Flying The Un-Friendly Skies

I haven’t flown on a commercial airline in five years or so, and I don’t miss it for one minute. I recently flew to Corpus Christi to visit my son and his family for five days while my wife, MoMo, flew to Colorado Springs for the same reasons. United Airlines, ” Fly The Friendly Sky’s of United,” yes, those friendly folks had the best fare, so bang, I’m in. What could go wrong with a brief layover in Houston, then a commuter jet to Corpus? Plenty can and did go south.

My wife dropped me off at Terminal C at DFW Airport. Once inside, I discovered I was in the wrong terminal; United changed it at the last minute. I called MoMo to haul me to the new and improved Terminal E. Coming out of the old terminal, I tripped on an uneven sidewalk, went down hard on my left knee, and sprawled out like a Squirrel lying in the shade, my laptop case went flying, little roller suitcase goes too, sunglasses ejected from my face. I’m lying on a filthy sidewalk, bleeding, cursing, and feeling like an old fool. I look up, and this foreign guy is yapping on a cell phone, staring at me with a stupid grin; he gives me a little wave, and I wave back with my one-finger wave. He keeps smiling, not understanding the traditional American one-finger salute. No one is there to help me, so I belly crawl to a trash bin, haul my injured carcass up, collect my stuff, and wait for MoMo to collect me. Blood and other major fluids are running down my leg, my back hurts, both legs hurt, and I somehow banged my head. My once-clean flying clothes are covered in dirt and grime from the disgusting sidewalks. I’m pretty sure every known disease to man is lurking on their surface, and now I’m covered with the deadly germs.

MoMo collects me at the curb, patches me up the best she can with handi-wipes and one bandaid, and drops me off at terminal E.

A sympathetic young lady, a United employee, helps me check in and sends me on my way to security. I wait in line for a while, arrive at the roller belt, remove shoes, wallet, laptop, coins, glasses, and walking cane. I pass through the radar detector, and it goes off. I tell the officer I have metal in my back. He gave me the wand treatment and had me collect my belongings. As I reach for my walking cane, an agent grabs it and says,

” Not so fast, buddy-boy, we don’t like canes here at the TSA. There could be explosives, Cartel money, or Fentenayl in that hollow stick.” Holy crap, I hadn’t thought about any of those things, it’s an old man walking stick. “We’re going to let Cujo, our security dog, have a sniff of this cane.”

The agent walks over to a humongous dog crate and opens the door. A tiny Chihuahua wearing a camo vest trots out. The agent bends down, gives him a dog treat, and holds the cane for inspection. Cujo sniffs it from top to bottom, steps back, barks once, and trots back into his carriers. The agent handed me my cane and said, ” Cujo says you’re good to go, but remember, we don’t like canes.” I get it.

Seated on the plane, a less-than-perky flight attendant stops by,

” Sir, I can put that cane in the overhead for you.”

“No thanks, I need it to get up and out of this tiny-assed, kid-sized seat.” She wasn’t amused, and by this time, neither was I.

“Sir, here at United, we don’t like canes. There could be explosives, drugs, or a laser weapon in the handle that you could use to kill the attendants and then laser through the cockpit door and take over the plane.” Her tone is snarky at best.

I give her my cane and am thinking about a cold beer to calm my nerves.

An attendant speaks over the intercom, ” We hope you enjoy the 59-minute flight to Houston. Since the flight is under one hour, no beverage service will be available.” You could hear the “tough-shit Sherlock” tone in her voice. Son-of-a-bitch, one minute shy of an hour, and they don’t serve beverages. I’m parched and dying here. The guy next to me is sucking on a Big Gulp and eating a sub sandwich full of onions and garlic.

The plane jumps into the sky. The ride is a bit bouncy, but I’ve had worse. I noticed the lady across the aisle had a huge, gnarly red pimple on her cheek and was messing with it. This is not the place to work on her facial outbreaks. One good squeeze and that pimple juice could land on me; I’m within squirting range. She gets up, heads to the bathroom, and comes back with a bandaid on her face.

Once in Houston, I asked a gate attendant how to get to my connecting flight.

She points down the terminal and says,

” Well, you go about three miles that way, turn left, go another mile or so, then take the SkyTrain to Terminal A, gate 2. These are big terminals, so it will take you at least an hour or so to get there.” She’s damn dead serious. I find a skycap with one of those nice rolling riding invalid chairs, and she takes me to the SkyTrain entrance; I tip her five bucks. Then she says,

“The elevator is broken, so you’ll need to take the escalator up to the SkyTrain, then to Terminal A.” Take the escalator, no kidding?

The “Up” escalator is on the left. You have to make your way through the passengers coming down the “Down” escalator, and they are moving fast; everyone is late and about to miss their flight, so it’s every person for themselves; herd mentality takes over. I see a break in the stampede and dart through. I’m not fast enough; a Wildabeast in a pink tracksuit sideswipes me, and I go flying and land on my back; she keeps running with the herd. Lying prone on the carpet, the passengers are leaping over me like Axis Deer escaping from a pride of Lions. I feel someone grab me under my arms and drag me back. I look up into the eyes of a teenage girl. She helped me up and collected my cane and laptop case.

” Are you sure you are alright, Sir?” I say yes and thank her for saving my life. ” Oh, it was nothing, Sir; I have a Grandpa, and you remind me of him.”

I make it to Terminal A and find a skycap to give me a wheelchair ride to the gate, which is another two miles away. I notice a Marine Corps ring on his finger and a Masonic Lodge medallion around his neck. I am impressed.

” I say, ” You served in the Marine Corps and are a Mason, dang young man, I am impressed.”

“Thank you, Sir; yes, Marines for eight years, and a Mason, now for three years. Married my high school sweetie, and we have two kids; life is good.” He drops me at my gate; I tip him generously and shake his hand in thanks.

Sitting at the small airport bar, I drink my $ 14.00 beer and munch on a $12.00 dry Tuna sandwich. I want to rant about the prices, but it’s a useless cause, so I reflect on meeting two generous young folks today and think if there are more of them out there, then maybe I won’t feel so afraid about handing off the baton to their generation. The flight to Corpus was good, and the visit was great. We went deep-sea fishing in my beloved Gulf, and I spent some quality time with my son, daughter-in-law, and grandson. Sometimes, life can be good.