The following story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Part I – Fear and Loathing at Seattle-Tacoma International
I was still drunk when Pat woke me up. It was sometime just before 8 AM on the west coast, and the city of Seattle was already starting to hustle for the day. Last night, to close out my visit, Pat and I got hammered drunk off a combination of local beer and dreaded shots of whiskey down in Ballard and somehow, someway, climbed the winding road back up to his apartment in Fremont. This morning, groggy with a high BAC, I had to be at the airport for a 10:30am flight.
With the remnants of the local breweries’ top sellers on my breath and my vision still mildly blurred, I slapped myself in the face a few times, packed up, and got into the car. Pat turned the key. The quiet Subaru engine hummed on without fault; we were off.
“Do we have time to stop at a dispensary?” I wondered aloud.
“Oh shit. We never got to one yesterday, did we? I think there’s a few on the way, hang on, let me check.”
We sat idle at a residential stop sign for a few moments. The intersection was quiet. A few runners jogged by in nifty clothing of the finest trends giving us puzzled looks as we sat. Pat searched his phone intently. The handsome redhead I had met in college by chance one night had become a dear friend; one always down for adventures and reason to explore.
“Ah ha!” Pat shouted, “There is one five miles away. We can do this!”
“What are you going to get?”
“Those mints. They do the trick.”
“How many come in a package?”
“Twenty? I’m going to hide them in my bag.”
“You’re a madman! I’ll just send you some.”
We pulled into the dispensary – oddly placed in a strip mall. Inside there were two clerks working behind a large glass counter with all sorts of pipes and bowls, sodas, and candy sitting below them all injected with mass amounts of potent THC. I walked up, found the mints, paid one hundred dollars in cash for four containers, and was back in the car in less than ten minutes. Pat got on the highway and headed for Seattle-Tacoma International Airport.
I figured I might as well take a few mints right now. That way, I’ll breeze through security, get a coffee, and by the time I arrive at the gate I’d already be sailing away, no stress needed. My drunken stupor was slowly concluding, soon to be over. Stepping out of Pat’s car before entering the sliding glass doors of Seattle-Tacoma Airport, I reached into my bag and opened up one of the four containers, fishing out two mints. The mints were delicious to a degree, but you knew that there was weed in there; the taste was hardly concealed [In 15 to 20 minutes, after my salvia has soaked the mint up into my system, the effects will kick-in]. I waltzed into the airport expecting a small line of travelers heading home after America’s birthday. I was dead wrong. There must have been a thousand people waiting to go through security! Cue the paranoia.
“Woah.” I muttered under my breath.
It was packed tight. A litter of people from all over surrounded me as I sauntered into line trying my hardest to not look conspicuous. A group of European tourists were ahead of me – socks and sandals, cameras around their necks, very naturally beautiful people; Directly in front of me was a young woman, probably in her early twenties, holding onto a hand on the other side of the belt barrier. Behind me was a family – mom and dad, older teenage son, younger daughter, and a toddler, a boy. The father sounded southern. I’d guess Texas, maybe close to Dallas with his forthright speech inflections. I started to zone out for a second, fantasizing about driving across Texan pastures in a pickup truck chasing the sun. If I couldn’t reach the sun I’d stop into a small town bar where there is no such thing as a credit or debit card. Towns not even on the map living by their own rules, oblivious to the rest of the country and to the laws of our land; secluded from the corruption of marketing and advertisement and greedy politicians.
First, I needed to get through this line. I had some time, but at the rate it was moving, I was going to be stoned by the time I walked through the TSA’s security threshold. The line inched up slowly. I started to really focus on the father’s accent, it was starting to bother me; I knew I had heard it somewhere before, but where? Ahead of me, the young couple continued holding hands. When the line made a turn, the man would let go and run to the next turn, the closest he could get to her without jumping over the invisible security line displayed by a wall belt. Sooner or later,he was going to have to let go for good.
My anxiety started revving from within. I could feel the panic start to leak into my already corrupted thoughts seeping all the way down my spine. I shouldn’t have bought this many containers!
The overly affectionate couple ahead of me finally let go of each other. The moment was sad for everyone. The entire congregation of people flying this morning watched these two hold on as long as they could until the next time they saw each other. Someone started clapping. A few more joined in. I did too. The little things in life, the small moments most tend to overlook, that is what makes living so special. To experience as much as you can and find true happiness within yourself while watching others along the way. The woman stopped, the line halted behind her. She walked over to her significant other and passionately kissed him. The crowd erupted with cheers.
Of all the times to fly out of Seattle, and of all the times to get looped up on pot mints, the security line doesn’t fail to entertain. Small orchestras of claps followed, and then, back to business. Keep the line moving.
It was then that my bag started feeling heavier. I placed my belongings on the belt with my heart thudding louder and louder. I walked through the security threshold, no problem. I stepped to the end of the conveyor eagerly waiting for my bag. The belt stopped.
“I GOT SOMETHING!” An agent yelled from behind the X-ray monitor.
This was it. My life was over.
They’ll probably make an example out of me. Death by lethal injection, I’m sure of it. Maybe not here in Washington, the higher powers might just beat the shit out of me in the holding center and send me on my way with low bail. Hopefully Pat would come to my rescue. But back home, in New York, where everything is illegal, they’ll be waiting to take me away. All of them, every single branch and division – like I was a national fugitive; Sheriffs, FBI, DEA, National Guard, all waiting at the airport ready to make the arrest in front of the news cameras giving the people of the Queen City something to masturbate to for a few days until another mass shooting or sex scandal steals the show. I’d be granted my one phone call of course…
“Hello? Mother? Father? I’ve been arrested at the airport for attempting to sneak edibles across the country. They’re going to kill me, lethal injection; the judge is signing the order now..”
And then, they’d shackle me up in leg restraints and tighten my handcuffs. Two officers will take me down a poorly lit hallway and some big bastard will be standing in front of a heavy door with a small window at the top. With every swing of his billy club the overflowing and unchecked rage from high school that propelled him in becoming a corrections officer in the first place will intensify until the two escort officers leave me at his feet, begging for mercy.
The TSA agent spoke, jolting me away from intrusive thoughts of my soon to be demise.
“Sir, is this your bag?”
I gulped a large swallow.
“Yes…” I sighed.
“Do you mind taking it? We like to keep the conveyer clear at all times!”
I was shocked. My jaw dropped open coming to a rest six feet down on the shiny tiled airport floors.
“…Oh! Of course! Of course. I wasn’t sure if you wanted to search it.”
There was a pause. I could see two of the three agents glance at each other suspiciously.
“Do you want us to search your bag sir?”
“No! God no! I’m heading home from vacation! The only things in there are dirty clothes stained with bad decisions and the scent of a one-night stand with a lawyer named Hillary.”
The surrounding TSA agents fought their hardest hold back laughter. My mind was racing at warp speed with no connection to the central processor. I had absolutely no idea what I was saying.
“Have a good flight sir.” The closest agent said.
The bag they were ”after” belonged to the southern fella behind me. Maybe he was stowing away one hundred dollars worth of marijuana mints and was easily discovered. I never knew what happened to that man and his family, maybe they’re back home in their southern dwelling (wherever that could be), or up North at the son’s baseball game. Hell, the father might be in jail; or the whole thing could have been worked out. And the couple from before, the romance that I’ve desired for so long playing out in front of me, who knows if they’ll ever see each other again?
For a moment, Kathleen crossed my mind. I quickly ran away from the thought.
I grabbed my bag and headed toward the gate.
PART II – Elliot King
My seat was 10B – the middle seat; riding bitch for three and half hours to Chicago. I prayed that my seatmates weren’t lunatics. At the window in 10A was a fatter man with a kind smile dressed in a light blue business shirt and tight khakis; even sitting down, his belt was ready to explode.
My face was flush, my brow sweaty. I turned the air on. The man in 10A turned to me.
“You look nervous. Is this your first time flying?”
“No, no. I fly all the time. I..I made a stop before heading to the airport.”
I gave him a look – the look. Anyone that dabbles in smoking pot knows the look. This man had no idea what the look meant. The silence scared him; his eyes showed it. He forced a grin.
“I think I know what you mean, buddy. Say no more.” He started carefully looking over his shoulder.
The man started fumbling in his carry-on.
“Hey. What are you doing?!” I quietly snapped.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t think I’d make it through security either.”
Laying on his lap was a full sub. A WHOLE GODDAMN SUB! Smuggling food onto an airplane! The flight was only three and half hours, maybe four with a delay, couldn’t he wait? This was amatuer on his part.
The mints were really starting to work their magic. I had gone from one state of inebriation to another with little to no sobering period in between.
The sandwich man was named Seth – he was a nice guy, a business accountant from Kirkland heading to his sister’s wedding in Mount Pleasant, Illinois. I felt bad about getting upset at his smuggled sub, but still, a whole goddamn sub; I’ll never forget that. I was about to move from the middle seat over to the aisle when out of nowhere a bulky purse came flying at me.
“Take Cover!” I hollered.
Seth didn’t flinch. His mouth was agape as if he was going to eat the purse.
The thrower of the purse appeared. The woman was dressed in blue jean shorts and a large white sweater with one side sagging below her shoulder. Her chestnut colored hair was fastened up into a sloppy bun; sunglasses dangled out of her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I wanted to get rid of my purse before putting my carry-on above.”
“No problem at all. I’ve had worse things thrown at me than a purse.”
She smiled, partially amused. I moved back to my seat and within a minute or two the flight attendants began their safety procedure. We taxied out to the runway. As the flight attendants continued their spiel the purse thrower turned to me.
“Do they really expect us to calmly head for the exits if there ever was an emergency?”
“That’s one of the reasons I don’t sit in the emergency exit rows – too much responsibility. With my arms, I could barely open the door!”
She smiled again, but this time much wider.
“At least you’re honest about it. I can’t even open my suitcase half the time, I couldn’t work that door either!”
We shared a small chuckle. Seth made some strange noises as he finished half of his sub. To his credit, the thing did look delicious. Layers on layers of chicken and lettuce with green peppers and some kind of orange sauce, probably spicy cheese and spinach, all placed on a seeded wheat roll.
The flight attendants took their seats. The turbines screamed loud. Our jumbo jet bound for Chicago raced down the runway at speeds I only dream of driving. The wheels lifted, we were in the air.
As the atmosphere on the plane started to adjust for the next three and a half hours of flying, I had completely checked out of this galaxy. Internally, my body slowed down and began to process everything that had happened in the last thirty minutes. I was completely gone, in a good way.
“You’re not going to be sick, are you?” The purse thrower asked.
“What? No. No. I had a hell of time getting on the plane and……….well I just had a hell of a time.”
The purse thrower looked confused.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m great! I’m just…stoned, frankly.”
I peaked over the seats looking around anxiously.
“I’m from Buffalo, and weed isn’t legal, not yet at least. So I bought some mints from the dispensary and took some when I got to the airport. There was a hiccup in security which made me think I was caught, and now I’m here processing.”
The woman with chestnut colored hair and brown eyes looked down and back up, containing her laughter.
“Do you have any more?” She asked curiously.
“Do you mind if I join you, and have one?”
“Well, I have this…policy. I don’t like to share with people if I don’t know their name. I’m Reid, by the way.”
I extended my hand out for a desired shake. Instantly her hand met mine.
“Nice to meet you, Reid. I’m Elliot.”
“I know, I know, it’s a very masculine name, but I promise I’m not a tough person.”
This time Elliot’s teeth started to show in her smile.
“I wasn’t even thinking of masculinity. I don’t think I’ve ever met an Elliot before.”
“I’ve never met a Reid.”
“HI! I’M SETH!”
An uninvited hand from the window seat jumped into our greeting. Seth the sandwich man wanted to say hi. Quickly he shook hands and he went back to licking his fingers and starting on the second half of his sub.
“I’ve gotta finish this before the drinks and peanuts come! That’ll be my palate cleanser!”
Elliot King grew up in Seattle with two younger brothers and a dog named Shepard. Two years ago she graduated from the University of Washington and began pursuing her career as an artist. Elliot’s mother works as a news producer and her father is a local anchor; I’m sure you can imagine how the two met. Her youngest brother just graduated from the police academy and was on his way to becoming one of the many newest editions to the Seattle Police Department. Her other brother, the middle child of the bunch, was a sophomore in college at the University of Washington. We exchanged stories about the differences growing up on opposite sides of the country; where we would travel with our families for vacation or an embarrassing story. Our initial small chatter turned into bigger conversation. Hobbies, cars, believable conspiracy theories; Former bosses, recent travel, dream jobs – a lot of information was exchanged in row 10. Our flow of words glided down a smooth stream of conversation passing the time faster and faster cancelling out the rest of the plane.
Elliot reached for her purse. Concealed in the large buckled bag that nearly wounded me earlier was a Moleskine sketchbook full of drawings I couldn’t believe were real. The colors were extraordinaire and vibrant; these drawings looked like photographs with lines stenciled over the image. Elliot removed a smaller Moleskine case. She opened up the rectangular case showing colored pencils sharpened down to a fine point.
“These pencils are my everything!”
They looked pristine. Each side of the case had ten pencils tucked behind two leather straps ensuring no movement or risk of tips breaking.
“You were worried about your mints…these could be considered deadly weapons! Especially this.”
Elliot removed the strange looking tool conveniently tucked away in the side of the case. The sharpening tool was something I’d never seen before. It looked like a knife, but didn’t have a large blade. There was a handle with a red stone imprinted on the top (possibly a ruby) connected to a narrow silver blade. The tool looked ancient.
She let me hold the sacred-looking carving tool. How was I supposed to hold it? I didn’t want to look foolish, but I also didn’t know how to properly hold a vital tool to someone’s creations.
Every artist has something they hold true to their hearts. For some it’s an easel and certain type of paint. For others it’s a significant typewriter passed down from family member to family member. For me, it was my manifesto. Other than the editors Hunter Diana, James Broadway, Ruth Clinton and on occasion Nelson Liebler, when he isn’t off being a financial genius, no one can see, know, or hear about my work until completion. I’m anal about perfection and the manifesto holds all of the edits to each story by said editors, whether they’re published or not. The manifesto contains all. Elliot was the same way, but with her pencils and sketchbook; they were her tools to success. I placed the small case and sharpening tool face open on my tray table and shifted back to conversation for the remaining time we had in the air.
The saddest part about all of this was that the conversation would eventually have to end and at this rate, it was sooner rather than later. I had no idea where we were in the sky but I knew Chicago wasn’t far off. Elliot would continue on and fly to Charleston for her vacation. I have to connect to Buffalo and go back to work. The content was there, the timing was off. Sadly, there is no stopping this intangible non-linear measurement that constantly rules our lives.
The flight could have been from Seattle to London direct and that still wouldn’t have scraped the surface of the iceberg known as Elliot King. I wanted to know more. I wanted to keep talking. I had no interest in returning home and unpacking only to answer the same follow-up questions from my circle of friends asking jealously about my trip and then commenting, “must be nice” in their passive aggressive whiny tones. All my life people were jealous of my travels as if I was an unmarked rich man gallivanting around the world for no reason other than to rub my adventures in others faces. The masses would get upset when I would reply and instruct them to “open your laptop, pick an airline, pick a city, type in your credit card, pack your bag.” They never liked this explanation. The people back home were always angry about something it seemed. They wanted the process to be more complex so they’d have an excuse when it didn’t work in their favor. Laziness and insecurity were the two known culprits of a lot of misplaced talent on the eastern shores of Lake Erie.
From the cockpit the pilot informed us, we were beginning the descent into Chicago. The smooth river of conversation previously mentioned was about to branch off back to our respected reservoirs. Elliot and I were running out of time with what seemed like years of conversation left to finish.
A flight attendant came by and reminded me to put up my tray table as we were about to land.
The tray table went up; The tool and pencil case slid into the seat pocket.
The pilots touched down on the runway with incredible force. Collectively everyone lunged forward in his or her seats; the flaps went up, and the pilot began to break. We all lunged again. Seth didn’t move an inch. His sheer mass anchored him securely into the seat.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the pilot began “Welcome to Chicago, Midway Airport. The local time is…”
I looked at my watch, Where had the time gone? It feels like we just took off. I had thirty minutes to get to gate B23. Our plane taxied in while everyone collected his or her immediate belongings. Elliot gathered her drawings from the bigger Moleskine and placed them back into her purse. She began to fidget around.
“Reid! My pencils!”
Short-term memory loss chimed in at the worst possible time. I tried and tried to remember where I placed the goddamn pencils, but couldn’t. That was it; there goes my chance, if I ever had one, with this beautiful purse-throwing artist.
In a matter of seconds I ruined everything. I went to open my seat pocket to check for trash. THE PENCILS!
“WAIT! I’ve got them!” I screamed.
The entire plane fell silent. I could feel the look of curious eyes from all directions staring at our three seats in row ten.
“Oh my god! Thank you!”
Elliot was relieved. She opened the case glancing quickly at the pencils and went to close it when the man behind her bumped her seat standing up. The case fell to the ground. Quickly, she scrambled her hands on the floor grabbing the case.
“That was close!” She said, “I don’t think anything came out.”
The masses in front and behind arose and wrestled their luggage out from above. I offered to get Elliot’s bag for her but she kindly declined my offer.
“Well, I’ve got to catch that flight to Charleston. It was really nice to meet you Reid.”
“Absolutely, Elliot. It was great talking with you.”
“Believe me, we could have flown around the world and that still wouldn’t have been enough time to talk! Good luck with your writing, I’ll look your page up!”
“I’m available next week. Good luck with the art shows.”
Elliot and I shared one last smile and said goodbye. The man that bumped her seat let her merge into the aisle, but then quickly blocked Seth and I as he went to grab his luggage from above. What a jerk.
“Some people man.” Seth said quietly under his breath.
The man shot us a look. He took his bag out slowly and then dramatically started ambling toward the door.
“Sir, do you mind? I have to make a connection flight.” I said.
“Pfft” he scoffed “I heard you yapping the whole flight, you need to take a break.”
What an asshole. What an aggressive man. Since when is chatting on an airplane with a stranger a crime of annoyance? People are too serious nowadays, no one is comfortable and everyone has to hear about it, what a bunch of bullshit.
I looked down at the floor to divert my energy elsewhere instead of telling this guy to fuck off with an audience of twenty-five rows behind me.
What the hell is that?
I reached down and grabbed the object. Elliot’s ancient-looking sharpening tool had fallen out of the case!
Now, I held a lethal weapon in one hand and a cache marijuana mints in my bag. I was starting to look more like a national fugitive now. I tucked the tool the best that I could into my pocket while trying not to pierce my thigh. When I saw an opening I merged. Looking back, I saw Seth smiling and waving.
“Good flight, man!”
“Take it easy, Seth.”
I had twenty-two minutes to catch my flight. But first, I needed to find Elliot and deliver her the sharpening tool. The whole colored pencil setup was more important to her than the Baltimore Ravens were to me, without this, she had no quarterback; at least that’s how I rationalized it.
Thanking the crew as I hurried by I took a quick whiff of Chicago air between the airplane and arm. Ah, the windy city and its distinct “capital of the midwest” smell.
Part III – The Midway Mile
Midway Airport is the busiest mile in all of Illinois – including Chicago, or so they say. I needed to navigate through this sea of travelers and find the flight monitors to try and catch Elliot’s connection to Charleston. All these faces, confined to one area. Some are dressed to the nines looking like a poor attempt at glamour and fame. Others are dressed in sweatpants and other baggy clothes to help ensure comfort over the upcoming hours of flight. Airports are a lot like grocery stores in the sense that no one moves! Travelers from all over the country and world are slowed to a crawl looking at all the coffee mugs and keychains that say Chicago. Their eyes become fixated on the merchandise for the major sports teams and the giant bean for tourism. All of these people forget that they need to connect flights and instead get sucked into buying overpriced trinkets for unappreciative people back home.
Finally, I found the wall of monitors. My flight arrived at Gate A6; the connection for Elliot was gate A18- the complete opposite way of my gate, B23. Time was ticking, there was no room for bitching about the current circumstances, and I needed to act. Swiftly and strategically I began dodging around the slow- moving travelers in Midway airport. There was urgency in my steps, but not full- blown panic, at least not yet.
Where are all these people going?
The ascending numbers associated with the “A” gates continued to climb. Some of the destinations were interesting; Jacksonville, Florida; Richmond, Virginia; Bangor, Maine; Tulsa, Oklahoma. I always liked looking at the different flight destinations and wondering what it would be like to travel there one day and witness the daily routines of the citizens in their tight communities – like driving in Texas, racing after the sun.
A13, A14, A15, I glanced down at my watch, less than twenty minutes now and I was on the other end of Midway. At last, gate A18. Scanning the area with my head held higher than normal, I didn’t see Elliot anywhere.
And then, I found her. She was sitting at one of the seats facing outward looking out onto the airfield. I ran up to her, out of breath.
“Reid, did you decide to come to Charleston? I was only kidding about sleeping in the bathtub, I’m sure you can afford your own room.” She grinned.
“I didn’t…I didn’t know the offer stood. But, you forgot this. It must have fallen out when you dropped the case.”
I held out the odd looking sharpening tool. Elliot’s brown eyes lit up with glee.
“Thank you so much! I would have been devastated if I’d lost this!” she said, “And you chased me down to give it to me?”
Elliot fluttered her eyes. She lunged at me with open arms and hugged me tight. For a brief moment the airport foot traffic and the roaring Rolls Royce turbine engines of scattered airplanes fell mute. She looked down gently biting the corner of her bottom lip. Our eyes locked, the noise came back. She stepped back.
“Thank you, Reid. You’re a kind person for doing that.”
“Well, I mean, I’d ask you out for a drink but, we’re going to two different places.”
“Are you going to be back in Seattle soon?”
“I live by the seam of my pants when it comes to traveling.”
Elliot reached into her purse and pulled out a small business card and a green pen.
“When you’re out in Seattle again, you can buy me that drink. And I’ll buy you dinner.”
“I’ll make that deal.” I confidently agreed.
“For now though, you better catch your flight!”
“My flight….MY FLIGHT!”
The doors were closing in eight minutes! Elliot handed me her business card.
“Call me, Reid.”
We looked at each other fantasizing of what could be if life hadn’t gotten in the way and timing didn’t shit on our parade. We smiled and turned away. I looked down at my watch, seven minutes. I tightened the shoulder strap of my blue bag and was off to the races.
“Enjoy the Atlantic!” I hollered, galloping off into the herd of travelers once again.
Comparable to OJ Simpson in that one commercial from years past, I started leaping over luggage and dodging small children. Just like the supermarket and bathroom lines at Ralph Wilson Stadium (it will always be Ralph Wilson – and I’m not even a Bills fan) no one moves! Everyone stands in the line of traffic like a statue waiting to be toppled by an angry mob. On occasion you’ll get a few dancers – you know the ones, people coming at you, rarely also in a hurry, and you both hop to the same side to avoid each other but end up dancing back and forth for a few seconds until one has to stop their momentum completely and allow the other to pass. I never stop the momentum; I’ll dance all day if I have to. But no, not this time. I wasn’t looking for a partner; I was looking to get to my goddamn flight. Spinning and turning, dipping around and at one point straight sprinting across the airport rushing past faces I’ll never see again and don’t care to look at anyway with the only goal in mind, make the flight!
Anyone that lets a child roam freely in an airport is an asshole. Keep an eye on your children at all times. Otherwise, a one hundred fifty pound twenty five-year-old might come steaming by at what feels like fifty miles an hour on his feet, and he might bump your kid to the ground unintentionally. I helped him up. He didn’t cry, everything was okay. Back to the gallop.
I’ve never missed a flight. Sure, a few have been cancelled out of my control, but I’ve never allowed myself the misfortune of missing a flight. At all costs I’ll get to that damn gate and sit in that goddamn seat if it’s the last thing I do. I refuse to let the people of Illinois laugh and snicker at my helpless cries to the airline staff pleading to let me on board minutes after they’ve shut the door. I won’t allow it. My body was screaming through the stress of the day as my overall energy was starting to slow down. I hadn’t eaten much on top of waking up drunk and then transitioning to weed, and changing time zones. I pushed harder, ran faster. At one point I held my bag like a football and envisioned myself running a historic 99-yard touchdown for the win. For airport staff and other travelers, I probably looked like an escaped con, alluding the authorities through the airport destined to flea arrest once again. I saw the gate. My legs started to wobble all rodeo-like, it felt like my knee was about to blow out.
I barely made it. Literal seconds left to spare. No one back home is going to believe this tale, but I didn’t care about that right now. I made my flight! And I had done it in record time – the fastest time. On the brink of exhaustion, I plopped down into my window seat, 12C.
The plane to Buffalo was much smaller than the first bird I boarded earlier today. There were only fifteen rows or so with two seats to a side. I let out a sigh of relief thanking the man upstairs for not making me sit bitch again for the next hour and ten minutes.
The captain spoke.
“Ladies and Gentleman, welcome aboard and thank you for flying with us this evening. We are all set to push back here and get you on your way to Buffalo, but we just heard some flights are running late so we’re going to hold for a few minutes to make sure we’ve got everyone onboard.”
Son of a bitch.