When I get to the gate, there is already a line of people
waiting to board. Well, not a line,
really, but a semi-circle around the ropes as they wait patiently for their zone to be called.
If they were all sitting Indian style, they would look like a
kindergarten class listening to a story. The gate agent drones loudly over the
speaker, “Now boarding our premier members.”
I always board early. Always.
When the gate attendant announces members with preferred access, I step
up, put my shoulders back and hand her my ticket. I’ve never been turned
away. I’m sure my friends who think
themselves psycho analysts[1]
will claim that it has something to do with my inflated sense of self. I think it’s because I want to make sure I
can put my bag in the overhead compartment and not cram it under the seat in
front of me. It’s hard enough to wedge
my 6 foot 4 inch frame into a window seat.
Trying to do that with a full duffel bag where my feet should go has
proven impossible.
I also always take the window seat. As a growing young man, I was foolhardy and
would opt for the aisle. I soon
discovered what everyone knows, that a lanky man who is all knees and elbows
are the beverage carts' favorite prey.
Those carts are metal and unforgiving, and it feels like the
stewardesses see my elbow hanging out into the aisle and take a running start
at me.[2] The window is safer, and less uncomfortable;
depending, of course, entirely on who sits next to you.
I wait with trepidation and scan the passengers as they
stand in the aisle waiting for a heavy set man to get settled 3 rows in front
of me. It could be anyone of them. On any given flight, there are two, maybe 3
pretty girls.[3] I always hope that one of them sits next to
me. Not because I think I will get a
phone number or anything.[4] I'm big enough already and having
a petite, lithe beauty in the middle seat is always preferable to someone who
spills into your seat. This is soon proven evident as an obese man with a bad
cold sits in the middle seat next to me.
Throughout the flight, the “Brotunda” continually wipes his nose with
his sleeve and then touches me with his sleeve.
At least he can tell I didn’t want to chat. I can’t wait till I get there.
[1]
Not to be confused with “psychoanalysts”.
One is a legitimate profession.
The other refers to my judgmental, crazy friends.
[2] I
can’t tell you the number of times I’ve sworn I’ve heard a hushed “Ramming
speed!” whispered from the back of the plane.
[3]
Flights where there are more pretty girls: Flights to LA from Phoenix, flights
from LA to Phoenix and Hawaiian Tropics Charter flights. As I found out this week, flights where there
are fewer pretty girls: Baltimore to Atlanta.
Go figure.
[4]
The chances of that are especially remote given my penchant for falling asleep
with mouth agape and my double chin protruding on full display
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