Fear of Flying
I'm a paranoid freak about flying. I know this because my wife tells me
so. She never misses an opportunity to point it out. See, when I fly it
is very important to me to be at the airport at least an hour before the
flight. But when She flies, it is just as important to her to start packing
about an hour before the flight. (I'm sure I am not exaggerating here) This
causes a certain amount of friction between us.
An hour before the flight, when I am pacing like a lunatic and The Missus
is still packing, I usually try to help her out by saying things like,
"Yes, dear. That outfit is lovely. The only thing I would like more is if it was
packed in the fucking suitcase already."
She'll respond with an insightful comment of her own like, "I couldn't
help but notice that you didn't pack any socks or underwear. Shall I put
some in my suitcase for you? You are a paranoid freak, you know."
Well, dammit, I AM a paranoid freak about flying and I have a really
good reason. I have bad airport karma. Airports are neigh inescapable
quicksand of evil. Yesterday's trip back from Dallas is a prime example.
Allow me to illustrate.
I dropped my car off at National Rent-A-Behemoth an hour before my
plane was to leave. This freaked me out a little because I still had to
take a shuttle to the terminal, and was technically behind schedule. I knew the
shuttle was only a five minute ride, so I swallowed my angst and boarded
the nearest shuttle bus.
The shuttle made two stops before the driver announced (in a fine Texas
twang) that this here next stop was to be the last, y'all. Since there are
four terminals in the airport and each terminal has approximately
7,394 gates, I knew something didn't add up. I inquired with the driver
and he informed me that I caught the wrong shuttle, y'all. There are
different shuttles for different parts of the airport, and he went to the part
where I didn't need to be.
OK. Fine. Time was running out and I didn't want to go back to National,
wait for the right shuttle, and take it back to my terminal. I got off the
bus and decided to hoof it to my destination. No waiting around for me, no
siree.
I went into the terminal to look at the map, but to my horror, there was
no map anywhere. There was an unstaffed information booth with an
instructional safety video playing in it. There were flyers for the Texas
Rangers, Dallas Cowboys, and the Governor George Bush Jr.
Realizing that time was definitely not on my side, I did a very unmanly
thing and decided to ask for help. I went to the nearest ticket counter
and stood in line behind a man wearing way too much aftershave. I choked back
a low-grade panic attack and waited for Aftershave Boy to finish up. A
couple of million years later I was able to ask, "Which way do I need to go for the
America West gates?"
The ticket agent looked at me with strange pity in his eyes and said,
"You walk seven gates down that way, go back through security, down the
elevator and take the train."
"The train?"
"Ya. The train."
I would have lost it on the spot, but I was suddenly overpowered by the
thick cloud of aftershave vapor floating around us. I held my breath for a
moment, looked at my watch, and began a high-speed powerwalk to the
train. I used the bags in my hands for bumpers and made pretty good time. But when
I got to the train station there was no train in sight.
A sign at the empty train station said that "Yellow Train" was the one
for America West. I waited. And as I waited I'll be damned if there wasn't
a strong smell of aftershave lingering in the station. I checked my
watch. I freaked. I waited some more, and the aftershave smell waited
right there with me. In fact, it seemed to get stronger the longer I waited.
And then I had my epiphany. The aftershave I smelled was English
Leather. My brand. The brand of aftershave dripping steadily from the
bottom of my garment bag. My aftershave's lid had come loose and
nearly an entire bottle had emptied into my shaving kit, run through the
zipper, and into the bag. It saturated the bag and was actually bleaching
the color out in places. It was me who stunk. I WAS Aftershave Boy.
As I pondered this cruel twist of fate, the "Blue Train" arrived. An
electric sign blinked to life showing Blue Train's destination. (not
America West) Then a recording kicked on and casually told me that Yellow Train
was not running today and I would need to use an Airport Bus. "Yellow Bus"
>
Why couldn't they have put up a sign to tell me this? Why did I have to
waste precious minutes waiting for a recording? There are signs everywhere
in an airport. Most of them tell me things I don't give a rat's ass about.
(janitorial storage closet, Admiral's lounge, etc.) Could they dedicate
a little signage to the Little Engine Who Couldn't? Did they need to be
that frugal with the miracle of the printed word? NOOOOO! They made me
wait for a recording! A fucking recording! Blah!
I didn't dwell on it. I had no time. (That's why I'm dwelling on it now. I
have time) I packed my smelly ass over to the bus-stop and tried not to
look at my watch. It was hot. It was humid. I was sweating through my suit
and smelling like a gajillion fragrance strips packed in the world's
largest magazine.
Somewhere far away my plane was boarding.
Blue Bus came. Another Blue Bus came. Parking Bus showed up. The busses
left. Hotel Bus stopped by. Discount Parking Bus made an appearance. Then
Hotel Bus again and Blue Bus and FINALLY Yellow Bus got off it's lazy
union-ass and got to work.
Yellow Bus was piloted by a soft-spoken gentleman from the Southern
Bliktha. He spoke almost exclusively in his native tongue. As you know, in
Southern Bliktha bus intercom systems are considered icons of evil and are
routinely sacrificed to Eweretha (the benevolent Goat God). This was
apparently what had become of the PA on Yellow Bus.
As he made his rounds, our driver mumbled the information about each
stop into the steering wheel. This triggered the most sorry-ass game of
Telephone I have ever witnessed in my life. People in the front of the bus (none of
whom were from Bliktha) attempted to translate the diver's words to those
behind. These people would try to convey the information over the roar of the bus
to the people behind them, and so on.
"Terminal two east"
"Terminal to Eastern"
"..terminal for Eastern, too. Pass it back."
"subliminal Eastern butt-crack"
"Christ, who is wearing all that aftershave?"
..and so on.
I made my best guess and bailed out of Yellow Bus a mere 19 gates from
my destination. With no time to spare, I sprinted to the security gate. I
overwhelmed the young woman working the gate with a heavy dose of
English Leather fumes and dashed off faster than you can say "body-cavity
search."
I made it to my gate just after "final boarding" was announced. They
took one whiff of me, opened the door and pushed me onto the jetway. I
made my flight! I was getting the hell out of Texas.
Ya. I'm a paranoid freak about flying. I have my reasons.