DISCLAIMER: These events are true. Only the winds have been changed to protect fuel economy. I don’t actually watch Murder She Wrote. (Anymore.) In the event of a water landing, this trip is not approved as a flotation device.
Day 1:
Wife and kids drop me lower level at the airport because my piece of shit GerMexi VolksJuarez conjured deathbed symbology and refused to start.
A word about my car: 2000 Volkswagen Jetta. Bought it off eBay in 03. Picked it up in Memphis. Lease return. Spent a full week cleaning nicotine off every interior surface. (The seatbelts for crissakes!) The paint is scratched and etched with alien blood. The driver’s airbag is inop. There are lipstick smears and cigarette burns in the headliner. The cup holder fell out.
The gear shift knob cracked. I replaced the $200 factory part with what I thought was a simple $12 metal knob. Fucking thing lights up and chases round the top K.I.T.T style to no discernable purpose when you press the inconspicuous little button in the middle.
The windows are tinted Midnight Purple Awesome. (This may have contributed to me backing into my own fucking car in my own fucking driveway. Twice.) The driver’s window fell completely off the track. In my infinite manly-ness, I took the door apart to fish it out. Had to get my hottie mechanic wife to put it back together (Less manly).
A couple years back I crushed the passenger-side mirror backing out of my uber space-efficient garage. The interior plastiwood door trim escaped. (Or was deported.) But it’s paid off and it runs. Or did.
Anyhow, as I smooch occupants and stack my gear, a Quasi-feral Euroid emitting “where the fuck am I?” pheromones gangles toward me bass-like. Chin up. Mouth working. Befuddlement leaking out from behind wire frame glasses.
I’m so sure he’s going to ask me where he should go, that when he breaks right and heads back in the opposite direction, I’m fascinated. I assume he was attracted to the shiny objects on my uniform.
I put on my hat and go in the really large, obvious, (and only) door available. Eurobass falls in behind me. He’s tripping my proximity alarms down the whole 50 yards of empty hallway. If I stop I swear this guy is going blunder into me dick first. Then I’ll have to explain that I already have a boyfriend. Awkward.
I get to the ticketing level and realize I don’t know where to go. I pick people up here all the time, but this is the first I’ve come in this way. (I normally park in the employee lot and take the bus directly to Operations.) I go to the north employee entrance, but it’s gone. A Blueberry (TSA Agent) tells me it’s now down by the Admin area.
There’s a sign: “Employee Entrance To The Right Of Glass Wall.” I go down the right side of the glass wall. No door. I go back and read the sign again. I consider that maybe I don’t know my left from right. (This has happened before.) I consider that maybe the sign was supposed to face the other way. (Only, you’d have to be coming OUT of the secure area to read it.)
I goldfish one last time down the glass wall to make sure I’m still hovering above the Gump line. Danica back to the sign. Picture some mouth-breathing, xray-absorbing securipod plugging individual letters into this sign and clapping his hands with glee as I go down the LEFT side of the wall, past the big “Do Not Enter” sign to the employee door.
One leg to LAX. The Capt. is a mild guy. Mid 50’s. Looks like Andy Worhol in Blu-Blockers. 4 1/2 hours of uneventful. At the hotel, I spend an hour at the gym warding off the bad habits juju. Now what? 22 hours to kill. Reward myself with a walk to “The Store.” I don’t know what it’s actually called. “Manny’s” House of Hooch” maybe. Looks like the whole thing was airlifted cinder block by urine coated cinder block from Tijuana.
Rusted steel cage industrial floor fans. Security cameras and burned-in monitors on top of the fridge to show you they have security cameras. Scuffed and faded checkerboard floor. Bags of desiccated bad ideas you only get from leg-humping the border and only eat on a dare, or after the spam runs out. I buy vodka and diet root beer.
Burrow in by the pool. I drag a couple chairs and a table into the shade to build a nest. I am already dark and furry. I do not need to work on my tan. It is 1 in the afternoon.
As I mix a cocktail I’m struck by what I must look like to the other pool goers. A hulking ape-like figure fully dressed, lurking in the corner, mixing sinister libations from a black plastic bag and mumbling to himself. I leave the root beer out to appear less creepy. I don’t think it’s working.
I read my book and try to shake the feeling that I might as well wear a trench coat and carry candy in my pockets. At one point, I look up and realize I’m the only guy and there are about 20 girls in various stages of rinse-burn-repeat. I tenaciously ignore the blonde hottie in the pink Hello Kitty bikini.
After a few hours I go back to my room. The time change and all that not lying in the sun has me sleepy by 1800. I fall asleep basking in the glow of the TV and my own awesomeness.
I wake the next morning. Only….it’s not the next morning. It’s 2330. ??!! <Fuuuuuuck.> Watch Murder She Wrote until about 0200.
Day 2:
Up early to shore up my flab sub-structure in the gym. Getting ready for work I realize that for the first time in over a decade, I forgot to pack undershirts. No choice but to go Guido. The sensation of the wing backings rubbing on my nipples is not entirely unpleasant.
In the elevator, there are 3 girls. They ask if I’m a pilot. ‘Yes ma’am.’ They ask me how many hours I can fly in a day and how many days off I get each month. I try to paint it without sounding like a math teacher expounding on the joy of fractions. I fail. Stop talking.
In the lobby, they ask if they can take a picture with me. ‘Of course.’ I try to look competent and cool. Most of my pictures come out like one of those “I knew it!” photos when the guy turns out to be a serial killer.
At the airport, a boy about 6 tentatively approaches under the approving gaze of his father to ask me what the 3 stripes on my shoulders mean. I explain that it means I’m the catcher. The pitcher is the dude over there with 4 stripes.
In the plane another boy comes into the cockpit. I give him my hat. Dad snaps a photo of the boy in my seat. They want a picture of me with the boy in the jetway. I oblige. Same photographic result. Flight to BWI is just under 5 hours. My ass goes numb.
Day 3:
In the airport at MCO I see a guy with tattoo sleeves down both arms. Spider webs on his left elbow. Shaved head. Long goatee and thick BCGs. He’s pushing an infant stroller with his SigOt humping all the support gear.
He’s wearing a tight black t-shirt that says PARKING ENFORCEMENT big and yellow on the back. I can’t tell if it’s supposed to be funny or if he takes his authority a little seriously, but I enjoy it. The eye glasses case and phone clipped to his belt tilt the scale toward “not kidding.”
Coming into San Juan, on the topic of duty free bargains, the Capt. drops this beat: “We don’t drink alcohol in my house. So I wouldn’t know.” I see now that he is a dangerous unstable man. Not to be trusted.
I go to Duty Free. Thoughtfully buy some rum for the wife. Drop my purchases in the cockpit and go out for the walk-around. The Gate Agent has to open the jetway door to outside with a key. After the walk-around, the bad man leaves me out in the heat for 10 minutes. I start to wilt. My Guido-city is now clearly evident.
When I finally get back in the cockpit, evil Andy lays this jam on me: “Did you see the other crew?”
‘No.’
“They said there’s a level 6 outbreak of swine flu here. That’s why there are so many people with masks. That’s about as bad as it gets. Scheduling gave those guys masks and rubber gloves for the overnight.”
‘Huh.’
I wad this information up and jam it in the orifice marked “Shit I Would Like To Have Known Before Wandering Around The Terminal.”
The flight back to Orlando is again uneventful. On arrival, a chubby grubby little boy heads into the cockpit. Evil Andy gives him some wings. Chubby’s Dad wants to take a picture with me and the food stained boy. On the jetway, I take a knee behind the boy and put my arm around his shoulder. As dad snaps the picture, the gelatinous little scamp ducks his head and sneezes on my hand. This is not awesome. I excuse myself and smear swine flu around with airplane soap and non-potable water.
I go to the hotel to wait for symptoms. On reflection, I conclude this is all probably part of that devious Warhol’s master plan to rid the Earth of deviants like me. Decide to dedicate myself to the cold revenge of licking all his stuff when he’s not looking. (Not really. I’m pretty sure he has cooties).
Day 4:
As we’re doing the preflight, Capt. “Cultural Icon” grills me about my coffee. “So you’re pretty particular about your coffee huh? That why you always go to Starbucks?”
‘No. As long as it’s got 4-6 shots of espresso in it, I’ll buy it from that twitchy guy with the lisp in the men’s room at Sears. Ray. You know Ray? Nice smile? Soft hands? No?’
On our way to BWI one of the FAs calls up, “Are you ah, pusheeng de ah metal to de ah floor?”
‘What?’
“It sounds like we are goeeng faster.” Her accent could be Russian or Spanish. I’m pretty shitty with accents. I grew up in Colorado where accents and injuries are how we spot tourists. Intra-American dialects are hard for me. The pondering pregnant vowels of “other countries” are all but indecipherable.
‘Oh. We’re climbing. We gotta’ add power to do that.’
“Oh. Ohkaee. I thought maybee you were racing each other up there.”
‘No problem. Thanks for the call. If you hear anything else, be sure to let us know.’
In BWI, as I wander the concourse trolling for lunch, a man stops me. “Hey. I got a question.”
‘Of course.’
“If I make a long distance call from a payphone, does it cost the same as a regular call?”
‘…… Noooo I think it will tell you: please deposit 35 cents or something like that.’
“Oh. So I can just get some change from one of these shops and make the call?”
‘I would think so, yes.’
– end of line.