Airport Complacency
With all due respect, W.C. Fields, I have no problem trusting a man who doesn’t drink.
Its more like the words from the men at the US Airways branch of the Philadelphia International Airport who checked in my bags that I can’t bank on–
You’ll be fine, I promise.
I looked at this man through teary, bloodshot eyes. We’ve known each other for a good 3 minutes at this point, and he was the one to offer me a napkin 2 minutes before. It smelled like break room coffee, and bad coffee at that.
Of course it was this same man who first took a glimpse of my 5 bags (2 carry on, and 3 suitcases), and said damn girl, all those yours? You know you gots to pay extra for that, right? Yeah, I know. I just paid with my credit card.
80 dollars for one extra bag to try to squeeze a bit more of my life into. If squeezing luggage is anything like squeezing orange juice, it’s a pulpy, citrus-y, stinging to the eyes mess.
At least the eyes part, definitely.
Why did you pay without letting me know girl? He over estimated our friendship, as this was the first time I had ever seen him in my life, and being in south Philly is being in no position to say a random large individual yo guy, I ain’t payin’ for this. I could have hooked you up for 40 instead of the 80. Oh, really, I asked. Wow that sucks.
So why do you got all these bags anyway, they all yours? And the tears that I had just suppressed from saying goodbye to my parents broke like some sort of levee was supposed to keep New Orleans safe from its below sea-level altitude. We all know how that turned out.
I’m moving and I don’t know anyone and I love Philly and Wawa and cheese steaks and Dunkin and my family and my friends and the Eagles and and and and there is NONE of that in Denver! I sobbed these things not hysterically, but quickly enough to mention them all in one breath. I bet he was sorry he even asked.
Baggage checker number 2 came over and hit him on the head saying Yo dude what did you do, why is she crying? I don’t know, I just asked why she had so many bags and ahh man I hate seeing females cry… I hate seeing anyone cry, but especially females.
Cue the scratch and sniff coffee napkin.
You’ll be fine, I promise.
They took my luggage, tagged it up, and handed me my boarding pass. A 10:15 nonstop flight to Denver. I looked the clock and sighed. Great, its only 7:15. Now what am I going to do?
Gate B7 was practically empty. Probably because no one in their right mind would arrive so early before their flight, especially at this hour. I knew I wasn’t in my right mind, but this wasn’t too new to me. Insomnia plagued my life the past 2 weeks, as I decided I couldn’t go to sleep because that would be wasting time I had left at home. It started as a conscious decision that turned into an unconscious problem.
That was my deal, and I scanned the terminal trying to figure out what everyone else’s deal was. They had to be nuts too. Hmm, man with newspaper. Guy with a mac notebook. Woman sipping coffee and watching CNN. Weird, they all seem normal. I looked at my watch again. 7:18. I put my hand in my hands and stared at the floor, frustrated that time was going to pass so slowly. What was more even defeating was that this fleeting moment of frustration was only a moment.
7:19.
Still flustered about my 1,700 mile goodbye, and perhaps hypnotized unknowingly by the tainted napkin, I found myself wandering back into the the terminal’s main corridor. The bodegas lining the hallway served as reminders of things to soon be left behind: a stand for Philly sports team merchandise, a rack full of soft pretzels, shirts made to rival the infamous I heart NY tee’s. And a bar serving cheese steaks and beer at any hour. This is your last chance to indulge in the east coast, I thought (possibly out loud). Make it good.
And it was at this moment I turned around swearing my life was, in this instant, being played on an IMAX screen. Like one of those slow motion turns where everything in the background is blurred out and my hair stays suspended in the air for a few seconds before gracefully falling onto my shoulders as some sort of cheesed up music becomes the accompaniment to my life. My eyes were fixed in a trance on this one last luxury, this epitome of east coast culture. I took a step forward. Then two steps. Dragging my laptop case and backpack, I moved swiftly towards the end of the corridor like an unstoppable bat out of hell. Focused, and determined, there was no way I could be interrup–
I was interrupted.
Good morning Ma’am. A man stepped in the middle of my path led by some sort of mythological siren song. That was mistake number one. Mistake number two was calling me ma’am. Just because I was alone in the airport, packed up and mailed my life in 7 boxes the day before, and sporting some neatly creased black business casual pants didn’t mean I could be promoted from Miss to Ma’am. I grinned through my teeth.
Hello, Jim.
His name tag sported the US Airways logo, and he seemed fakely interested in my response to his question of how are you doing today. Can I interest you in signing up for our credit card? It offers bonus miles every time you make–
I don’t think so, Jim. Thank you though.
I can see that you’re a little hesitant about it, Ma’am. But our interest rates are so low that it’s competitive with any other credit card on the market. Do you fly a lot?
No Jim, just this once. And I’m moving, not vacationing. Thanks anyway.
But immediately after your first purchase you’ll be rewarded with bonus miles that you can use at anytime in case you–
I cut him off again. Jim, I really appreciate it, but no thank you.
I could feel his eyes glaring a hole through me as I walked away. Only momentarily, before he moved on to the next traveler not so luckily passing by. Good morning, sir, echoed down the terminal as I wondered if he though that ma’am needs some coffee or something. And if my subconscious could communicate with his, I would have responded I know Jim, but you got in my way.
And then there it was, in all of its glory. Dunkin’ Donuts. My reality turned back into fantasy, or perhaps hallucinations from lack of sleep, as I saw beams of light shooting out in all directions from behind the trademarked purple and orange words. My last taste of the east coast would be well worth the wait of 23 people in front of me.
As I neared the front of the line, an arrival of passengers walked through the terminal in an attempt to find the baggage claim. Wow look at that line, a lad said to the gal’s hand he was holding. Dunkin’ Donuts must be really good.
If only he knew how delicious my french vanilla iced coffee, light and sweet, was. I sat back down in B7, happily swinging my legs over the edge of the hard vinyl seat as I slurped. Then, perhaps through some sort of artificial intelligence, Nickel Creek came on my Mp3 player-
“You’ve gotta leave me now, you’ve got to go alone. You’ve gotta chase a dream, one thats all your own before it slips away. When you’re flying high, take my heart along. I’ll be the harmony to every song that you’ll learn to play. When you’re soaring through the air, I’ll be your solid ground. Take every chance you dare, I’ll still be there when you come back down…”
I pulled out a few of the pictures packed in my backpack. The O*Unit girls at Kerri’s party. Vodka Buffet at senior week. My little. My family.
“…I’ll still be there when you come back down. When you come back down.”
In a vain attempt to not cry, I quickly put the pictures away and focused on how I could suck up every last drop of coffee. I gave up when the woman sitting next to me shot me a dirty look for my continuous effort to enjoy my beverage in its entirety. It wasn’t that I was trying to be obnoxious, it just took a minute for me to remember how this same trick can be used to get the attention of wait staff when one’s diner table is ignored. I stopped mid slurp and shifted my eyes left, right, then left again to find a trashcan.
A woman’s voice came over the loudspeaker as I got up to throw away my very last Dunkin’ cup. Good morning ladies and gentlemen, we are almost ready to begin boarding for flight 531 with nonstop service to Denver. We’ll board by your zone number, which is printed on your ticket. If you don’t see a zone number on your ticket, you are probably in zone four. Welcome again to U.S. Airways, we’ll be back shortly.
I sat back down, my fingers trying to fumble through my pocket overly stuffed with napkins. Crumpled amidst the tear stained, snot filled, make shift tissues, I pulled out my boarding pass. Ah, zone three, I guess that stinks, I said to the same death stare woman sitting next to me. And when she didn’t answer me or acknowledge my existence, I remembered she still probably didn’t like me all that much. She had to have been an east coast inhabitant; I’ve only heard friendly things about the Denver natives.
Ladies and gentleman, we are overbooked on this flight. A voice came back over the loudspeaker, but this time it wasn’t the woman. I looked up from my boarding pass to see a man who looked like he could have been Jeff Edelstein’s father. I took it as a sign. A very good sign.
We are looking for volunteers to catch our nonstop flight tonight at 6:45 pm, arriving in Denver at 8:50 local time, the voice continued. In return for your willingness to bump your flight, we’re offering a free round trip ticket. If you’re interested, please come see us at the counter here. We will now begin boarding zone one.
I contemplated pulling out my cell phone to call my supervisor and let her know that my flight was rescheduled to that night. Who was I to say no to a free round trip? But in the time I spent searching through my other pocket (also jam packed with napkins, these not used however) for my cell phone, I remembered that Naomi would be picking me up so I could sign my apartment lease. It had to be done before 4:30.
Rats, goodbye free trip.
When they finally said boarding for zone three could begin, I found myself going down the narrow hallway and into the airbus plane. I walked by the first class passengers, sipping on their already served coffee. I walked through the curtain that served as the caste system, psychologically separating me from the elite that enjoyed their extra leg room. Their curtain was pretty dainty looking though. It didn’t intimate me. After hiking to the second to last row, I found my seat. 21-D. A lovely aisle seat with no window view, and plenty of individuals to hit you in the elbow when they have to wait in line to use the waterless toilet.
I stowed my backpack overhead, and my laptop bag under the seat in front of me. My fellow row 21 passengers excused themselves as they sat down. Two boys, perhaps in their mid-teens, overly excited about doing the crossword puzzle in the in flight magazine provided by U.S. Air. As they debated with each other the spelling to 13 across, Elvis’s last name, I picked up the emergency instructions.
I wasn’t surprised when they didn’t look like the ones Tyler Durden replaced in fight club- the ones with people screaming as the plane is crashing down- but I was a little disappointed. Flying already scared the crap out of me, I would have at least appreciated some honesty and accuracy in how my death would happen. Not this euphoric, nonchalant acceptance.
And then, I pulled my seatbelt a little tighter.
Good morning from the cockpit, ladies and gentleman. Yet another voice from above. This is your captain speaking, and if you’ve never flown out of Philadelphia before, I recommend that you use the bathroom now if you have to or think you have to. The usual delay to get on the runway here is about an hour and a half, and once I start taxiing, you won’t be able to get out of your seat. I’ll be back on shortly with your flight itinerary and weather in Denver.
Some laughed at the pilot. Most ignored him. I knew that the iced coffee would be processing itself quickly, but I figured I could wait until we were cruising along above the clouds. I guess I ignored him too. And the downward spiral started from here.
Jeff Edelstein’s potential dad was on the plane with us, now on the intercom too. Ladies and gentleman, we are still overbooked by 2 seats. And in return for taking the bump, we are now willing to give 2 round trip tickets to any volunteers. Hands shot up like children when asked if they want dessert. Two girls in the row in front of me took the bump, and were replaced with another young woman, and a man who tried to claim the title as “Last Comic Standing on the Runway” for himself. His jokes were awful, his laugh made my fingers and jaw clench up, and I think he emitted some sort of odor.
When all passengers had taken their seats, our plane did indeed back out of the terminal, and slowly start taxiing towards the runway. Then slowly became ungodly slowly, and finally a stop (not even outside the space between terminal B and C). There we sat.
I was amazed at how quickly the time passed when I was on the plane, versus when I was waiting to board the plane. 4 down, Par. The boys aside me continued to enjoy their crossword, uninterrupted. All I wanted was Amos Lee on my Mp3 player, but the use of electronics was prohibited. For the first hour, I believed it. At an hour and a half, I pulled out my cell phone.
Various contacts received similar text messages from me. Some popular examples: I’ve been on this plane for an hour and a half already, and I hate flying– help. Or, I could have taken two free round trips, but instead I’m sitting on the runway.
The pilot came back on. I’m going to turn off the engines on the plane because it doesn’t look like we’re moving anytime soon, and if we waste fuel we’ll have to spend 2 additional hours refueling. With this, if you need to use the restrooms at this time, please do so.
With the familiar airline ::bing::, the seatbelt light came off, and I looked up to see an exodus of passengers running towards me. Did I need to reach under my seat for the inflatable life vest? Were the oxygen bags going to drop from overhead? Was the plane crashing and burning? Was it a time to pat myself on the back for reading those emergency instructions?
Of course not, we hadn’t taken off yet. But the exodus turned into a queue of 40 people waiting to use the two available bathrooms. This stinks, I thought for the second time. And it did; after the first half of the line went through, the whole tail end of the plane reeked.
What do you call a plane flying from Philly to Denver?, Last Comic Standing asked the man sitting beside him. Not flying, thats for sure, har har har.
Time continued to roll by slowly. At the three hour mark, we got an update from the pilot. Philly had two runways for departures, and when we first started, one of them had been closed. So we had spent a great deal of time in line waiting to make use of only operational one. To literally spread our wings and fly. By the time our plane reached close to the front of the queue, both runways were shut down for rerouting. We were about to taxi to another runway.
If this was my fault, I would sincerely apologize, said our pilot. But its not. It’s simply not. This is the worst good weather delay I have ever seen in my life. You can thank the city of Philadelphia.
I got a little excited. Woooo Philly! I exclaimed only loud enough for my new found crossword puzzled friends to hear. It was sincere. Not helpful, or rightfully timed though. Either they were still engulfed in figuring out 17 across, or they didn’t share my excitement for the city of brotherly love. I’d like to think it was the first, but let’s be realistic.
The flight attendants were walking up and down the aisle, handing out “complementary” headphones to all passengers, so we could enjoy some TV made for the airline shorts. Complementary because they usually run you $5. If they hadn’t been free, I would have found myself in a dilemma- part with five bucks and engage myself in the history of the banjo, or continue staring straight ahead listening to more last comic on the runway standing.
The complementary headphones eliminated my need to choose between the lesser of two evils. Plus, what was supposed to be one history channel special turned into a buffet of genres, including an episode of Malcolm in the Middle, and a CNN report about a sushi chef in Chicago. The excitement kept coming.
Anyone savvy with sitcom math can figure out that these three half hour specials added an additional hour and a half time to our delay. Four and a half hours. My mind wandered to a P.R. class I took in college. Something about JetBlue leaving passengers on the tarmac for 8 hours. We had passed the half way point, and a class action lawsuit of passenger rights started buzzing amongst the cabin.
What the hell did I care though, I’m not allowed to accept any outside money for the next two years.
The pilot must have gotten wind of our telecommunicative solidarity, because he addressed us again. Ladies and gentlemen, it looks like both runways have been shut down due to severe weather. I’m going to taxi us back to the gate, and we can wait further instructions from an U.S. Airways representative about our next course of action.
A man behind me yelled out he doesn’t give a shit about our next course of action, his contract is up!
Not understanding what he was talking about, I ease dropped on the conversation- pilots and crew are assigned flights and a certain number of hours to complete said flights in. Because we had wasted nearly 5 hours, and it would be another 4 in the air to get to Denver, their contract for the flight would qualify as unsafe. Good weather or not, our plane was going no where.
B7 looked exactly the same when we got back as it did when we left- miserable. A rep never came onto the plane, and after another half hour we were ushered off back to the area I spent hours sitting in earlier in the morning. We were told to wait again.
Meanwhile, throughout these whole 5 hours, I had been on my cell in contact with my supervisor, and our rental company. It looks like I won’t be in by 4:30 today to sign the lease.
Instead of sitting in the seats in B7, I stood outside in the corridor. Being trapped with these 100 or so people for 5 hours made me not want to be seated next to them anymore than I had to. Last comic standing started yelling to all of us.
I just got on my cell phone, they have this flight listed as canceled!
Pandemonium broke out. People started ripping off their clothing and running down the corridor naked. Dogs were mating with cats. I held ground, surprisingly complacent. When the rep finally showed up, we were instructed to go down the ramp I had been standing on to the customer service desk. The flight was indeed canceled, and we would all be rescheduled.
Two exoduses in one day. I thought about changing my middle name to Moses, as I looked up and saw the same crowd of people this time running at me. But instead of thinking about how Moses could work because my middle initial is already M and someone told me you don’t have to file any legal papers to change your middle name, I decided to run too.
And that’s why I can’t be E. Moses. I turned my back to all of these people I had just been facing, and booked it to book a ticket. Thank goodness for my strategic slash dumb luck spot I had staked out- I made it to the customer service counter with only 5 members of flight 531 in front of me.
But there were about 30 people in front of these 5. Another half hour wait.
I found myself lining my toes up with the “Please wait here for the next available customer service agent” arrow. Naomi called my cell, breaking my yoga-like concentration in this pose. I talked to our CEO and she authorized us to pay for a hotel room, if need be, she said. So see what you can do and call me back.
Next! Toes stepping off the line, I walked up to the counter.
Can I help you?
Yeah, I was just on flight 531 to Denver, and it was canceled, I need to rebook a flight.
Ok, can I see your boarding pass please?
This was a lot easier than others in line had made it look. No tough questions, no attitude, no resistance. Then I reached in my pocket. No boarding pass.
I almost cried. In a near-death flashback, one of those ones where you see your whole life in 2 seconds, I saw myself standing up from my seat and remembered hearing something drop to the floor. I didn’t bother looking very hard, just around my shoes and when I saw nothing, I thought nothing of it. I pictured my seat. 21 D. I pictured the floor under it, and there was my boarding pass, crumpled up like the napkins in my pocket that remained. Damn those napkins.
I don’t have it. I don’t know where it is. I can tell you my name. Can I tell you my name? Can I show you this receipt for my ticket?
She knew I was getting panicky. With good reason- there was no way I could afford another flight if they wouldn’t believe me that I sat on this one for 5 hours and deserved a rebooking.
Yeah, you can tell me your name Ma’am. Ahh, Rumbel. There you are. Ok, I have a flight leaving Newark tonight at 6:45, with a 5 hour lay over in Vegas, and then arriving in Denver at 2:50am local time. Can I put you down for that?
Here are some things to consider. I didn’t have a car, and Newark was a good two hours from Philly in rush hour. It was 4:30 for one. And arriving in Denver at 2:50am would leave me stranded until a decent hour where I could be picked up. Were they out of their minds?
Oh. Do you have anything else I asked.
Let me see. I have the same thing tomorrow night. Does that work better for you?
NO! I screamed in my head. No, I politely said out loud. What about Saturday? Do you have any direct flights on Saturday?
I have one at 7:45am. You’d have to be here at 5:40am. Do you live close?
Yeah, close enough for that to work.
Ok. I can’t book you a seat on it, but you do have a seat. Just hand them this piece of paper for your boarding pass.
I walked away looking at a piece of paper, torn in half (and not very evenly at that). There was my name, and then the flight number for Saturday. And then a bunch of letters and numbers that looked like the binary code had gotten wasted with Billy Shakespeare and conceived a drunken unintelligible mess. I looked up, and considered the Moses middle name again.
Four people were standing in front of me, and started making truthful accusations. Hey you were on flight 531 weren’t you! What did they tell you?
After explaining the Newark situation, and my proposed flight on Saturday morning, the I-think-I’m-going-to-cry look shifted to their faces. We have a wedding we’re in tomorrow. We can’t wait till Saturday. What are we going to do? What about our luggage?
They soon realized I didn’t have the answers to these questions. No more Moses.
Walking down the corridor, I called my parents. Soooo I’m still in Philly. No, my flight didn’t take off. Yes, it was canceled. No, I don’t know where my luggage is, I’ll call you back when I find out. No, I would say I don’t need you to come pick me up. Well I don’t know, if I have all 5 bags to bring home I might need you. I don’t think I can take them all on the train. I’m going to find out now. I love you.
The baggage claim customer service office was surprisingly empty. I waited with one fellow 531er in front of me, and then when it was my turn I looked up to see Jeff Edelstein’s pseudo dad again. Things kept getting weirder and weirder.
Hi, I was on flight 531 to Denver, and I was just wondering what happened to my luggage.
Do you have your claim tickets?
No, they were on my boarding pass, and the woman who rescheduled my flight took it from me, I lied.
Well I can’t track your bags without the numbers.
What if I tell you my name? Can you tell me what happened to them then?
Yeah, I guess. I mean I’m not really supposed to, but I will. A few mouse clicks and keystrokes later, he said we’re not really sure. They might be in Denver.
How did they make it to Denver if I didn’t? We were on the same flight!
Well, they’re on the next plane going to Denver. I’m sorry, that’s the best I can tell you now. Do you need a toothbrush for tonight?
No thanks. Thanks for your help.
I walked out, flipped open my cell phone, and hit redial.
Hey, I’m just gonna catch the train. They don’t really know where my luggage is. Yeah, I have some money for the ticket. Ok, I’ll call you when I’m in Willow Grove. I love you too.
One thing worked out- I climbed onto the train platform at 4:13. The train came in at 4:14. The next one wouldn’t have come until 4:46.
Scrolling through my Mp3 player, I rode the train facing backwards, watching the city grow smaller as mellow music serenaded the ride. I knew I’d be saying goodbye to Philly today, I just didn’t think it would be to go back to Hatboro.
Dad was waiting at the train station. I threw my backpack and laptop bag into the truck, and climbed into the front seat. Climbing into the front seat, he started chuckling and said so how was your flight.
I don’t want to talk about it, I’ll only get angry.
We got home, and I repeated the same line to my sister and Mom. I wasn’t angry all day, and at this point if even I wanted to be I don’t think I had the energy inside me to do so. It was an eerie sense of acceptance. I sat down at the kitchen table.
There’s enough dinner here for you, Mom said. I’m sorry, I know you don’t like any of it. I didn’t think you’d be home. You haven’t eaten all day have you?
No.
Ok.
I ate anyway. It was 7:30, and the past 48 hours only gave me 3 hours of sleep due to nervousness and procrastinating on packing. My room was clean. It looked nothing like the disaster I had left it 14 hours before. The sheets on my bed were stripped. Did it only take half a day to remove my home from me? I knew I’d be the one leaving, I just didn’t realize how powerfully symbolic an unmade bed is to show you that you can literally have no place to lay your head.
Before remaking my bed and laying down to go to sleep, I loaded up U.S. Airways website. The flight I could have bumped to had taken off on time. And the two girls who took the bump made it to Denver with two free round trips a piece. Face down in my pillow, I went to sleep.
The next morning, I printed out my boarding pass online. It saved me from having to get to the airport at another ungodly hour. The rest of the day is a blur of trying to salvage clothing from the little I didn’t pack or mail, and more sleep.
6:30am Saturday, and the whole scene was rerun, with some director’s cuts this time. I didn’t cry when my parents dropped me off at the gate. It wasn’t that I wouldn’t miss them, but I had my emotional goodbye before. One is enough for a week. I wasn’t promised by a shady luggage guy that everything would be ok. I didn’t look for any promise from anyone. I wasn’t stopped as I passed through the xray machine to get into terminal B. The security officer again ignored the screen as my carry on bags rolled pass him.
The last makes me wish some things can and do change.
My flight was delayed before I even sat down in B6. Because of all of the delays, and the safety issues of pilots only clocking in so many hours, our departure time was pushed back to 9:30am. Here we go again I thought. But 3 hours later, I was boarded. The same row, but now with a window seat.
We took off. I drank the terrible airline coffee, and looked miles below me to the patchwork quilt that is the Midwest farmlands. And with no turbulence, and a smooth landing, I arrived in Denver Saturday, August 11th at 10:55am.
