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 on slumber before we left the ground, when I spied a harried woman corralling three kids under four down the aisle.
In my mind, I pled, "Oh, please, oh please, oh please, two rows in front of me left three completely empty seats, let them sit there."
Wrong again. The aircraft became full before I realized. What a lie for not being booked full. I saw that the poor woman was intent on getting seats on an empty row, but on arrival at a vacant row, a Middle Eastern lady with a red dot on her forehead draped her flowing gown into one of the seats. The row in front of me became full, leaving two seats on either side of me and two across the aisle.
One pitiful glance from the woman at me and I knew the situation was hopeless. I moved to the window seat, allowing her little tykes to sit near her, praying that they were well behaved, and frankly, drugged just to the point of comatose. The two little boys sitting next to me seemed cheerful enough and very polite. The eldest proudly displayed his Transformer toy and introduced me to the finer points if its workmanship. The engines began to spool up with the very distinctive whine of power. The two boys glanced at each other, their lips quivered in distress. The lip quivering became a whine and it wasn't possible to tell if the whine was from the children or the engine as the volume increased. I wished that I had chosen alcohol over the Scientific American. Their whine became a wail and while I generally like kids, I was positive that these two boys were ill prepared for the trip. Over the screeching, Mom told me that this was their first flight. She also proudly mentioned that she had told them it was like flying on a magic carpet. Apparently magic carpets don't have engine noise as the boys continued to howl like banshees until we left the ground. I snapped my magazine closed and looked for the liquor cart; maybe the airline would make an exception for a preflight drink just this one time.
Clearing the runway and climbing, the boys became eerily quiet. A quick glance at them revealed two kids turning a very sickly color. Mom was distracted; digging in her purse for God knows what, probably mascara. I knew what was coming. I scrambled into all three seat backs to find the barf bags; they came with every seat supposedly. Finally able to come up with one, as in singular, I had two kids ready to lose their lunches. Opening the bag, I shoved it toward the boy with the most imminent explosion on the aisle seat along with fast instructions on how the use it. I mashed the flight attendant button repeatedly as if launching missiles during an attack, needing another bag pronto. Because we hadn't reached altitude, I was out of luck and on my own. I remembered the empty baggie I had in my purse and reached for it when it happened. The poor kid let go. Without going into details, suffice it to say a Happy Meal from McDonalds isn't really a happy meal when regurgitated at fifteen thousand feet. I ought to know, I wore the bulk of it.
Suppressing my gag reflex was easier than I thought. I guess because it came with experience from having a child of my own. However, the reek of vomit became more of an issue with the rest of the passengers. It started a chain reaction. The people surrounding us tried their best and did a fine job of holding back; mostly because the barf bags in the seat backs were missing. However, a few did manage to find them and use them prolifically.
We were at cruising altitude when the flight attendant made a beeline to our area. She had hand towels, water, anything she could grab to help me clean myself. I certainly appreciated her diligence as she even produced a can of club soda to get the stains out. All the while, the mother seemed indifferent to the passengers comfort, primping and preening, as if it were a normal occurrence and should be taken as such. While I felt compassion for her children, I began to get irritated with her. The flight attendant must have sensed as much, she produced a cold beer for me, free of charge, and let me know that more was on the way.
During the two hour flight, I drank four beers. I no longer smelled the vomit and the boys became endearing. I taught one of the boys how to make a chain out of gum wrappers. We chatted away as if I were their favorite aunt. I was tempted to give the closest boy to me a sip of my beer, but the glare Mom tossed in my direction made me think twice. The two boys eventually fell asleep and I was left in somewhat of a drunken stupor that finally enabled me to pass out.
Waking, I sensed the wheels touching down. I still reeked of vomit, but had enough beer in my system to amusingly count the flight as just another wonderful experience on a Vomit Comet. I drug myself off the aircraft into the jet-way, head fuzzy and just a bit unsteady, I managed a cheerful wave to the two boys who left an indelible mark on me and thanked the attendant who mercifully made the flight bearable.
My husband was there to greet me. He took one whiff, shook his head, and asked, "Vomit Comet again?"
As I looked down at my soda spotted clothes, still immune to the smell, I answered, "Yep, the pukers find me every time. Remind me to try another airline for my next flight."
"Uh, honey, you've forgotten." he said, smirking. "You're booked on the same airline for Tuesday of next week. You agreed to chaperone Charlie's first grade class for the trip to Disneyland."