Leaving On A Jet Plane

As I sat in the Kalamazoo/Battle Creek International Airport waiting to board my flight that was scheduled to leave for Detroit 35 minutes ago, I began looking around the terminal for something to do. I could go to the snack bar or browse the gift shop, but that would involve going out of the gate area and having to pass through security again. While this might kill some time, it also provides an opportunity for security to perform a cavity search if I happen to set off the metal detector because I am still wearing shoes or because I forgot to remove a dime from my pocket. They would likely not catch you if you are carrying drugs or determined to carry out some horrific act, but loose change will get you taken to the isolation room. The airport has only 4 gates, and the terminal area consists of rows of seats, 2 payphones and a vending machine, limiting my choices to reading the book I brought with me, striking up a conversation with a complete stranger, or making observations about everything and everyone around me. I can't read while I'm waiting for a delayed flight, because I end up worrying that I've missed an important announcement and that my flight is about to leave without me. I can't simply start a one-on-one conversation with a stranger because that would involve talking to strangers. Apparently, the fear that our parents and the media implanted in us in the early 80's has remained and ensures that "don't talk to strangers" is the one childhood rule we all still observe. My options limited by my personality, surroundings and irrational fear of TSA agents, I began observing my fellow passengers, fitting them into broad stereotypical characters in the screenplay for the low-budget dramedy that is my life.

We have the bitter, pessimistic travel agent. "There's no way" She manages to make a sour expression despite the make-up that appears to have been applied by a particularly heavy-handed bricklayer. "I've done it before, and I can tell you from experience that it's just not possible to make it from our gate to the B concourse in only 27 minutes. This is the last time I'll ever work with Northwest. I'll have to stay overnight, and they won't put you up at the hotel at the airport either. They'll make you go all the way to the other side of town. Where are you going? What's your gate nuber? Oh, you might as well plan on an overnight stay too."

The grouchy redneck man, who as we board the plane an hour after our originally scheduled departure time asks, "Who do I hafta bribe to expedite this process? I've gotta make a flight in D-troit." "Naw, " he shouts into his newfangled cellphone as if speaking to someone quite far away or the way he speaks to someone who doesn't understand English, "I haven't even left for D-troit yet. They had better make sure I make that flight or I'm gon' miss golf tomorrow." When we do arrive he complains about the speed of those deplaning ahead of him, eventually shouting up to his friend, who wisely was seated several rows away, "If you get off here, make sure they hold the plane for me."

The woman who is either completely oblivious or is on her very first plane trip. I spotted her quickly, as she was the one attempting to roll her suitcase down the narrow, crowded aisle of the plane, smashing it into armrests before it became wedged halfway to her seat. It seems that no one bothered to explain to her that if the luggage is too large for you to carry on the plane it might be too large to qualify as a "carry-on." When she makes it to her seat, she hefts the gargantuan bag over her head, buckling under the weight and tries to force it into the overhead compartment that is half its size. Eventually, she gives up and and attempts to shove the bag under her seat. She is al least partially successful and finally takes her seat, her feet resting on the large Samsonite ottoman.

The double-coated man, who is either quite cold or on the cutting edge of a fashion trend of which I was, until this point, blissfully unaware. I first noticed him while waiting in the terminal. He is wearing slacks and a brown sportscoat. On top of the brown jacket is a navy suitcoat, an apparent result of a terminal case of indecision. The superfluous blazer is draped over his shoulders as if he were a double amputee, though the true explanation is likely that the sleeves were made to accommodate an underlying dress shirt, but not another jacket. I was forced to notice him again as he moved along the aisle of the airliner, his free swinging navy sleeve slapping my face as he passed. Fortunately, the buttons missed my eyes, managing only to leave a oddly shaped imprint in my forehead.

Once we were all settled on the plane the flapping sleeves were replaced by the stewardess whose disproportionately large posterior repeatedly punished any passengers foolish enough to utilize the armrests as a place for their arms or elbows.

We arrived at the Detroit airport over an hour behind schedule and everyone scrambled to make their connecting flights. I rushed to the monitor to find the correct gate for my next flight. It was 30 gates from where I had arrived, and I had little time to spare. I looked down at the black, captoe Oxford shoes on my feet and thought, "I really should have let that shoe shine guy at the Kalamazoo airport shine them for me. It's too bad he was on the other side of the security checkpoint." Then, slight more on the subject, I thought that these really were not the best shoes for trying to move between two places rapidly, but I had no other option. I began to rush toward my gate, weaving around the people watching giant television screens showing CNN, around the affectionate couple, who appear to be happy to be together even if it is in an airport. I rush past the sushi bar and ponder briefly how much I would trust sushi in an airport...in Michigan. I hear the message telling us that "Detroit, Michigan is in the Eastern Time Zone" in six different languages and wonder why there can't be a message telling these people to get out of my way. I arrive at my gate and sink down into a chair, underneath the banner reading, "Northwest. On Time. Time After Time." My feet aching and raw, feeling like they may be blistered inside my shoes, I don't have the energy to ponder the irony. I look at my watch to see how much time I have left, wondering if there is time to find the nearest men's room. As I hear a young woman a few seats away trying to explain the Mile High Club to her boyfriend who expressed confusion at her request to join, the gate agent picks up the microphone to announce the start of boarding, and it is time to leave again.

Until later...