i'm home now, chock full of drugs right now and put myself on ice for good measure. 800 milligrams of motrin and 2 vicodin have yet to dull the pain in my lower back, which makes me walk like Quasimoto. i blame the plane. six hours from vegas to philly crammed in coach. OK, agreed - i spent the previous five days bent over mopping and sweeping and cleaning cat boxes as i volunteered at Best Friends Animal Sanctuary, so the storm was brewing. all it needed was a bolt of lightning to set it off. that bolt struck me as i ran through the philly airport after unfolding myself from a seat that seemed to shrink with every hour in the sky. had my plane been on time i wouldn't have been running. in Dingo boots no less. no one runs in Dingo boots. but i had to, the pilot said so. he announced over the loudspeaker "we're in a holding pattern over philly because of weather right now but we are in communication via computer and your connecting flights will wait for you, but once we land i suggest you make haste to your gate."
you know airplane crowds, they're up and in the aisle long before the hatch door ever opens. like a herd of cows waiting to be milked. they don't care if you need to cut through the line and get out first. in Coach there's a mentality of "i suffered like a sardine for 3000 miles and i am not about to let anyone get off this plane before me". you know the type. they stand there slowly hauling their oversized carry-on out of the overhead bin, oblivious to the impatient line of desperate flyers aching to flee the fuselage. unfortunately, even if these boneheads had moved more quickly, even if they had stepped aside for those of us with connecting flights, we never would have made our flights anyway. you see, the pilot lied. our connections were long gone. but i didn't know that yet as i clomped gracelessly through the airport, leather backpack repeatedly bouncing and ramming me in the spine until suddenly the lightning bolt struck and i froze. did i dare move? if i do will i end up on a stretcher? the muscle spasm radiated, burned, and never relented. my plane..... i have to make my plane. face twisted in pain, tears catching in my waterproof lashes, i gingerly staggered on to B 8, backpack clutched to my belly.
i arrived 3 minutes before scheduled take-off at the hartford connection gate to find emptiness. i looked out the plate glass windows and saw nothing. no plane. the dour airline lady at the desk had no pity for us - an angry man, an irate woman and her baby, and a disbelieving me.
"we don't hold planes," she said.
"that's not what the pilot said!" the three of us exploded.
she didn't give a damn and didn't hesitate to show it in her face. US AIR employees clearly need a seminar in customer service. "we never hold planes," she insisted. i begged to differ. "oddly enough," i said, "my flight out of charlotte, north carolina to vegas on friday sat on the runway a full twenty minutes specifically to wait for passengers from connecting flights. the pilot even told us that's why our take-off was late." she was unmoved. "the pilot promised us our connections would wait!" the red-faced man insisted. we were met with pursed lips, a shake of the head. besides, we could argue till we were blue in the face and it wouldn't bring the plane back. "when is the next flight?" we three asked in unison. our answer? that was it, no more flights tonight. we'd be catching the 7:55 AM to hartford tomorrow. tired of us, she directed us to US AIR's customer service booth where slightly less jaded employees handed us pathetic overnight goodie bags of toothpaste and combs and an alleged "discount" voucher for Howard Johnson's. DISCOUNT? i have to pay for US AIR's incompetence? $77, no less? wearily, she handed me a form i could fill out to contest the hotel cost and beg for reimbursement. but don't get your hopes up.
lurched sideways from the unrelenting electric shock of pain that had almost brought me to my knees on the run to Gate B 8, i shuffled outside to await the hotel's courtesy van. and waited. and waited. it was drizzling in philly, fitting the mood of all of us disgruntled US AIR victims leaning against chilled cement barriers as every courtesy van for every other hotel came and went. an 80 year old cowboy from arizona went to complain and was told the van was on its way. where was he coming from? jersey? mr. courtesy van driver gave a little laugh when he saw us and packed us in. "more happy US AIR customers, i see." we weren't laughing.
they don't feed you for free anymore on planes and my sandwich of 7 hours ago was long ago digested, stomach grumbling for more, but at that hour HoJo's was closed and i'd have to make do with the trail mix i secrety praised myself for buying the day before. as i paid my $77 in the hotel i pleaded, "do you have any painkillers? i hurt myself running for the plane." the concierge said sure, in the vending machines. and there it was, a little pack of Aleve that could perhaps put a dent in my agony, only $2 away. but i did not have $2 and the machine wouldn't take a ten. i gave up. US AIR had won, i was beaten. in my stale cigarette scented room i set the alarm clock for 5:00 AM and gingerly removed my clothes and laid myself on the bed. for 7 hours i tossed, if you could call it tossing since it was slow motion accompanied by whimpers and cries. i am not sure i ever slept, but i must have slept just long enough to miss the fact that the 5 AM alarm never did go off. at 6:19 i sat bolt upright with a yelp. the hourly courtesy shuttle had left at 6. i dressed, brushed my teeth, and called for a taxi. "how much to the airport?" i asked, "$25" the ex-harley biker turned taxi driver said. "good, $30 is all i have left in the world." it was a good thing the vending machine wouldn't accept my ten the night before.
he was a heavy smoker, this driver. i could tell by his cough. i told him i was valiantly trying to quit with the patch and acupuncture and told him the story of bob's death by cancer on the 15 or so minute drive to the airport. he seemed very alarmed as he listened, eyebrows knit in the rearview mirror. "how could he tell something was wrong in his throat?" he asked, and i told him bob couldn't swallow anymore. i had the distinct sense the taxi driver was worried about something. maybe he too was having a problem he preferred to ignore, as bob did. maybe he too was afraid of finding out what was wrong with him. maybe i missed a plane, but maybe, just maybe, i saved a taxi driver's life.
but don't get your hopes up.
