Monday, June 6, 2005

The Wright brothers? Jury’s still out on them. They should receive applause for their great invention–Orville whittled something and flew it, they say–and yet I’m not entirely opposed to the idea of ramming their exhumed remains through five goddamn propellers. Flying has never sent me into throes of wonder, convulsions of quiet suffering are far more accurate, and walking really quickly seems like a reasonable substitute for air travel.

It all begins in the airport, which combines the best parts of the DMV with the grim sensibilities of a bus stop. Never mind the security checks or the long lines or the affordable food–the gate is where the magic happens. I once met a woman who insisted on cutting in front of me against all odds. Ticket counter, terminal, layover, it didn’t matter. Wherever I found myself in line, I needed only to look forward and there was the back of her head. I suspect I could’ve gone to the bathroom and found her standing in front of my urinal, flushing it with a determination befitting Mr. Clean’s distant cousin.

There’s the toddler whose parents subscribe to benign neglect, and accordingly he stumbles around and terrorizes everyone to adorable effect. Equally adorable, or so I’ve read, is checking in your spawn along with the rest of your luggage. The baggage claim is like a carousel, after all. But this time, this time I speak with a man who instills in me colossal despair for the human condition.

Southwest Airlines boards its customers in three different groups: A, B, and C. I imagine you know who goes first and who goes last. Unfortunately, this fellow doesn’t, and the fact that he is given to ample vulgarity doesn’t help matters. The arcane truths of the alphabet confound him to the dirtiest language, and he needs help. To whom does he turn? Guess.

“What line is this?” he asks.

“B,” I reply.

“What about that line?” he pursues.

“That one’s ‘A,'” I subtly point to the well-lit letter.

“So which one goes first?” he inquires, instantly damning our species to eternal shame.

“Hmmm, I think ‘A’ goes first,” I offer with my best contemplative look.

“I’ve got a ‘C’ pass, so…”

“Right after ‘B.'”

Certainly I don’t expect a symposium, but there must be at least one Marshall scholar in the building, right? I guess she got stuck in an X-ray machine.

An hour delay, then a rustle of totes, and the plane finally begins moving. The safety presentation starts and ends quickly, delivered in rote solemnity. I’m told I can use my seat cushion as a flotation device, except I’m flying to Chicago. We could land in Lake Michigan, I suppose, though an indoor pool is much more feasible. The plane is equipped with six exits, two in the front, two to the side, two in the back. Simply pull the mask down and over my face and take big, ragged gasps of I’M SO FUCKING DEAD.

“I’m not meant to see the horizon at a 45-degree angle,” I tell myself, “whether from here or from a festive limbo line 1,576 feet below.”

Another feature is the fat woman in the back who snores for most of the trip, not to mention the neighbor blithely given to the most redolent flatulence.

But now I’m here with you, back on the firmament, and I can tell you one thing: you beat honey-roasted peanuts at any time of the day.