The next twenty-four hours will be very trying for me. The
majority of you would not see them as angst ridden and fraught with peril, but
I do.
You see, we're going on 'vacation'. Vacation for the average
Joe is a fun filled journey of discovery and relaxation. For me, not so much.
The vacations we have taken the last few years have been great, with the
exception of the overnight stay in Kansas at a shit hole RV 'park' which was
not much more than a treed lot next to a busy highway/train crossing. But our
vacations were previously angst free because we drove to them. Usually dragging
our travel trailer behind our vehicle.
I love my RV. I know
who slept where, what they did in the friendly confines, and that coffee pot
was not washed out using the toilet brush. Being surrounded by my own personal
belongings gives me comfort. It allows me to relax, and actually have a good
time. Rest, recreate and rejuvenate my body and soul. It's nice. But this vacation
is one that I have been dreading. "Why?" You might ask. Simple:
I hate to fly.
I understand the science of flight. The plane wants to be in
the air, blah, blah, blah... It's safer than car travel, blah, blah, blah... There
are strict rules in place for the crew and passengers alike to maintain optimum
blah, blah, blah...
That's great. But here's the thing; I'm a bit of a control
freak, and the powers that be frown upon
me knocking on the cockpit door and asking for the crew's references and
qualifications.
"Did you get a full night's sleep?" "You won't be texting and flying,
right?" "Are you in a happy
relationship?" "Are you on any medications that might alter your
perception of life?" "Have you seen the movie Airplane! ?"
Not only do they discourage that type of behavior, but they
also don't like it when you get on a plane drunk, which is my old standby
method of flying. Once I get to the airport, I pound down vino like a camel at
an oasis, trying to store it up in my system, hoping for a time-release buzz effect.
Our flight tomorrow is at six am. Which means we have to be
at the airport by five. Which means I have to get up at four. Which means for
me to get the proper amount of alcohol in my system, I'd have to start drinking
at two. I work nights driving a carriage, I don't even go to bed before two. So I might as well stay
up all night, right?
"You can sleep on
the plane."
No, you can sleep on the plane. I must
stay awake and vigilant, keeping the plane in the air with sheer force of will.
I also understand that now, in an effort to screw a
passenger out of even more of their hard earned money (because charging for your
baggage isn't enough...) some airlines make you pay to sit next to a
friend/loved one/person who has bathed in the past 24 hours. To quote Mr. T, I
pity the poor fool who has the unfortunate happenstance to be next to moi. Both
Mr. Slave Driver and The Kid are well versed in my take off and landing
routine. They must hold my hand and allow me to exert enough force to keep the
plane on a steady path. For the average person, this wouldn't be an issue, but
I'm not the average person.
I'm a carriage driver.
That means I routinely control a 2000 pound animal with my
hands, thus also allowing me enough well developed muscle control to rip apples
in half without benefit of a knife and crack walnuts with a squeeze. So,
seriously, unless your name is The Incredible Hulk, you do not want the job
sitting next to me requires. On the other hand, in a restaurant people like to
sit next to me because they get all the things I don't like to eat, like
shrimp, mushrooms, bleu cheese chunks and avocados.
And to add to the stress, we are arriving at our destination in no less than three flights. That's six take offs and landing. Six, count 'em. If I'm in a middle seat, I can inflict my own type of torture on right side person for take off, and left side person for landing. If I'm at the window or aisle, somebody gets double dipped and is headed for a world of hurt.
So if you're at the airport and see an unfortunate individual
with a squashed hand screaming while they run down the concourse, you know I've
been there.
You can find me in the bar.
(SLC to Minnesota. Minnesota to New York City. New York City to Portland, Maine.)
