We all know that flying is a bitch, roight? I mean a full-blooded, all-American, red-headed, bee-yatch! Cold. Emotionless. Hardened.
Your late? "Fuck you," says the airport!
Me, well, I travel well. I'm prepared, courteous, mindful of my surroundings and generally well-behaved. Just give me some place to park it for a while to imbibe a drink or two and man, I'm right up there with God and baby Jesus. Altruistic even!
But, even I have a bad day or two and so do the airlines.
The day after Christmas, Beatrice and I packed up our belongings to return to H-town for the remainder of the week. We were carrying heavy, 7 bags including carry-ons, and a firearm. Things went smoothly at the check-in counter. I declared the gun, went through the rig-a-ma-roll with the service agent, gun unloaded, locked, locked in a box, locked in a luggage, checked the bags, got them scanned, boarding passes, checked-in, happy, good job, well-done, let's go. . .do what?
Excuse me? Uh, what was that you say? Our flight has been delayed by 4 hours you say? Flights out of Chicago have been canceled? Good Lord Bardenstein!
Hey, is that my blood pressure? Why is my face burning? Is my hair on fire? No worries Beatrice, let's get to the bar.
At the first bar, we encountered the first of many freaky people in the form of the bartender/waitress. She was this older, tall, blond, kooky woman with frazzled birdnest hair who fits the mold perfectly for women described as "crazy cat ladies." When she spoke, her head nodded exaggeratedly and her empty eyes blinked dramatically as she listened to our plight. Her responses we long and drawn out like "ooooohhhhhh, thaaaaaaattttssssss teeeerrrrribbllllllle." I'm sure this speech affliction was the result of one too many quaaludes during her disco days.
Before we could even order with the crazy cat lady she informed us that the bar would be closing so we had to order immediately. What? WTF is this?? It's only 5:30 p.m. on a freaking Friday night!! I mean, I know this is no night out on the town, but damn! She was kind enough to let us scarf down a sandwich and salad and half a beer before we were booted out into the main concourse where we found countless more freaks.
We moseyed down, yes we moseyed, only because it sounds better than perambulated, we moseyed down to our concourse, through security, scans, body searches. Thank God I didn't have to take off my socks and we eventually found our way to the OTHER bar in the airport, the "cool" bar where I know everyone's name. And not the people working there.
This bar's theme is the Mississippi Sports Hall of Fame and there are many a familiar face on the wall. Walter Peyton, Archie Manning, Jerry Rice, Dizzy Dean, lesser know figures like Frank "Bruiser" Kinard, James "Cool Papa" Bell, and hey, who's that there hiding behind that table?
Well, it's Doug Elmore, my dad's long-time friend. Alright, I'm feeling a little better.
I have a beer, a Beatrice, the eyes of my fellow Mississippians gazing down upon us. This won't be so bad. Only 4 more hours to go.
This is when the real freak show began.
We had "The Pacer." A nervous man with a comb-over, our unknown, but eventual seat-mate on the flight, who for hours, paced up and down the concourse, gobbling trail mix, sitting down, standing up, pace, pace, pace, pace, pace. Gobble, gobble, gobble. He eases over our way. Oh no! Ah, thank goodness, he turned off at the last second.
Then there was the "Loud Woman." A portly, splotchy, strawberry-blond who sat at the table across from us with a child, draining Crown Royal and Diet Coke as her child reminded her "your drunk," while she insisted on butting into our conversations with inane commentary as half a fried catfish sandwich hung out of her mouth. Lovely. Then proudly for her, we were forced to look at a cellphone picture of her with none other than Lance Bass she had taken earlier in the airport. Lance Bass was in Jackson? Just add that to the long list of weird people and things. . .
I asked the waitress casually, "So, what's up with the freak show?" Her flat reply was that the holidays always bring them out and described an armless man earlier that wanted shots of whiskey poured down his gullet and a blind man who drank coffee like water and paid for it with $11 borrowed from the cab driver who brought him to the airport. The holidays indeed.
Shortly after this information, a one-legged elderly woman entered the bar and then separately, a one-armed woman came in. Fascinating! What are the odds of that, especially after the prior conversation about the armless man? Beatrice and I felt we had descended into some alternate reality, a Twilight Zone even, as we marveled over the independence and dexterity of the one-armed madam.
I had to take a walk. Hey look, poorly thought out Christmas decorations!
Northwest Airlines must have a maximum height requirement for the seven passengers that fly to and from Detroit each day.
Beatrice and I finished our beverages and left the bar as it closed at 8:00 p.m. We made our way down to the end of the concourse to find a quiet corner to huddle in as we waited.
We hunkered down next to the cleaning cart and nested as best we could given the circumstances.
Out came the pretzel mix, Cokes, napkins and the latest issue of Culture magazine. Yes, Culture magazine is not what you think. Did I mention we're moving to Idaho to raise goats and make cheese? Naa-aa-aa-aa-aah, I'm not kidding and we are definitely as crazy as we look.
We made out as best we could keeping a great distance between the freak show and ourselves as we waited, but just across the hall from us in a cubbyhole next to the bathroom were three blinged-out ghetto brothers from Houston.
A problem? No.
Not until "n*gger" this and "n*gger" that started, followed by all forms of the f-bomb in a loud and ghetto-like attenuation. It wouldn't really have bothered me so much, none of those words offend me, it's only that they were being used in a public mart, loudly and without consideration to the elderly or children around them. But, I guess this is simply a by-product of "da man holdin' deez boyz down fo so long, dat dey cain't get no job or nothin'." And "dat sorry-ass muffugin ho' dat be shackin' up wit dat n*gger from down da skreet and I oughta bust up in dere and put a cap up in dat n*gga's heyd!"
I'm lovin' it.
I took a few deep breaths and imagined myself milking goats in Idaho with Beatrice and tending to my aging wheels of cheese that I will name "Toasticus Mull." Beatrice was kind enough to remind me that it was in fact Christmas and no matter our plight, our tribulations in trying to get home, we should be grateful for what we have. Togetherness, family, love and sharing. And she was right. . .
Indeed it is a time to be thankful, caring and giving. Forgiving. So, I forgive thee, even you three rude boys who have no future. I forgive Mother Nature for dissolving four and a half hours of my precious time. It's ok, it's really ok. I'm thankful.
Thankful for Ja-ger-mei-ster!
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