Don't Take Me Seriously - Book - Page 122
Flying — literally a pain in the behind
I
was in need of a massage late one
night last week, and since my favorite Asian Fingers franchise
was closed for “investigation,” I figured I’d go down and get the onceover by the magic hands of the TSA
folks at Los Angeles International
Airport.
I mean, I’d seen it sensationalized
on the TV news quite a bit. Apparently, you can get all warm and fuzzy
with radiation from their new X-ray
vision security scanners, and then get
the kinks worked out afterward by
blue rubber gloves.
’T’sallgood.
Now, you need to have a boarding
pass to get to the shoes-off, squeezeya line at the airport, so I got carried
away and bought a ticket to Providence, R.I.
Why Providence, you ask?
Well, it just sounded like a “lucky”
choice.
(Yes, here we wait for the groans
to subside.)
But, imagine my chagrin when I
requested “the works” at the security gate — and only got the standard metal-detection walk-through in
my socks. Not even a light rub with
a wand.
I thought Los Angeles was cutting
edge. I mean, what was I paying for?
Well, my carry-on bag did get a
swabbing with the explosives-detec-
Jim
WALKER
DON’T TAKE ME SERIOUSLY
tion pad — but that satchel is a manipulative attention junkie and always gets more than her share of
affection.
So now I’m waiting to board my
flight for the first leg of my journey,
and the whole reality-of-my-error
thing starts to dawn on me. I will be
spending four-plus hours in a torture
chamber, for the reward of visiting
yet another airport — in Cleveland.
And that brings to mind my purchase, some years ago, of those teleportation study-subsidizing government bonds. What’s happening on
that front? I mean, here we are, still
burning fossil fuels in airplanes and
cars, and not being able to blink ourselves to Providence. What gives?
But flying wasn’t always hell, as I
remember.
When I hearken back to my childhood, I can catch wisps of the excitement I felt boarding a magical silver
bird for a flight to some thrilling new
locale. (Even Cleveland would suffice then.)
I would be doted-upon by beautiful, smiling, 20-something ladies
in crisp, form-fitting uniforms, high
heels and hats, serving me fine cuisine in plastic trays. I could run the
aisles, or crawl under the seats to
meet new feet — finding lost treasures, such as free-range Certs mints,
as I did.
Oh, and if I didn’t disturb too
many folk, these “stewardi” would
give me plastic pilot wings to pin on
my chest.
’Twas heaven.
Now, back in the day, the window
seat was the premium choice. I could
bounce off my mom on one side and
the wall on the other — all the while
watching through the Plexiglas as
the world opened up and puffy, white
clouds went by.
I could feel the roar and rumble as
my skyvessel accelerated down the
runway and leaped into the air — or
get a tickle wondering whether or not
the approaching ground would receive us gently on landing.
Of course, all that was before I
grew into a normal-sized adult, and
the seats and surrounds shrunk down
to child-sized.
I will admit that the window, and
takeoffs and landings, still offer me a
sniff of what I used to feel, but that’s
it.
Otherwise, flying sucks, big time.
And the window seat? Oi, that’s a
claustrophobic coffin where the wall
slants into what is already less-thanenough leg room. Nowadays, if I
want out, I have to wake people up so
they can grumble into the aisle, while
I trip over all their crap.
Consequently, I deliberately dehydrate myself to avoid journeys
to the john. The result: my buttocks are numb the entire trip, my
neck gets kinked when I briefly doze and my head thumps the
cold window, and my legs cry out
in cramped agony and fear of phlebitis. The TV screen on the back
of the seat ahead of me steals my
credit card — and each moment is
a brutal eternity.
So then the middle seat?
No, then you have almost all the
problems associated with the window
seat, minus the view. And you’ve got
lepers on either side of you drooling
over the armrests and stuffing their
elbows into your ribs.
Well then, the aisle seat?
Yes, here you can get up without disturbing your fellow inmates
— but they will not be so courteous as to dehydrate themselves, and
will have you popping up and down
like a jack-in-the-box as they take
laps around the airplane. Oh, and the
snack cart will mash your toes and elbows every time it passes, as will the
hips of those who pretend to serve
you.
And these days those stewardi, or
flight attendants as P.C. would have
it, wear flats, are older and crankier, for the most part — and are often male and really not happy in their
chosen profession. (Here I refer you
to Steven Slater.)
I mean, who would be happy?
It’s like being a jailer who has to
pour $8 scotches and pass out pocket-sized cracker bags to death-row inmates.
Or should I say cattle? And I mean
starving cattle that are so bored and
restless they suck down anything
handed to them as if it were the sacrament and the gateway to heaven.
None but cattle would crowd the
aisles when the plane stops, only to
stare at the backs of the heads of the
cows ahead of them for 10 minutes
before the line begins to move.
I could go on and on — like my
airborne torture did — but I have
vented enough.
Flying is truly a painful and humiliating experience. So let’s all donate to the American Teleportation
Society.
Walker’s opinions are his own, and
may be influenced by his still-numb
buttocks. But they are most likely not
those of The Signal.
jwalker@the-signal.com
