On April 20th my son, Rob, picked me up around 6AM and drove me in his new car to Orlando International Airport. My flight was scheduled to leave at 8:30AM, so I wanted to ensure ample time to get through the FSA check. I’m not a frequent flyer. In fact, I detest riding around in an over-sized aluminum can 39,000 feet above the earth. I especially hate being confined for a couple of hours to a personal, rented space that is somewhat smaller than the average linen closet. A few years ago I posted a blog on the last previous occasion of me having to fly somewhere, about what needed to be done to improve the customer aspect of flying. Specifically, the CEO’s of any airline needs to ride on his or her planes in coach/economy.
Anyway, the last time I flew I was called out for having some unidentified residue on my hands and received a full and rather intrusive pat down. I’m not sure what was on my hands because I had just washed them in the airport’s laboratory. But it was what it was and I certainly did not want to appear belligerent and be pulled aside for an interrogation or something worse. However, it did cause me to consider how easily we have come to the point of allowing our government to have carte blanche over saying what we can and cannot bring onto an airplane and what constitutes a reason for having one's genitals inspected, albeit through clothing. I guess I’m kind of like everyone else in my overall acceptance, though. If it keeps the plane from being hijacked, maybe it’s okay.
This time around I made sure I was not carrying anything metallic in my pockets, including no change. Also, I had only the approved travel size of toothpaste and such. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I was going to whip out my full-size toothpaste tube and threaten someone with it. I also wore fairly loose fitting clothing so I could be comfortable. Except I opted to wear laced sneakers, which I figured at some point I’d have to remove.
When I arrived at the airport, said my goodbyes to my son and thanked him for the ride, I went inside and stood third in line at the terminal for printing boarding passes. My home printer was out of ink and, since I rarely use it to print anything, I decided not to buy a new ink cartridge but to instead use the device at the airport. I waited ten minutes for my turn, though, because the people in front of me were obviously less accustomed to flying than me, if you can imagine that.
Once my boarding pass was printed, I hoofed it to the longest line I’ve ever seen at the airport, the one for TSA screening. I’m not sure what was going on that morning, but I overheard someone saying there was a 3 hour wait. Oops, that would make me late getting on my plane. But I was also sure that at least half of those ahead of me in line had pushed their luck to the point that they were trying to arrive at their gate in the next ten or so minutes. And I figured things had to speed up a bit somewhere along the way. So, I settled in perfectly willing to wait my turn – like I had any choice.
But, it turned out I did have a choice. One of the TSA people was walking along the line and checking boarding passes. He noticed that mine had TSA Pre-Checked printed on it. Hell, I didn’t even know what that meant, but apparently I was allowed to skip the long line and get into a relatively shorter line, one that allowed me to stow my phone and wallet in my backpack, leave my Microsoft Surface Pro 3 (with keyboard attached) in my bag and, believe it or not, I didn’t have to remove my shoes!
From talking to the people in that line I learned that TSA Pre-Check was a program that they had filled out a form and been interviewed in order to receive. I didn’t do any of that. Hmmm. Maybe the gods were smiled on me or something. Perhaps it was karma for having to endure the aforementioned highly personal pat down on my last previous flight. Whichever, I wasn’t about to call the mistake to anyone’s attention. I was perfectly fine with being in the express line. After all, I had nothing to hide.
Upon passing through screening, I made it to my gate with ample time to spare. I settled in across from a young family with two very young with children. The boy who couldn’t have been more than three kept making faces at me. When I made a face back at him he started to laugh. I was glad because that could have gone either way. As I continued to sit there I watched the vacant seats fill with fellow travelers.
A few dozen minutes later, a elderly lady approached asking if the empty seat beside me was taken.
“It’s yours.”
“Thank you.” She smiled and settled in.
“You going home to Cleveland or just visiting?”
“Well, just visiting. I live here now, actually in Ocala. I hate Orlando, all the traffic and it seems like there is always road construction.”
“Yeah, that takes some getting used to. You live in Cleveland?”
“No. I’m visiting. I'm from there, but...I've lived in Ocala for better than twenty years. Are you from Cleveland?"
"No, I'm originally from Ohio, though, Springfield. I'm going to meet up with my publicist who lives there. She's picking me up at the airport. We’re driving to Chicago tomorrow for a convention.”
“Publicist? You’re someone famous?”
“Let’s say that’s a work in progress. I’m getting there, I guess.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a writer.”
“Really? What do you write?”
“Sci-fi and fantasy, mostly. Some mystery.”
"Anything I've heard of?"
"Well, I don't know. That depends." I began fishing a business card from my backpack.
“I don’t think I’ve ever met an author.”
“This is me.” I handed her my card, which on the obverse bears an image of my book's cover. "That's my latest." I confirmed as she looked at both sides of the card.
“How interesting!”
Now, people who know me have already heard my take on the word “interesting” when used in conversation. Sometimes it means the opposite, as in when you've been talking to a young lady in a bar and very soon after saying "how Interesting" she excuses herself to go to the restroom never to be seen again. But this time, apparently "interesting" was offered at face value.
“I’ll have to look it up.”
“Do you have a Kindle?”
“No, I prefer real books.”
“I do too. But I always ask. I have a Kindle, but I use it primarily for reading books I’m going to review for other authors.”
“I see.”
And so it went on. I learned about her family and I told her a little about mine. Turned out she grew up on a farm, too. That’s not all that unusual for someone from Ohio, especially someone close to my age.
When it came time to board the plane, we were seated in different zones. We wished one another a safe flight.
Flying economy on any airline is a gamble in many ways. It's made worse by flying on a deep discount airline. For the privilege of selecting a seat you must pay extra. I wasn’t about to do that. What's the point. I could do that with a more expensive fare airline. Sort of defeats the whole purpose of getting a cheap ticket, doesn't it? But this time around. the seat lottery worked out in my favor. I was in an aisle seat. My legs wouldn’t be cramped for the entire 2+ hour flight. In fact, other than what I’d consider excessive turbulence as we passed over a thunderstorm on the way, the flight went very well. I cannot sleep on a plane. I’ve never been able to do that, not even flying to other countries, a process that can take a day or more to complete. This flight was little different. Being a no frills, economy affair the only refreshments and snacks offered were for an exorbitant price. Again, I’m sorry but $9 for a Coke and cracker sandwiches goes against the whole point of flying economy—right?
I made conversation with the young man seated beside me. He worked at Disney and was flying back to his hometown, more or less, to spend time with his family. He majored in theater in college, so that became a point of some discussion as my eldest daughter also studied theater. And, like him, she worked at a major amusement park for a while. He was also interested in my books. So I handed him a business card. What I learned from selling cards, among other things, is to always be selling. I don’t’ think I have actually ever expected anyone to buy a book immediately after they get home, or to a place where they can order one. But it is in the back of their mind. And maybe, just maybe, they will think about it in the future, or they might see something about me online and recall having met me. Stranger things happen—you know?
We landed. Sorry if there was any drama in that for you, but, after all, I am writing this, so obviously, I survived. If I hadn’t, by now you might have heard about it in some more general terms. As soon as we were allowed to resume using our cell phones I text messaged my publicist, Christine. She said she was on her way and would be there in ten or so minutes. Well, I had some time. After all, when you’re seated in row 37, you don’t expect to get off the plane anytime soon upon arrival. I wasn’t disappointed. There was more than ample time for my publisher to text message me asking if I’d arrived and if Christine, who I call C, was with me.
Yes and no..
C and I had never actually met, though we’ve known each other for four years. We connect often online and message one another frequently. So we sort of feel like we know one another. But, my publisher, Zara, was anxious. She wanted to see pictures of us actually meeting. But the line to leave the plane was not moving at all, prompting me to message back, “The way things are going it may be time to turn around and fly back to Florida before I get off this thing.”
But I did deplane eventually. And, at my age, one of the priorities of life is always knowing where the nearest restroom is. There was a men’s room just down the corridor from the arrival gate. But, as you might expect, there was a line in there, too. But I figured I had some time to wait. I texted C who told me she was almost to the parking garage.
Once the necessity was taken care of, I returned to finding the baggage claim area. It wasn’t that I had anything to pick up, but I had already texted C that I’d meet her there. I got there before she did, which didn’t surprise me all that much. I hung around, waiting and watching for her. She was coming with her husband; they were just married a couple of days before. She intended him to record our first meeting for posterity-–a video. Well, that and anytime someone else can drive is a good thing. Afterwards we had vague plans of maybe going to the Rock'n'Roll Hall Of Fame.
I waited and waited. And as I waited some more I was reminded of a story I wrote a while ago, a heretofore unpublished piece called Text Message. In it, the main character, who conveniently enough is a writer, has reconnected with someone he had a crush on back in grade school. For weeks, even months, they’ve had a relationship via text messages, mainly because the MC’s son forced him to use an upgraded phone with a built-in qwerty keyboard, giving him a reconditioned one as a Christmas present. The childhood sweethearts arrange to meet again in their old home town at a restaurant that has been there since before they were born. But when he arrives, she’s a no show. He tries to text message her, but cannot seem to reach her. Then, he receives a strange message about her waiting for him for as long as she can. She has a doctor’s appointment to get to and they'll just have to connect later. When he goes to the doctor’s office to find her, the receptionist has never heard of the lady, but then a nurse overhears the conversation. And he learns the troublesome truth. His heartthrob from the past died four years ago. Apparently, he's been receiving text messages from a ghost.
Those thoughts ran through my mind as I continued to wait for C. What if…
Then she arrived. Seeing her, I waved and she came running toward me. We hugged as JD, her hubby, recorded the event.
To Be Continued.