* Disclaimer - Most of this next account is completely true. Only some of the content has been slightly embellished for the enjoyment of the reader.
With my Florida trip behind me, and one, perhaps two, extra small sized moving boxes unpacked, it was again time to roll the dice and book another business trip. I logged into the travel website that my company uses, and I began to scroll through pages and pages of the worst flight options that were ever created. You name it, there were triple and quadruple connections, overnight layovers, and even one or two selections in which partial ground transportation via animal was an option. To make this activity even more fun and interesting, the company puts secret rules and restrictions on travel that you sometimes find out about after you are only a click away from booking your trip. Say you want to go to Denver for instance, which I did. The direct flight might take only four hours, but may also require you to purchase an upgrade due to limited seating. This would immediately flag you in the system as a complete a-hole with total disregard for expenses, label you a puppy hater, and prompt at least a dozen or so emails and notifications from the company finance and travel departments. All of these notifications would also be sent to your direct supervisor and all existing relatives. There would be conference calls scheduled, in which eight to ten executives would discuss your poor decision quality, and contemplate the future of the company along with your place in it. Your alternative, and acceptable flight options, might require a couple of connecting flights including but not limited to a brief layover in say... Alaska. I can usually get around these 15 hour excursions by redeeming miles, or by taking the 5 am flights that nobody in their right mind would want.
As I sat in my office choosing my travel punishment, I happened to glance out of my office window to see a woman placing a large "sold" magnet underneath the realty sign planted in our neighbor's front lawn. See, our next door neighbor had unexpectedly put his house up for sale and had completely moved out along with all of his possessions in the night, and was never seen again. You might speculate that it had something to do with the fact that one of his neighbors had broken into his house at 4 o'clock in the morning, but I think that is just a mere coincidence. I would argue that he was more to blame than I was, and we were all better off as a community having a new neighbor (one that took home security just a little more seriously by locking the front door). Rumor has it that the new neighbors had installed a panic room, but I was not able to personally confirm that, as we were never invited over.
Now that my home invasion flashback was over, it was time to click on the "just shoot me in the head" button on my computer screen, and lock in my travel fate. Reluctantly, I was forced to book this trip with a certain airline that we will call "Poo Knighted", for sake of avoiding any type of litigation. Poo Knighted Airlines is notorious for overbooking their flights. Sometimes you will walk up to your gate and see what looks like at least two planes worth of passengers all crowded around the ticket counter with pitch forks and torches. And in a panic, you'll pull out your boarding pass, only to discover the disparaging words "Seat: Unassigned". That's when you will realize you will be stuck in Satan's waiting room until you completely give up on life itself. Meanwhile, the folks working the gate at Poo Knighted couldn't care less about the situation since they see it so often. One of them may apathetically get on the PA system, which only those equipped with dog hearing can hear. And with the enthusiasm of a patient walking into a dentist office to get three root canals done without anesthetic, they will announce that they have a $20 food voucher that's only valid when used at the gas station up the street, and perhaps even a stick of gum, for anyone willing to give up their ticket for a flight that leaves 35 hours later that is probably also oversold. And THAT, my friends, is what they call the friendly skies. Which is ironic, because just about every desperate person in that gate area would have no problem stabbing someone in the neck over a boarding pass that has a seat waiting at the end of that ramp. Yes, even the nun that's huddled in the corner next to the only working electrical outlet in all of the Philadelphia airport would shank someone for a guaranteed seat on the next flight out.
With half of a smile on my face, I download my boarding pass with a confirmed aisle seat, grab my travel weary carry-on bag, and saunter out to the car. Dead man walking. I really never know what doom awaits when I leave the house. Sometimes it's a lost bag, delayed flight, cancelled flight or an airport paralyzing storm. Other times it's more a whimsically unpredictable situation, like having one shoe stuck in the x-ray machine for ten minutes, striking up a two-hour conversation with a man that claims to have invented pants, or narrowly avoiding sitting on a raw slice of bacon that for some reason is resting unsuspectingly on a food court seat. Once I even found a set of teeth in the restroom stall at JFK. On this particular adventure, I managed to somehow make it through the security gate and TSA like a normal person, and without incident. There are times when this happens, and it is an unexpected surprise. I'm practically skipping as I head away from the last of the TSA soldiers, causing them to give me a final passing glance. There is none more suspicious behavior then someone acting jovial within 100 yards of an airport security gate. The alert TSA agent and I give each other a cold stare.
"Next time, sucka!" I think I say inside my head, but apparently I say out loud. Have you ever done that? I think I do it more than I realize.
"What was that?" said Mussolini (AKA Roger the TSA guy).
Being quick on my feet, I instantly come up with a plausible sound-alike response. "I said, how do I get to terminal C from here? I'm trying to catch my flight to Denver?" Close enough. Roger the TSA guy pointed in an upward direction, or perhaps was providing me with a gesture which starred his middle finger. It’s hard to know for sure, since both my vision and my memory are blurry.
As I skip towards terminal C, I have an ominous feeling deep inside, that Roger and I will meet again soon. A chill runs down the back of my neck, through my arm, and into my freshly scanned roller bag. Perhaps the chill even made it so far as through the first shirt that was rolled up neatly inside my bag. Probably not though.
I head to Gate B15 with a bit of time to sit and check email. Oh yeah, mentioning terminal C was just a ruse to throw inspector Roger off my scent. Like I said, quick on my feet. I scan the other passengers as I sit and wait for the flying garbage can to start boarding. I like to size up the people that I'm flying with.
As they begin mumbling group numbers inaudibly through the speakers that must be outside of the airport on top of the roof, passengers pack together tightly near the podium jockeying to be the first person from their group to board. Inevitably some guy will stand in the queue to get on the plane, and continue to wave people in front of him until his actual group number is called. We all know who you are, sneaky group jumper guy! Until I got flight status on Poo Knighted, I used to always end up in group 5 somehow. If you didn't know, group 5 is the group that they force to clean the airplane out once everyone gets off at the destination. If you are in group 5, they will also grab any roller bags that you might have before you board the plane, and throw them on a conveyor belt where somebody indiscriminately tosses them on to random other planes just to be silly.
As they mumble, "Premier Platinum blah blah blah" over the PA, I make my way to the front of the queue to show my boarding pass, and then politely wave those passengers through as I wait for my group to be called. See what I did there? When they finally get to "Silver Elite Ruby Red Sparkling Executive Premium Global Plus Exclusive Rhinestone", I scan my boarding pass which promptly beeps about 23 times. I know what you are thinking, that's a pretty specific and unnecessary number of beeps. With a straight face, the ticket scanning professional explains that they have moved my seat.
"To wherest have thy moved it?" I query.
"We have you in 23B", she replies.
I quickly translate the seat code into English, and it means "You're in a middle ###%ing seat."
"But how? Why?" I feel a disturbance in the force, and scan my surroundings only to find my nemesis, TSA Roger, who was for some reason now wearing a monocle. "oh, he's good", I thought to myself. "Yes, he is", said professional ticket scanning lady. Damn, I did it again. Roger once again points towards the ceiling with his middle appendage, and does a quick turn which makes his cape twirl behind him in a pretty awesome way as he is absorbed by a sea of scurrying travelers and luggage.
Defeated by the powers of evil, I drag my lifeless roller bag down the ramp towards the sound of "Welcome aboard!" being repeated over and over. As I enter the doorway of the Poo Knighted plane, I imagined what this particular plane must have looked like when it celebrated its 10th year in service back in 1965. Each seat still had an ashtray, and I could see that they recently replaced the seat belts with ones that buckle, rather than ones that you used to have to tie a knot in. The cabin was all stained yellow from decades of cigarette smoke, and there were holes cut out in the floor of the cockpit where the pilot and co-pilot could stop the plane with their feet like the Flintstones when we landed.
As I schlep towards the back of the plane, I enter a cloud of pungent odors near row 18. I know that something is afoot, but I can't put my finger on it. The air becomes thicker in stink as I press on towards 23B. As I near my row, I see a woman changing a baby on the seats in row 21, and one of the seats was covered in what I now know was not chocolate pudding. I find my seat and get settled in. I happen to glance to my right and notice a man in the row directly across from me already in his bare feet. To my left, a guy in his late twenties that was passed out and smelled like a bar mat full of moldy tequila. I reach up instinctively to increase the flow of air through that plastic bellybutton thingy above my head, which in turn blasts me with jet engine exhaust. Just at that moment, a business woman sits in the aisle seat next to me on my right, and thinks out loud to herself, "oh my!", while waving her hand by her nose.
"I know, right?" I say as she stuffs her extra large leather bag underneath the seat in front of her. She then begins to fight with a plastic bag that is refusing to relinquish its contents to her. She manages to tear into the plastic bag with her manicured talons. And that is when it hit me. It was an odor so dank and nauseating that you could actually see the smell with your eyes. Tuna sandwich.
This was not just any tuna sandwich. In fact, in order to get this type of smell happening, one would have to microwave a tuna (or cat food) sandwich inside a Tupperware container, leave said tuna sandwich container in a hot car in the desert for a week, then dump a bucket of tuna juice over your entire body before opening the tuna sandwich container. I was in tuna hell.
While this tuna situation is happening, I hear a distinct clicking noise, and I look over to my right and see big foot over there clipping his toenails! "Are you kidding me?" I think at him. He glances over and quickly dismisses me. He continues clipping away, and toe nail shrapnel begins flying in all directions, ricocheting indiscriminately off seats and also off magazines that were being used as face shields. I duck down with my head between my legs until the sound of artillery fire subsides. Tuna fish lady is now belching hot tuna air, which quickly circulates throughout the airplane. I don't know how it took as long as it did, but three or perhaps even four rows up, we all hear the sound of someone vomiting. This was confirmed moments later, as the festival of smells danced around the airplane cabin for the next three hours. Once I saw diaper-change-that-went-horribly-wrong lady exit the tiny plane bathroom, I quickly left drunken bar-mat frat boy, tuna fish lady and big foot to lock myself in the bathroom for some fresh air. There I would hide until I was forced to return to the festival.
My hand trembled as I slowly slid the bolt on the tiny bathroom door, and my eyes burned the moment the smells slammed into my face. Luckily I caught a whiff of nine different flavors of farts on my way back to my seat, which was as refreshing as crisp mountain air compared to what awaited me back at my seat. I contemplated the emergency exit, yet heard that the door actually doesn’t open in flight due to the pressurization. It was at this moment where I set a new Guinness World Record for the longest breath holding of two and a half hours. I believe my body’s survival instinct gave me the ability to breathe through my ears in order to bypass my smell ducts, or whatever.
When the plane finally landed in Denver, I was never so happy to be walking into an airport in my entire life. As I entered the terminal of passengers waiting to board the plane, I let out the breath of airplane air that I was holding in my lungs, and several people instantly collapsed. I grabbed my phone from my pocket, and quickly found a funeral home that was on the way to my hotel so that I could have the clothes that I was wearing on the airplane cremated. I have had several near-death experiences traveling, but this aromatic flight to Denver I was particularly surprised I had survived. Now getting OUT of Denver, however, would turn out to be a completely different story all together...