Infrequent Flyer

I don’t care for air travel. I used to love it when I was a kid, but something changed in my teens. I’m fine at cruising altitude, but I get pretty nervous during takeoff and landing, the parts of the flight when everyone dies, if they’re going to.

There’s a lady in a massage chair in Concourse A who looks like she might be dead.

I just walked all three concourses at Hopkins International Airport, the pride of Cleveland. They play a pre-recorded welcome message from the mayor over the PA every few minutes. His passionlessness really speaks to something in our municipal identity. I paced up and down the entire airport because our flight is delayed. Of course, our flight is on Frontier, so does it really count as a delay? Or simply a hidden fee consistent across all their offerings, a fee of time, of life. They didn’t delay the flight until we had already checked our bags and gotten through security. They are really taking their pound of flesh. Please don’t let me die in the airport. I hate waiting on the ground even more than I hate waiting to break up upon impact with the tarmac. Not quite as much as taking off. Taking off is the worst.

Our flight, if it ever happens, will be to Miami. We are going to Miami because there is this direct flight there, on Frontier, which is cheap, except for what it costs in time spent dying in the airport. We are going to Miami because it is something to do. “Enjoy the beach!” everyone says. “Hah,” we laugh. We don’t care for the beach. Better than waiting in an airport. Not as good as riding in a jet at cruising altitude, if I’m being honest. If I had a window seat, anyway. Which I don’t. But my wife does, and I enjoy her enjoying things. She’s napping right now and I’m waiting as long as possible to wake her, because I know that when I do, there will be about 3 seconds when she doesn’t know where she is or who either of us are, and I find that moment about as uncomfortable as landing. Though again not quite as bad as taking off.

I overheard a man telling his life story to a stranger, a life story of swimming pool cleaning technology and brothers-in-law with broken ribs. In a library, in a restaurant, on the street, I would have loved this. Here in purgatory I hate everyone who speaks, even the mayor, who isn’t here. I just don’t want to hear it. I’ll get over it when we’re in Miami, a safe distance from the sky and the beach. I will apologize in my heart for the feelings I felt for this man, and the Hudson News cashier couldn’t take my debit card, and the mom trying to convince her daughters to let themselves be bumped to a later flight in exchange for a generous voucher. What sort of person takes that bargain? How are you ever going to get out of here, in this life or the next?

Time to board. I’ll see you on the other side.