Stranded: 3 Flights and A Man

Constrained at The Liberty

It’s 3 am. I spent a significant portion of the previous night enjoying the comedic stylings of my friends. I’m still tired but having gotten a strong couple of hours to rest the weary mind, I pack and make final preparations for my departure. The cab brings me to Newark Liberty International Airport without incident.

The airport at 5am is full but not alive, so much so the TSA agents are discussing the merits of PPR in their fantasy league. I make a mental note to at some point Google the acronym in the same way one often makes a mental note to not get the muffins at Starbucks; critically important in the immediate aftermath of mealy tastelessness, completely unimportant 5 minutes later.

The boarding call comes right on time. United running like clockwork. I make my way to the back of the plane with all the other social and economical rejects that make up “Boarding Group 5”.

It’s 6:17am. A middle-aged (I’m being charitable) white man dripping with gravitas comes to the mic at the front of the plane. His initial salvo is clearly the work of a gentleman well versed in the arcane artistry of Dad Jokes.

“Well folks, I’ve got my hat on and that’s never a good thing.” Great initiation. I immediately know who this character is in my mind’s eye. He makes his first move. “I’ve got some good news and some bad news.” Ever the pro, he leads with the good news. Everyone’s aboard and all is in readiness to depart. Not so much good news as the basic requirements to running a commercial flight operation surely.

The hammer drops. “As for the bad news, looks like someone filled too much fuel in the tank last night and we can’t leave until we get some of the fuel out.” An American problem if ever there was one. The land of plenty indeed. A scheming, kniving bandit with tape around his eyes for disguise had spent the wee hours hopping from aircraft to aircraft filling them up with too much fuel, a dastardly ruse. Woe unto the traveling public. Our fearless leader signs off with a promise to return in 15 minutes.

My neighbors cheerily exclaim “God! I’m so pissed!”. Left to twiddling our thumbs in the back of the craft, we are left with no option but to deal with voices of reason in the shape of the flight attendants, bravely holding down the fort in 15 minute increments.

Our captain returns, the fuel’s been taken out but now too much has been taken out of the right wing, so the left wing will be exhibiting the truth of sharing being caring. A transfer shall commence. Back out into the battlefield then for the Fuel Fighter.

Time for a third monologue, the captain heightens. The transfer is too slow! A dial up connection in a broadband world, a marathon runner in the 100m dash, a newspaper in the age of Twitter. We are assured the bit will have run its course shortly. The captain has “Eagle Eyes” from Newark and Chicago looking into the matter.

The Eagles Eyes have done it! It only took them an hour but the brains trust has managed an equitable distribution of fuel across the plane. Good thing too, Boarding Groups 1 and 2 were readying the toys to be thrown out of the pram. Imagine the horror.


Dulles Forever

The #fuelfiasco means my connecting flight has deemed my presence surplus to requirements. Much like Dorothy, I’ll need some help to get to Kansas. My Oz takes the form of a thin, tall, bespectacled gentleman.

My first option has me reaching 4 hours later than scheduled. I dismiss this as being ludicrously late. My second option has me reaching 9 hours later than scheduled. 4 is less than 9.

Clickety-clack click-click click on the keyboard. Suddenly 4 hours is off the table! A classic mid-series twist; Jack has to go back, the Starks have been red weddinged, Gus Fring is missing half a face! Alas, the writers are more Homeland. They don’t commit. Oz comes out from behind the curtain at my pleading and discovers that 4 hours is possible because there is a whole universe of delayed flights. Gotta appreciate the world building.

A final twist. The Homeland writers unsurprisingly want to string out my strained relationship with the airline for as long as they can. The new flight to Chicago is delayed by a further hour.

I consider my fellow desert island survivors. A motley crew. We have the angry couple where the husband stomps around hither and yon, we have the suave networking businessman quick with advice and even quicker to answer his phone on a Bluetooth head piece, we have the remarkably efficient mother who entertains the boisterous children, provides the husband with a running commentary on the phone all the while making friendly small talk with the good people of the airline. We also have the college student, the grandmother, the jacked bro, the Indian family, the friendly lady, the shopping lady and the patient bearded young man on his phone.

I venture forth for advice from the desk and am informed that if I choose to return to New York, I get all my money back but crucially none of my time. A classic case of the big bad enticing you to give it all up and turn back. I think about why I’m really doing this. It’s surely is to celebrate love and happiness. If I can’t do it with my friends, well, I’ll do it at the same time as them waiting on a bedraggled flight to Chicago. Perhaps, I’ll have some shitty airport deep dish.

Eventually we are called to board. The same whimsy that is driving this blog inspires an order of tomato juice from the beverage trolley. Liquefied tomato should not be consumed in the absence of croutons.


Oh! Harey Up

I exit the plane in the guise of a man that has to be places. That was true and that will be true but in the moment it is a tale full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.

The crowds move through the hallways of the airport in clumps of humanity, all of us following the same pattern; the escalator, the TV screens, the restrooms, the still unchanged TV screens, the food court, the disappointment, the boarding gate, the disappointment, the acceptance.

I have some shitty airport deep dish. It is… warm.

The lady across from me is in the midst of a supremely detached Facetime conversation. Words and sentences function more like pauses in the cacophony of her silence.

Her husband is preoccupied with providing affection and discipline to their dog. A bowl of water is made available for His Furriness.Treats are provided to be consumed straight from the hand. The slightest growl or bark is met with a swift and direct reproach. Even those not of a human persuasion could stand to understand silence is a virtue.

My pretenses at intellectualism are brought to an end at the conclusion of the chapter. I don’t think I can stomach the disappointment of Prof. Trelawney’s prophesy on top of all the other bad news I’ve received today. Wormtail will wait.

I decide to have my shoes shined. I brave the awkward moment when I am informed that I will have to have my shoes on my feet while they are sparkled. Colorado hippie sandals off, big boy shoes on — color me a Grand Central businessman. I might be required to pay taxes in Connecticut when I go home with my shinebox.

Back at the gate, Midwesterners are saying things that I imagine Midwesterners always say in my head. There’s chatter about Lansing, a fun weekend in Wisconsin, a thesis on the Cubs. “What did you do over the long weekend?” “Oh! I was at the airport.” The jokes would be funny if they weren’t bitterly true, ladies. Give it some time.

It’s time to get on the flight. Not a moment too soon. I’ve got a wedding to go to.

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