Dead Man Walking
The sky is turning steel grey as the sunset highlights wisps of the remaining jet contrails hanging above the worn tarmac. The scene has a sterile industrial appearance with the soft light bouncing off the polished metal machines which line the gates like bees on a honeycomb. The routine has become almost to routine as I follow a well worn path without thinking in a subconscious response like breathing. Entering the concourse through gate B3, I turn left and slowly shuffle with the ear buds pumping Greg Allman singing “the dark side of the road” into my brain as the moving walkway reminds me of its termination for the millionth time in that exceedingly androgynous voice. It’s late and the concourse is largely abandon only littered with a few gate agents milling around waiting for the next cattle car to arrive as I head to gate B21 for the final leg of this trip.
The crowd has always begun to assemble into three simple lines waiting for the jetway door to open. I take my place in line to begin the wait with everyone else. Pain has been welling in the muscles of my lower back which is now attempting to compete for center stage with the low grade thumping headache that has been my companion since Hartford. As my feet burn from standing for the past two days, I mumble to myself "I can’t believe that it’s only Tuesday". The voice over the intercom is droning in the background, but the sound drifts past without importance because it’s someone else’s flight to nowhere in particular. I’ve been conditioned to only respond to the specific drone of my gate like the penguins that can identify their youth after months of separation purely by the small sound of their voice. Like a baby penguin I quietly wait for a familiar drone which begins the process of perpetual motion all over again.
The gate opens as four serious TSA agents scurry down and disappear into the jetway to discover hidden gels and liquids. Travelers have already adapted to the new regulations adeptly discarding all types of viscous personal items without blinking. Less than three days since the spoiled plot to instill fear into the general public, the routine is once again commonplace. The public’s attention span is now so short and dysfunctional that we now act like the last act of terrorism is nothing more than a rerun of a bad sitcom from a show that has been cancelled due to lack of interest. Terrorists are going to need to get creative in order to capture our undivided attention and concern. That’s a problem any more; no one is being creative and simple concepts are being recycled over and over. Even the most diabolical insane terrorist can’t come up with a new idea.
As the door opens again the lines perk up and we start a noticeable shuffle while standing in place. Approaching the gate Ray Charles singing “America the beautiful” filling my head as the TSA agents scurry back out of the jetway past me. I reach up a salute the first TSA agent as he goes by. It just seemed like the thing to do, I guess Ray made me do it. The TSA agent immediately slows to take a good look while a complete shakedown of this potential deviant crosses his mind. The remaining TSA agents press forward distracting him with more important things to do, as they march off like a pack of Elmer Fudds chasing the mythical Bugs Bunny dressed in fatigues and a turban. The line begins to dwindle as I approach the gate in a painful slow baton death march.
Holding out the lottery ticket to win a ride to another location, I’m stopped cold as the gate agent says, “Sir you’re on the next flight.” Stunned I look down at the ticket and see the wrong departure time. “Please step aside, this plane is full.” You mean I’ve been standing in line for the past 45 minutes for a flight I’m not on? What happened to me gate B3 to B21? Sheepishly I wander back to the concourse and start heading to gate A9 for the next flight, when it strikes me that I didn’t need to look at the monitors to know the next gate. I know the 7:40 flight is out of gate B21 and then the 8:55 flight is out of gate A9, then the 9:30 flight is gate B15 and the last flight at 9:55 during the summer is back at gate B21. This realization is deeply troubling to me as I follow the routine and slowly march to gate A9.
Some people might consider this insight and knowledge of airline operations as a badge of honor or a sign of a brilliant photographic mind, but I find it a sign of a hopeless routine of waiting for time to pass. I begin to think that maybe I need a vacation, observing the gates I’m traveling past on my way to A9. B15 Washington DC……no I was there last week. B13 Ft. Lauderdale…….we just got a project there, so I’ll be traveling there a lot. B11 Hartford……….out of the question I just came from there. B9 Detroit……..no way I had a project there a few years ago and I’ve been there enough for a long time. B7 Boston………I was there three weeks ago and will be going back next month. B5 New York……..another trip next month. After awhile I come to the conclusion that maybe a vacation is not such a great idea. I would just be standing in that line instead of this one.
Arriving at A9, I assume my place in the pre-ordained line, this time at the right gate. As the door opens for the flight crew to enter the jetway when I notice that it’s the crew that flies the Chicago-Kansas City-Baltimore-Islip route. Again my sense of well being is shaken by the fact that I can associate particular crews with particular routes. Worst of all the flight attendant smiles and waves as she passes, letting me know that she also recognizes me. I’m of no particular striking physical persona that would make me memorable, just another face in the crowd, in her case a crowd of thousands of new faces each week. Five legs a day at 225 per flight equal almost 6,000 passengers a week, but she remembers me? I must have crossed over into the realm of that stupid little short commercial that bludgeons the airways so frequently that you can’t ignore it. I need to ask this airline about my pension options when I retire, I’m putting in as much time as the crews.
The gentle vibrating of my cell phone is a welcome relief from the depressing thoughts of the retirement dinner the airline will hold for me. I’ve have not heard a ring tone from my phone for the past five years, I prefer to keep the settings on silent so I’m not the idiot that jumps up in the middle of a funeral because his phone begins belting out Barry Manilow. A recent study found that one third of cell phone calls in public are faked because the person is trying to impress the public into thinking they are important. One out of three of the idiots babbling about crap are doing it so I think they are somebody? I need to inform them that I have never found anyone with a cell phone crammed into their ear important, interesting or anything close to a form of intelligent life. Cell phones are an entire subject that I better not get started on.
Answering the phone I recognize the voice of my closest friend for well over 40 years. “Hey mon, you are not going to believe this I’m living your life right now……I’m stuck in Mr. Blue’s hell.”
Knowing that we are now entering our long running game of can you top this I start “Yeah I bet you haven’t been standing in the wrong line for the past hour?”
“No” he replies “I’m been sitting my ass on a broken plane in Seattle for the past three hours and they are now giving me the news that we will arrive in New York at 3:30 am.”
Breaking a smile I need more so I ask “So what’s up with the plane?”
Feeling the anger begin to well he says “They have to replace some stinking part and they don’t have the part here so they are flying it up on the next flight from Los Angeles”.
Knowing he is on the edge and I don’t have a prayer of winning this contest, I begin to badger him, “So what’s the big deal?”
With that little poke it comes rolling out “Dude! I’m in Seattle the home of Boeing, the world’s greatest airplane manufacturer in the world. I’m so close to the factory I can almost see where they make the parts from my seat on the runway and I’m on a fucking French made Airbus!!!!”
There comes a point in our simple lives when we gain comfort in the misfortune of others, smiling I reply “Hey I though you were the one who said how important of a global economy is.”
Interrupting me he says “Mr. Blue don’t go there, right now or else I’ll push this plane to Chicago just to kick your ass!”
In a friendship that has been forged into steel over the years, close the conversation “Hey sweetheart be sure to give me a call when land in New York I want to be sure you made it home okay.”
Placing the phone back into my pocket I hear him talking to himself” I can’t believe I’m Mr. Blue stuck on some god dam plane…………”
For a brief moment my life is brightened knowing that I’m not the only “dead man walking” today.
