Back to the Loo

Hello Boys and Girls …. I am headed back to St. Louis. On an airplane. And you know what this means. More amusing stories for you, the avid reader.

This being my first flight since the London bombings and our corresponding heightened security standards (“Operation No Liquid”), I make sure to give myself ample time to park, walk to the airport, check in, proceed through security, and locate my gate. And by “ample time,” I mean 45 minutes.

As I park my car I realize that I am cutting it really close so I have to calculate whether I have enough time to check my bag. I figure that I will get to the check-in about 45 minutes before my flight. Should I roll the dice and hope I get checked in before the cut-off time (which is usually 45 minutes before the flight) and risk having to discard all the liquids that I have in my checked bag? Or do I play it safe and take out the my hazardous liquids in case I am too late to check my bag and am forced to carry it on instead. Given that I don’t wish to donate all of my personal toiletries to the Oakland Airport refuse bin, and that I have horrible travel luck, I say “fuck it” and leave my entire travel bag in my car. In the process of ridding myself of my contraband liquids; however, I also managed to throw the baby (i.e., my toothbrush) out with the bathwater. Which, as far as my travel goes, is pretty par for the course.

I arrive at the check-in with less than 45 minutes to spare. As I congratulate myself on my prudent decision to leave my travel bag in my car, the gate agent advises me that the cutoff at the Oakland airport is 30 minutes - not 45.

There’s not enough time to head back to my car, so I forge ahead and make my way through the serpentine security line. I am pulled over for special screening when the protein bar in my bag fools the screener into believing that it’s either a gun or a tube of lotion. I’m not sure, but comply quietly as they search my bag. I think of volunteering for a strip search just for the hell of it, but decide to bite my tongue.

Despite being pulled over for special screening, everything is proceeding relatively normally and I am on time for my flight. Yippee.

As the herd of passengers wait to board, I lean over to tie my shoe when all of a sudden, some asshole smacks the side of my head with her oversized purse. Semi-concussed, I look up to see the assailant happily walking away, seemingly oblivious to her act of 3rd degree assault. Now, I don’t know how this could be since she hit me hard enough to cause my head to turn.

“Must … control …. fists …. of …. death ….” I whisper to myself.

As we start to board the plane, I notice that there is another woman drinking a smoothie. Evidently she is the only person in the United States that is completely unaware of the new “no liquids of any kind” security standards which compelled me to abandon part of my luggage. Being the asshole that I am, I sidle right behind her, hoping to position myself well for the inevitable conflict when she is asked to dispose of her nearly-full smoothie.

“Now boarding Seating Area 2,” comes the monotone announcement and the next group of us begins to funnel our way towards the gate. The moment of confrontation is nearing and I am standing right behind her, ready to relish every moment.

And much to my surprise, disappointment and anger, the ticket taker simply relieved her of her ticket -- but not her illegal smoothie. What the fuck?! There’s no way he didn’t see it. Was there a change in the rules in the video I just watched while waiting in the security line?

My sense of justice momentarily thwarted, I tell myself that she’ll surely be stopped by one of the flight attendants, who are tasked with safeguarding our flights.

And nothing happened. She just kept sipping her smoothie as she sauntered past each and every flight attendant. Somehow, I resisted the urge by innocently asking “hey, I didn’t know we can bring on beverages like her. Is that the rule now?” No, I avoided the temptation (and corresponding bad karma) and instead made my way to my window seat in order to prepare myself for the first leg of my flight to Shit Louis.

(Editor’s note: It later occurred to me that you can probably bring on liquids that are purchased within the airport itself, but they should make that clearer).

It’s in the 80’s today in the SF-Bay Area, so it’s really warm on the plane. And my air isn’t working. And I’m wearing a long sleeve shirt for some reason.

As I’m stewing in my window seat (which adds a few more degrees), the captain calmly announces “the auxiliary power unit is inoperative, so we won’t have any air back there until after we turn on the engines.”

WHAT THE FUCK?! Look, I’m not a pilot, so I have no idea what the “auxiliary power unit” is or what happens if it’s “inoperative.” Nevertheless, it can’t be good.

Couple the elevated temperature and the foreboding announcement, and I’m sweating like Mark McGwire testifying before the House Sub-Committee on steroids. But maybe, just maybe, I’ll be able luck out and sit next to a supermodel or, alternative, Frosty the Snowman.

As luck would have it, a rather husky woman (I am not a weight-phobe; keep reading) makes her way towards back of the plane …. right towards the open seat next to me. Hello seatmate. She looks like a female version of Mr. T, but with slightly larger arms and thinner mustache. She has on several gold chains and gold rings on every finger, and has donned a gold-rhinstoned BCBG velour sweat suit for her flight.

As she sits down next to me, I notice that she reeks of cheap, sickly-sweet perfume. It smells like a combination of incense and rotting rose petals. I also notice that she has helped herself to both armrests. Thank you for sharing.

The temperature on the plane gets worse. Because of vague “problems on the ground,” we end up sitting in the airless crock-pot which is United flight 444 for over 1/2 hour. The plane is, by most conservative estimations, 150 degrees. The heat is compounded by the “sweat suit” (emphasis added) of my seatmate, whose arms and legs are spilling over into my seat. My right leg, which is unavoidably pressed against my seatmate’s veloured quadriceps, is cooking. It is right about this time that I first consider strangling her.

And so it goes. Despite the inoperative auxiliary power unit, we manage to take off and the heat begins to subside.
My seatmate’s aroma persists and, as a result of the air, is now blowing directly into my face.

Adding to that lovely fact is that today’s Savory Snack Mix” offered by United is a fragrant combination of “pretzels, BBQ corn sticks, and garlic & soy nuts.” “Savory must be United’s ironic way of saying “nauseating.” My seatmate grabs two bags. Within a minute she has gulped them both down and is now emanating a combination of incense and Corn Nuts. Fantastic.

I whip out my laptop in order to work (i.e., blog) and get my mind off everything, when I notice I have absolutely no room to type with her ham hock resting on the armrest. She looks at me and says “there’s not a lot of room, is there?” .. and continues to leave her arm firmly planted.

At this point, I slip into a Kate-like fantasy, where I envision ripping off her enlarged arm and then bludgeoning her to death with it, the smell of her warm blood covering up the awful perfume she has doused herself with. Passengers cheer as I vanquish the fragrant Mrs. T. The plane lands safely and Scarlett Johansson greets me as I exit the plane.

Instead, I awake from dream to find we’re on our descent into Denver International Airport. I prepare myself for the inevitable turbulence, shut down my lap top and realize “shit, I’m only halfway to St. Louis.”

(Tomorrow - “Leg Two of the Trip” or “My Bout With Irrepressible Rage”)