to a nearby table where her associate was fitting a blue pair of rubber gloves with a snap. I had already lost my shoes, my belt, what was next....my dignity?
I stood helpless as she tore through my carry on bag, looking for anything that was wet, pointy, personal, or even just mischievous looking. I was suddenly glad that I had decided to check my Garfield boxer shorts.
After hearing a story about a woman who was ejected from a plane for having gold earrings in the shape of guns (she was from Texas of course) I no longer take any chances. I do not fly with anything that could even remotely prove useful to mankind. A picture of my cat, one sock, an expired AOL 30-day CD...I stuff my carry-on with miscellaneous items just to give it bulk because I feel obligated to look important on the plane. Even MacGyver couldn't build a weapon with the things I bring on board.
My chap stick was confiscated just in case it was C4 (or maybe she fancied keeping something of mine after our intimate encounter). I packed up my things and quickly made my way to gate E13.
The Atlanta airport is a scary place. It is a place where dreams can and should come true, but sometimes are dashed on the rocks of bureaucracy and inefficiency. I was on my way to Jamaica, land of sunshine, skimpy bikinis, and magical colored water – but just as easily I could find myself sleeping across 3 spine-readjusting chairs waiting on the next flight tomorrow after having missed mine.
I arrived in the airport 3 hours early, but spent the entire time moving from one queue to another. Now my flight was boarding and I was running through the airport like an ape that had just ripped the door off his cage. I zipped past gates E11 and E12, and rounded the corner expecting to see E13 and hear a choir start singing "Hallelujah". Instead, I found a gauntlet of useless airport vending machines, their 2 day old sandwiches looking at me from the other side of the glass. There was a motorized walkway to help people cover the 2 KM they had placed between the gates – but it was not running. My blood pressure went up so quickly I think I heard the thump-thump of my own heartbeat.
What were the architects thinking? Was it a superstitious design because of the number 13? Maybe I did not realize that the entire airport was shaped like a pentagram and my gate was in the middle next to the central office - the office where Satan and the airport director sit and randomly scramble gate changes based on hidden cameras everywhere?
After clobbering a guy with a brown briefcase and knocking someone else's wife to the ground, I closed the distance and found my gate still full of people, most of which looked annoyed.
I fell across the counter panting and wheezing, veins popping out on the sides of my head. The attendant told me that my flight was delayed and would be boarding momentarily which in airline speak translates to 45 minutes.
I nearly burst out into maniacal laughter and had my legs not been seized up in a cramp, I would have spiked my carry-on and danced around the waiting area like a madman.
My gate was near a glass smoking room which was crammed full of people both sitting and standing. Only their orange glows were visible through the fog and every now and then a cough would break the silence and send smoke swirling out the open doors. There was so much smoke in there I wondered if maybe they had just piled some tobacco leaves in the middle of the room and set a bonfire for all to save the hassle of lighting individual cigarettes. Whoever was lucky enough to sit next to these people on the plane would probably be craving nicotine by the end of the flight.
My thoughts were broken by an announcement over the intercom. The Asian attendant warned us that the flight was overbooked so overheads would be full and some of us would not be going to Jamaica. How can people smart enough to figure out how to keep billions of dollars of flying assets in the air, not know how to count seats. Its simple, 300 seats on board, don't sell 310 tickets. After all, who did they think would not show up for a holiday to Jamaica? If it was a flight to Cleveland, I can understand selling every seat twice.
When I finally boarded the plane, I was given a seat directly beside of the latrine where I enjoyed the most horrific and surprising smells imaginable. I almost went in to check on one older gentleman because I didn't even know the human body could produce such toxicity. I focused all my telepathy into the panel above me and tried to will the oxygen mask to fall, but I was not strong enough with the Force. I had to settle for wrapping the blanket around my head and mouth as a filter, showing only my eyes.
When I stood up wearing what now looked like a black balaclava with only my angry yellow eyes showing, one woman fainted in front of me and people began popping the Skyphones off the seats in front of them to call home for help. The only thing in my life I have ever terrorized was my antfarm when I was 12, so I sat back down with a sigh.
Eventually, I broke and decided that I had to be relocated, it was a matter of life or death. I was already hearing phantom flushes when there were really none and I could taste sewage. I reached up and pressed my attendant attention light, which I saw come on the panel in the secret space the attendants occupy near the bathroom. The attendant looked at the panel, realized the seat number was almost an arm's reach away, and pulled the blue privacy curtain closed with a snap. Undeterred, I gathered my things, and walked up the aisle looking for a sucker that wanted to trade.
I don't know if it was the crushing responsibility of getting the door open in an emergency, or maybe the -30C air coming in through the cracks, but I found a lady that wanted to trade seats in an exit row. She smiled and made her way back to my old seat, I prayed she would not change her mind before she got there.
The problem with exit rows is that they attract the kind of people you do not want as flight neighbors. Usually the guys that are too big to sit in a regular chair book exit rows first. In this case, my seat-mate had clearly chosen this row because it was the only one he could fit in. Going down the aisle to the resources in the rest of the airplane was not an option for this man. His sweat glands were larger than my head – and they worked quite well too. He made a gargled noise when I sat down and I am not sure if it was a greeting or just the normal regurgitation that occurs when things are transfered from stomach to stomach. He had to have more than one. I just smiled, put on my headphones, and dreamed of a nicer place. If the man in seat 12A ever reads this one day, please accept my apologies, and if you are thinking of a lawsuit to make some money, please remember that I am a freelance writer. Enough said.
I finally arrived in Jamaica so stressed out, that I have decided to just expatriate and stay here indefinitely to avoid the return flight experience. Can my Irish genes produce dreadlocks, albeit even if they are red? If I ever decide to return home, it will be floating on a door into south Florida, where with some luck, I'll hitchhike my way back.
