by Maureen Bordelon

Created on: August 03, 2008   Last Updated: August 12, 2008

It's my father's fault I'm sitting in the torture chamber they call a concourse. He was the culprit that taught me when I was six that flying was the only mode of transportation suitable for cross country trips. Of course his idea of flying was to do barrel rolls in a Piper Cub without warning. Never sure you'd make it safely on terra firma again; it did prepare me for commercial flights we all suffer through now.

Jammed between two matronly sisters with lilac tinted hair, in a chair designed for a Lilliputian, I attempted to read Scientific American. I figured reading this particular publication would be better for a nap on the plane than gulping liquor, with less indigestion, but maybe not. The sisters, Bea and Martha, asked too many personal questions that I began to answer with total fabrications. I told them a few tall tales about my life and I'm sure they went back to Missouri gossiping about the wealthy (HA!) Texan they met at the airport. Hey, at least it passed the time for me. I was on what they call a layover. A layover has nothing to do with rest. A layover is meant, like a good mystery, to build suspense, or better yet, dread.

When my flight was called, I rose, found myself in the death hug between my new buddies, and felt my lungs collapsing between the massive girths of two very large, purple haired women. The people must be extremely friendly in Missouri; I had just met these ladies fifteen minutes before and struggled to extricate myself from their clinches. Flying the airline whose name is two directions, the cattle call had started. I wished my new friends a good flight and stampeded in the direction of the gate.

The airlines call it a gate with good reason. Without assigned seating, it was YEE-HAW, head em up and move em out! The fastest cow got the better seats and I was late to the trough. While I was caught in the middle of the herd, I had a good hunch about my position. Being in the first section of cows, surely the back of the cattle trailer would be empty as I was told the flight wasn't completely booked. I could rest my tired hooves over two seats if I chose my space wisely.

Feeling pretty proud of myself, I sat in the last row, middle seat of the aircraft, and at the time, as alone as a poor soul with bad personal hygiene. Sure, I'd be the last one served the thimbleful of beverage and thrown the five stale pretzels, but there's something to be said for peace and quiet. I was, oh so wrong.

I thumbed through my magazine with the intent

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