20160104 (airportica-3)

This is Lufthansa passing out drinks to people waiting in line to rebook during a delay. Our lines were longer but the only United staff available were those struggling to get us on later flights.

An agent came to the gate to rebook

Everyone who would not connect.

A line of easily one hundred quickly

Formed. Neat, professional, but

Clearly exhausted, he announced,

“There’re other agents two gates

Down—I’m only one person 

Here for a hour.” The departure 

Time flicked to 8:30 PM. As the

Line grew I thought to check 

If I still could connect. He left soon

But those waiting did not boo.

One lady offered United should

Just come by and explain there

Were no pilots. There was really

No scheduled flight. They just chose

A number to keep us happy rather

Than running madly in the terminal

With torches. I said if nineteen Saudis

Could fly four planes, at least one of

Us should give it a shot once it was

Fueled. The line reassembled

At the service center two gates 

Away. I reassured a woman behind

Me the line was moving fairly 

Fast since there were more agents—

Four, then three, then two. It doubled

Back snakelike toward the counter, 

Brought me opposite no less 

Than Amy Schumer who denied

My query but sounded just like herself.

“Do you think the real Ms. Schumer 

Would be stuck in a rebooking queue

In the Seattle airport?” I proposed

To the others around me we’ve

Been together long enough to

Merit a FaceBook page for a group.

Told another lady with a kid 

How I admired women who flew 

With youngsters—more courageous

Than many who went into battle.

She appreciated the observation

But stated if a man really felt

That way, he’d yield his space in

Line to the mother. I almost did,

But since I was finally next, she’d

Be up soon I assured cowardly. At

The counter, Pauline, my rebooker

Clicked the keyboard to work any

Magic but explained so much 

Depended on others first clarifying

What was available. When after

Much telephony, keyboarding she

Finally produced a plan to get

Me to San Francisco, then Chicago,

Then home, I metaphorically

Leapt over the counter and gave

Her throat the deepest tongue-wash 

An old man could muster. We had 

Taken longer. Others buzzed

Through the agents and people

In the line were talking. As I 

Walked away I explained, “They’re

Building my plane now. Should 

Be ready to fly before 6 AM.” In

The background one guy lost it 

Cursing loudly, repeatedly. He was

Soon 9-1-1’d by security to the

Airport hoosegow.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

20160103 (airportica-2)

There is no way to sleep in an airport. Chairs, couches, benches just don't allow it.

When boarding passes roll off 

Your printer the prospect of flight 

Is rendered one step more real. 

I haven’t a smartphone to make

It easier yet. A ticket in my hand

Like a check seems more real 

Than an electronic funds transfer.

I’d yet to experience flight

Cancellation. It used to take

Several days for a check to bounce.

I didn’t realize the ticket’s

Power could evaporate as

Instantaneously as it had appeared.

As I was checking my bag the

Self-service terminal said my 

Papers were worthless, rebook you

Lost soul, or you’ll live in this

Airport till your money runs out.

I promptly rebooked the only

Flights which could get me home

But thirteen hours later. Since I’d just 

Spent the last hour in a taxi from

Olympia, and didn’t want to

Return there only to come back

Again, I opted for being cheerful

For at least the nine hours until

The first flight. Read the book

Nat had given me the first hour.

Then tried to sleep in the most 

Comfortable position sitting up

Allowed. For breakfast, a jalapeño and

Egg everything bagel that disappeared

Too quickly. Then I watched passengers

Of other flights come and go. One

Attractive but slightly heavy blond

In a black mini combo burst into

Tears, texted furiously, crying silently,

For half an hour. Bust-up I guessed.

Anybody who’d break it off via 

Text was a schnook. Was she flying

To him or away? Then there was

The guy who stopped in front of 

The waiting area and audibly 

Spoke at the screen every half hour.

Lunch was mu shoo pork and

Noodles, not at all bad for airport

Fare but half the volume for

The price. What did I expect? 

Three and a half other flights 

Arrived and departed before

My flight was scheduled for 

Boarding. The last plane did 

Not depart. It was the plane 

For my scheduled flight.

People suddenly wandered by

Checking on the screen which

Had quietly revised the departure

Time to “Now leaving at 4:30 PM.”

They’d been notified by the United 

Apps on their smartphones. I

Had a four hour layover in SFO.

Even with the delay I could

Make the connection 

And get home.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016

20160102 (airportica-1)

Very like my taxi, except imagine it in the middle of the night with only house Christmas lights to see by.

Red numbers on the clock
 
Glowed 3:38. I had 22 more

Minutes to sleep, but since I

Knew I was already awake

I decided to rise, get dressed,

Pack the last items, possibly

Keurig a final Donuts Decaf,

Wait for the taxi to Sea-Tac.

Good I got up since the alarm

Was misset for 4:00 AM but

The clock had read 4:00 PM.

As I opened the front door to

Check for Boris the Bulgarian,

Who preferred to approach the

House with his headlights off

So as not to wake anyone,

Cosette snaked through my

Ankles, tore off barking for parts

Unknown. Dressed, I ambled

Forth in the hard dark of 

Golden Maples Court, NW, 

Lit only by Christmas lights,

Whispering, “Cosette, Cosette,

Come back here, you dirty

Dog.” At the base of the drive

I saw Boris’s Mafia-black Ford

Crown Vic four-door sedan.

He shut its lights off half a

Block away, crept toward 

The house, Cosette’s yips dwindling

In the forest. Andy came out, 

Closing the front door behind him—

A crucial mistake—helped call after 

The pup. Luckily for me she 

Returned from the brush to alert

Us to Boris’s intrusion. Andy quickly

Snatched her up. We went back

To the front door to fetch my

Luggage from inside, discovered

The latch release, which had 

Been failing for weeks, chose

This precise moment finally

To break altogether. Andy

Fortunately had carried his

Phone and rang the house 

Phone so Majida would get

Up to open the back door.

He despaired, she rarely

Left the girls’ room to answer

The phone in the night but

Did this time. Mind you this

Whole adventure occurs in

The space of about a minute.

For what should have been 

A quiet getaway with minimal

Disturbance turns into Thurber’s

“The Night the Bed Fell,” yipping 

Dog, calls into the woods,

Cursing a brass door latch,

Calls to Mama for help, three

Sleepy young ladies waken

Wondering, “What’s all this 

Fuss?” I grabbed my luggage,

Gave Majida one last hug, 

Tickled Cosette’s head, told

Andy “sorry” about fifty times.

Boris threw my tiny bag in the

Trunk large enough to hold

Four Jimmy Hoffas. As we

Backed down the drive in 

The dark my breathing slowed.

I concluded this was trouble 

Enough for one day. The flight

Home would be smooth

As a baby’s butt.

c. J.S.Manista, 2016