I flew out of Indianapolis International a year or so back, bound for San Francisco. I had a connecting flight down in Phoenix, and even though I usually tried to get the non-stop, Sky Harbor Airport is normally a quick turn-a-around. So, I didn’t see any problem with landing at San Francisco around 11:30 pm, catching a train uptown, and then making it up to my apartment.
My rule of thumb is that those in the know, even in this day and age of sweatpants and flip-flops, always dress up at least a little bit to take a plane. And so, I cruised up to Indy, and marched into the terminal wearing a nice sport coat, clean jeans, and some shiny black slip on dress shoes. For me, no big deal. That’s just the way I like to look when I fly… you know, like you belong to be there. Besides, I’m old enough to remember when flying was actually kind of a big deal, and most people back in the late 70s and well into the 80s would dress up a bit to fly.
Anyhow, I was feeling pretty good about myself that night, and just went in, hit the restroom, checked myself in the mirror, and then off to catch my flight. On my way to the TSA security lines, I’m looking around at all the other frequent fliers in their pajama pants, house slippers, and head phones.
“Pathetic,” I thought aloud, “They all look like they’re going to Walmart at midnight on a Saturday to get potato chips.”
Owing it all to the black blazer I was wearing, along with my super scary and smart looking leather satchel, I figured that I was a step or two ahead of the rest of that population. And sure enough, I was.
Through my distraction, I inadvertently entered the aisle for the TSA Pre-Check. You know, the one that all the important people go through? No real search, no real hassles, just flash your I.D., and head off to the lounge that’s nearest your boarding gate.
I am not, nor have I ever been, qualified to enter the aisle for TSA Pre-Check.
“Excuse me sir,” I was being stopped by the TSA dude, “May I see your Pre-Check and Identification?”
Oooops! You know, there is that one, great big sign that says when you pass a certain point, you can’t just turn around and leave, and go down the other line; you know, the line where everyone’s wearing sweatpants? Well, I had passed that sign long ago, and was now deep inside of TSA territory on a one-way street. I felt a lump growing in my chest.
Stammering and searching for the words, I came up with, “I accidentally came down the wrong lane. I don’t have a Pre-Check I.D.”
The agent kind of chuckled and said, “Sir, that hat and coat you have on is good enough for me, and besides, we’re not that busy tonight. What is that, an old Stetson?”
I had forgotten until then that I was wearing this terrific Stetson Fedora, like Sinatra and that crowd all used to wear in the 40s and 50s, and mentioned that, “Yeah, it’s a Stetson. I got it up near Napa about a month ago.”
The TSA guy was happy to hear this and let me know that, “Sir, I have to admit that I’ve wanted a hat like that ever since my dad used to wear one. And plus, not too many people bother to dress up to fly these days. Please, be our guest. No Pre-Check, no problem!”
And with that, I experienced the easiest check in I had ever dreamed of. I was reminded of how it used to be prior to September 11th. I essentially just “walked into” the concourse, and made my way down to my gate.
Since I had such an easy time with security, I was up near the front of the line, and as boarding began, I might’ve been the ninth or tenth passenger from the gate.
“Any checked luggage?”
“Nope, just one carry on.”
The gate attendant glanced down at my boarding pass, which had been “checked” by the TSA fast line folks, and asked me if I was flying alone this evening? I shook my head yes, and he directed me to, “Please wait over to my side for a few minutes. Sir, we have to check into some things.”
At that moment, the overhead departure sign lit up, flickered once or twice, and went from “On Time” to “Delayed”.
“Oh boy,” I thought. “Here we go… they think I’ve skirted security. I hope they don’t check my bags.” I really didn’t feel like finding out that my small bottle of mouthwash was on George W’s high-risk watch list.
The airline announced a delay of 30-45 minutes, but that we could still board the plane.
I stepped over to the side, and watched as 30-35 people got onto the plane. All the while, the entire crew at the gate was now looking at me. I fully expected to be taken into custody at any moment.
Finally, in an effort to get on the plane, and out of sight of the SWAT team that I thought must headed my way, I spoke up and asked if anything was wrong.
“No sir, nothing’s wrong, please wait over there… yeah, over there and out of the way of passengers boarding.” That was the answer. I was not re-assured.
Another 5-10 people got on the plane, and I figured I’d either get on the plane or not. If the TSA messed up, then it wasn’t my fault, and I needed to get going.
I walked up to the gate again and said, “Excuse me sir, but my section has boarded. Will I be able to get onto the plane?”
Then the guy looks up, and kind of smiles and says that, “Don’t worry buddy, this is going to turn out very nice for you. Please, go and have a seat. It’ll just be a few minutes.”
I went over and sat down, waiting to be handcuffed and then locked away in Airport jail. I wondered what they would charge me with? I had no clue, but I was for sure that I was gonna get screwed, probably while doing 10-20 in a federal penitentiary!
After what seemed like way too long, the dude motioned for me to come to the gate, and then took my boarding pass. He took a red marker and crossed out seat 34A and penciled in seat 1D. He smiled and said, “Thanks for your patience, a family needed to be seated together, so they took your old seat. Enjoy the new one and have a nice flight to Phoenix.”
As I stepped onto the plane, a flight attendant asked if she could take my coat and carry on. Then she hung up my coat and hat in a closet, stowed my satchel, and let me know after takeoff, to let her know that, “If you need anything from your bag, please let me know, and I’ll retrieve it for you.” That killed me, that she was gonna “retrieve” something for me. Then, she directed me to seat 1D. It was front row and a window seat… in First Class. As we taxied to the runway, they drew that curtain closed, and for the first time in my life, I’m sitting up on the important side of the curtain. Just way to cool.
Then, another delay. Something or another about weather out west of Indy.
We finally got into the air, and for the sake of brevity, I’ll condense the four-hour flight from IND to PHX.
- Dinner AND dessert: served on real china, with real forks and knifes.
- Unlimited drinks: I had Coffee and Diet Pepsi’s, and you know what– the coffee absolutely tasted better than I remembered from back in Coach. You know, with the commoners.
- The little bitty restrooms on a plane: Yeah, they’re bigger in First Class.
- The Flight Attendant did go and get my bag for me, let me use my laptop, and then went and put it back in the closet after I was finished working.
- They gave me a blanket: It was a real, full-sized blanket (not understanding that it was complimentary, I immediately stowed it the closet… with my carry on). You might call that stealing, I call it taking a souvenir.
- When we got to Phoenix, the lady put my coat onto me, just like if I was buying the jacket, and told me to have a good evening.
- Finally, when you’re at the gate: First Class are the first ones off the plane.
This last part was especially important because I had a connecting flight clear across the airport, and was very late due to the delays from back at Indianapolis. I barely made it as they were boarding last call, and was directed to Seat 33B, right smack dab in the middle of Little Bohemia.
Two hours later, we’re circling SFO and the guy next to me needed a shower (and probably a clean pair of sweat pants), way back somewhere over Oklahoma. Now– there’s fog over San Francisco, and so we had to circle an extra two times in order for the plane to get visibility of the runway. So, another delay.
We finally land, and now instead of 11:30, it’s just after 1:00 am. And… the trains stop running back to the City at 1:00.
Terrific!
I couldn’t find a cab, and really didn’t feel like dropping a hundred dollars on a rental car. I mean, I had it and all, but it wasn’t really in my budget for that week. Besides, then I’d have to mess around with returning it down by Market Street, which was completely out of my way, and knew I wouldn’t be able to park it on the street this time of the night by the apartment anyway. At least, not without it being towed at 5:00 am due to the insane parking laws up near where I was staying.
So, what to do?
In the end, I took my nifty little First-Class blanket, rolled it up into a pillow, and found a low traffic area to lay down on THE FLOOR of San Francisco airport. The trains started up again at 5, and I set the alarm on my phone to 4:45 am, pulled my Frank Sinatra Stetson down over my eyes, and tried to sleep. Before I fell asleep, I couldn’t help but notice the not so subtle changes I had experienced in the last 8 hours.
Beginning as a lowly passenger in coach, I had somehow skated through security, been bumped up to a window seat in first class, and then just as quickly; I had been knocked directly back down to where I belonged, crammed in next to a smelly guy in sweatpants, delayed again, and now sleeping on the floor of an Airport… with a stolen blanket for a pillow.
I finally found sleep, woke up, washed my face in the public restroom sink, and hopped a train to Embarcadero Station.
As I walked up from the tunnels and into the early morning light of day, I joined thousands of other people, all of us on our way… to somewhere. Some had a three-piece suit, some were still in their sweatpants, and me– wearing a wrinkled-up sport coat and a thrift shop hat. Funny thing, under all of those costumes, everyone rushing around was a little bit different, but ultimately the same. All of us, just “people”.
I still have my “First-Class” ticket, and I use it as a bookmark in my journal. The red ink from the TSA agent and the boarding crew is right there, obscuring my seat assignment back in coach, but never really deleting it. And you know what– that’s how it ought to be. First-class and coach are only temporary seating assignments. Us, as a people, have lifetime assignments.
I guess that the take-away from all of this is really pretty simple: live in the best way that you know how, and after that; it all has to do with trying to impress the other guy… and what good does that do?
~Jim Steele
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