Morgan Hill, CA (music; beirut)

(1/5/09)
I ended up in the emergency exit row for both of my flights into San Jose. As I checked my baggage, or more over, as I got the questionable glances as to what could possibly be occupying a bag weighing in at 53 pounds and how I managed to singlehandedly lift it on to the scale, I was surprised to hear a break from the standard routine Photo ID? Final Destination? Checking any bags? sentencing.

She looked up and apologized for the delay of the computer booting up and explained it would just be a moment. It was the eye contact that got me. Somehow, despite the mass of thousands of insecure, scrambling travelers, she focused on who was in her direct line of vision. Me. It sucked me in immediately. I was drawn to her. There she was. Beige pantsuit, kerchief tied loosely around her neck, chunky sensibly heeled shoes. Her graying blond hair loosely bundled atop her head presenting her dangling gold earrings. She, unlike her fellow uniformed squad in the front lines of Frontier Airlines, was I’d like to imagine, a kindergarten teacher in her past life. She listened to me with the same care one might a small child choking back tears as they tell you how they caused that scraped knee.

“You’re heading to California? That sounds exciting."
I pushed back my immediate suspicions of her kindness, I bet she just got a raise. She probably just started her shift. Xanax. I let myself fall into it, nodding, anxiously awaiting the conveyer belt cycling around to present us both with a tray of fresh cookies and cool milk.

Then she leaned closer.
“I have two seat options for you, Ms. Kippley. Would you like the isle of exit row ten or the center seat in row nineteen?”

Usually the only options I get at the airport are whether I would like room for cream or whip. I was startled, skeptical even. I paused for a moment. Surveying the crowd, the larger, taller folks might be more comfortable in the exit row. For all sensible packing purposes, I’m the middle, the blackberry jam, Amy-sandwich.

“You know, I don’t much have a preference today. Whichever one is fine,” I found myself saying, awaiting my sticker for consideration of others.
She smiled and typed vigorously.

“Let’s get you situated in the exit row. I think you can handle that, don’t you? Plus,” she leaned in whispering, “it’s a much better seat.”
I thanked her, and when she told me she hoped I’d enjoy my flight, I believe she meant it.

I took my seat, tucked my bag under the seat in front of me and slowly turned the bickering over overhead compartment space into mumblings in the background as I began turning pages of a book. The flight attendant came over to deliver the exit row speech. This is done, as is per regulation, barely decipherable, as quickly and uniformly as possible. I spend this time of the flight studying how involved their eyes are in this speech, trying to guess what they might really be thinking about. What caught me was the moment that followed the speech was an added line I hadn’t heard before.

“…This can be, and recently was, necessary. Please make sure you are, indeed, efficient in these tasks and are fully capable.” Recently necessary? My mind began racing, not out of fear, but curiosity. How hadn't I heard about this? Who booked this flight? How much of a discount do they offer after such an emergency evac?

I turned to survey the door. 35 pounds? No problem. Lift & pull. Lift & pull. Got it. The real question were the folks around me. I felt my eyebrows scrunch up as I surveyed the crowd.

Who can I count on to catch folks at the bottom of the inflatable slide? Who is going to chop firewood when we get stranded on an island? Which one of these people packed necessary items in their carry on that will be essential in building a shelter? A gentleman in the row next to me caught my skeptical squinted gaze as I eyeballed his impractical choice of footwear. Well, I guess we’ll just see how well you do when we’re running from island predators, now wont we?