Hot in the Airport
The day I flew into LaGuardia three hours later than scheduled, the ever-fretful Senator Chuck Schumer held another one of his press conferences, this one to announce that delays were rampant at New York airports. That was a shocker.
Then everything changed, and every flight was a disaster. No matter the airline, no matter the destination, every leg of every flight was guaranteed to contain something really awful. Cabs to LaGuardia ended up in Connecticut. Missed connections. Flights delayed for hours, bumbling security hassles, smoke-free airports, the works.
Case in point: a quick and simple trip to Wisconsin last month. Everything began more smoothly than I thought possible anymore. The car showed up early. The driver knew the way. I had time to suck down three cigarettes before heading inside the terminal.
There was no line at the Northwest counter, and I strolled toward security, still a little stunned at how smoothly things were going. Even when security confiscated my lighters, I was fine. I kind of figured they might, so I'd packed plenty of matches.
Forty-five minutes before (before!) we were scheduled to depart, they began loading the plane. I found myself in an otherwise empty row. I nearly began chuckling with glee.
The plane pulled out onto the tarmac, and there we waited.
And then we waited some more. We continued waiting, poised there, without any explanation. I glanced at my watch. A while later, I glanced at it again. I had an hour layover in Detroit. But as we sat there on the tarmac, I watched in disbelief as that hour slowly dwindled away to nothing.
By the time we eventually landed in Detroit, I had ten minutes left.
As I stepped off the plane, a woman holding a clipboard offered to tell me what gate I needed.
"That would be swell," I said. "Flight 1127 to Green Bay?"
She glanced at the clipboard. "That's Gate A-9," she said, pointing. "It's right down there."
I scanned until I finally found the nearest gate.
"A-70," the sign read.
"Well," I thought, "maybe the numbering system's a little weird." I continued walking through the terminal, until I found the next sign. This one read, "A-69."
I began to walk a little faster.
A-65?A-64?
By the time I hit A-62, I was running my lumbering, clunky run.
A-47?A-46?A-45?
They seemed to be passing very slowly.
A-23?A-22?
I reached Gate A-9 with (by my watch) 30 seconds to spare. Nobody was waiting to board, and the woman behind the desk looked like she was getting ready to leave herself. My legs numb, my knees about to give way, my face dripping sweat, I loped toward her holding my boarding pass aloft, and slammed into the counter.
"Did I miss it?"
She stared at me a moment, dumbfounded. "Flight to Green Bay?" she asked, finally.
"Yeah," I nodded frantically.
"Not yet."
As she stepped over to open the door, I stumbled into the velvet ropes, then the little pedestal where they check the boarding passes.
"Sorry," I offered. "I just ran the length of the terminal in ten minutes."
She still looked suspicious. "Well, you made it," she said, hardly impressed by my achievement, "so you can calm down now."
A stewardess was waiting at the plane's door when I got there. I was no less sweaty and still breathing hard.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
"Just a little frazzled," I said, not wanting to get into the whole thing.
Once past her, I began bouncing my way from one seat to the next as I careened down the aisle. Then I noticed that the stewardess was following close behind.
"You sure you're okay?" she asked.
"Oh, I'm fine, thanks. Happy to be here."
"You need help finding your seat?"
"Sure," I replied, not wanting to appear unfriendly. She, too, had that look in her eye-the one that said she knew that before the flight was over, I'd be crapping on a serving cart.
After finding my seat without a moment to spare, I slumped down and buckled myself in. Then the sweat really began to pour off me.
And there we sat. After 20 minutes, the pilot came on to announce that the tug that was supposed to pull the plane out of the gate had broken, and they had to wait for another.
Half an hour later, he informed us that they had a new tug now, but that the plane's tow bar had broken and had to be replaced.
It dawned on me slowly. Those looks and questions. This delay was all a ruse. As we sat there, a detailed background check was being run. Soon, two air marshals were going to step aboard the plane, stroll casually down the aisle to avoid causing too much alarm and ask me quietly if I might be so kind as to step off the plane with them so they might ask me a few questions. I was doomed. I felt the dull panic rising in my guts.
Well, that never came to pass, but man oh man, I am really coming to hate airplanes.