Springfield, Missouri

After paying $1.50 for a banana and $3 for the plastic container holding fifteen grapes, I’m feeling bitter and exhausted. I’m in line to board the plane for the final leg of flight series towards Springfield, Missouri. The unfortunate footnote in the quest to find the cheapest possible flight combinations is two-fold. One, my daily workout needs to incorporate the sprint from one terminal to the next, including a jaunt through security if necessary. Two, I usually end up using multiple airlines within the course of one trip. The later is what leaves the attendant struggling to scan my ticket, as it is from a completely different airline that is no longer using a checkout scanner stolen from a Kum-N-Go.

She notices the problem right away, picking up a phone to exchange combat strategies with fellow ticketeers as she types information into her podium. My weight shifts left to right, shifting my bags across my hip. I feel a tap on my shoulder, and turn, as my eyes frantically check my bags and hands pat down my pockets wonder what I possibly could have dropped.

“Can you please go?” I’m not only stunned by the necklace creeping up over the fold over her turtleneck sweater, I’m taken aback by her request.

I have no time to react. The attendant finishes and hands me back my ticket and I move forward down the walkway towards the plane. The cameras in that area captured an expression I can only describe as befuddled. I’m sure security attendants will sneak the footage into their holiday reel somewhere between expressions of folks accidently soiling their pants and wondering what to do next and men realizing they’ve just walked out of a women’s restroom, and more importantly if anyone has seen them.

The four words have left me enraged. My exhaustion has gotten the best of me and I am fuming as I board the plane. I can feel her behind me with her baggage inching at my heels. There is a miniature, more honest, version of myself screaming inside.

Who does such a thing? You’re in the middle of a line! To board a plane! Even if I had moved aside when you asked, you would have been still waiting for the attendant to finish before she could scan your ticket. And even if the attendant decided, ‘fuck it, I’m going to throw caution to the wind, rip this ticket and throw the remains up in the air to bless the path of this phenomenal creature in front of me’ you would still be waiting for the thirty other people in front of you to shuffle through the tight aisle of the plane, manhandling their roller-boards into the overhead space- squeezing their bellies against the side of their row in attempts to politely let other guests rub up against them as they walk by. Yes, you would still be waiting behind suspenders, here, taking off his jacket to occupy what’s left of the storage compartment above his seat.

I’m coaching myself to breathe. I’m chanting lyrics to Yellow Submarine to the escalating rhythm of my heart.

AND, unless you are planning on knocking all of these folks down, turning them into your own personal blood red carpet as you mash your orthotic attempt at heels into their flesh making your way to your seat, the two seconds it’s going to take for me to get my ticket back from the damn attendant wouldn’t have gotten you there.

I’m trying to forget her as I take my seat, but I can’t resist looking back as I tuck my bag into the overhead. I watch as she stumbles, struggling to manage two oversized bags and her protruding waistline down the aisle. I see her check her ticket, her eyes following the printed digits lining the storage units. She spots her row, pocketing the ticket, and continues her shuffle. Her eyes gaze downwards and meet mine. I’m watching the chunks of her dried out fuchsia lipstick crack with her fading smile. I eyeball the seatbelt in the empty seat next to me. I have time to wad gum into the clasp or tie knots into the nylon belt. I do not, however, have the time or ambition needed to mentally recreate a childhood memory strong enough to turn my tight smile into anything resembling general care.

She takes her seat in the row directly behind me, kneeing my seat four or five times before settling back into her chair and sighing loudly. I miss Beatrice, my elderly flying companion on my flight from Wisconsin into Minneapolis. I know she would have some feisty choice words for this woman. I exchange a knowing glance with the invisible version of her in the aisle seat next to me- she being considerate enough this flight to have let me take the window seat. Again, I find myself struggling to relax. I want revenge.

Turbulence is rattling deep thoughts I had tried to push back. I’m picturing myself jarring my seat back into full reclining position after she sets her beverage on the grey plastic tray in front of her. Do I want it up? Do I want it back? I just can’t decide, ho hum. I shove my headphones into my ears, put my hat on, tugging the short brim closer to my eyes and cross my arms to keep my hands from tossing the contents of the seat pocket over my head into her lap.

I’m dosing off when her humming starts growing louder. She is now standing in the aisle next to me with one hand stabilizing her on the seatback. She begins walking the length of the plane, still humming loudly. The flight attendant comes on the speaker reminding everyone that under turbulence such as this, it is for safety reasons that the pilot has turned on the seatbelt sign. She takes another lap, then a third.
The attendant repeats into the intercom, “Please remain seated with your seatbelt securely fashioned unless using the restroom. Please remain seated…”

Her hum has changed to a whistle as she begins her fourth lap. The flight attendant shakes his arms in front of him and mouths Why Me looking upwards, he’s wondering why he took this flight when he could be in Tahiti with his boyfriend, Leo drinking Mike’s lemonade on the beach, or a cabin in Montana, anywhere but here.

I turn up my ipod and stare out the window, avoiding vigilante justice.

We land. She is up out of her seat the moment the wheels hit the ground, juggling her bags from the overhead. The attendant has given up on the woman and has turned instead to his watch, hiding out in the dark space between the cockpit and the cabin. He makes the typical landing comments without making an appearance to collect trash and soon enough we are at the terminal.

I stand and hang my bag over my shoulder, turning to face the woman as she stands just barely even with my row, inching her way forward. I decide jumping in front of her and sticking my tongue out is just childish, so I motion for her to go ahead, smiling. Her face fills with skepticism and doubt but she moves up immediately, groping the next person ahead of her. The doors open, but there is a slow start to our exit as the baggage is being unloaded and set near the door for pick up.

My hand moves separately from my body. I see it rise, and for a moment it hangs behind her. My eyes have delivered a death stare to my finger. No. No. No. No. Awe, come on! No. No. There is no going back. My hand might has well have crumpled to a fist, turned and nodded back at me. Instead, it taps her on the shoulder.

She turns and I clear my throat, raising my index finger to let her know that I will address her when I’m finished with this precious personal moment.

“Eh, yes. Can you please go?”

She’s shocked. She whips back around, waving her arms rapidly towards the inching line in front of her, eyes wide and mouth open. I cross my arms and smile at her, then pull out my cell phone again, hold out my index finger before she can muster a response, and answer an incoming call.

I am an asshole. More proof to follow.