Getting There is Half, a Quarter, Hardly Any of the Fun

Our plane from LAX to Charlotte was late. “We will begin boarding as soon as the arriving passengers are off the plane,” the gate attendant announced.

“What’s the holdup?” I asked. Before he could answer, the scheduled departure time advanced by 30 minutes.

“It needs to taxi to the gate… as soon as it actually lands.” 

We were at the last stop on the concourse. Apparently they did not buy enough chairs for all the gates. Nor did the A-, B- or C-rated restaurants deem it worthwhile to open anywhere nearby. Fortunately, the acoustics were good enough to hear every single crying baby, the woman relating her entire miserable life story to someone on her phone, and the rotund guy who cleared his throat approximately every three seconds.

“Buck says you get the phlegm guy in your row.”

“Yeah? Well I bet you get her.” My wife pointed at a woman dashing for the restroom. Her third dash in the last fifteen minutes.

Pat and I like the aisle seat so we sit opposite each other on flights. It gives us easy access to the overhead bins in case we need more drugs, and we get to look down the plane to see what everyone is watching on their iPads. Sex, violence, and solitaire are trending.

Our plane finally boarded, taxied halfway to San Diego, turned around, and took off. “We’ll still have like 30 minutes to make our connection to Manchester, New Hampshire, after we land in Charlotte.” Turns out that was overly optimistic.

“’Scuse us! On your left! Coming through!” I glanced back at Pat. She was staying in my wake avoiding dawdlers. We could only hope they hadn’t closed the door yet. “On your right. Oops sorry! Put some ice on that, should be fine.”

Finally we rounded the last corner and I spotted our gate. Or rather, I spotted the large crowd in front of the gate. ‘Delayed Boarding’ it said on the sign. We had an hour.

“Drink?”

“Several,” Pat gasped.

Did I mention it was raining outside? And thundering and lightning. But finally our plane made it to the gate and after the wide-eyed passengers deboarded and ran to their next connection, we got settled in. “Can’t leave the gate,” the captain informed us, “until the lightning is at least seven miles away.” 

So, we sat and waited. It was freezing. Matter of fact, the side vents were pumping out visible cold air like you would see in a meat locker. Would we arrive in Manchester – where someone was now changing the arrival time of our plane to “your guess is as good as mine” – in a cryogenic state? 

Across the aisle, Pat was turning blue, but the storm must have reached the seven-and-a-half-mile mark because we started rolling. “Yay,” a few people yelled, their breath puffing out in front of them.

We landed in Manchester at midnight. One lonely car rental guy was still there. After he gave us our key, he shut off the light. We drove to the Super Eight Hotel a few miles away. It was dark and eerily quiet. A woman stood outside smoking a cigarette in front of the “No Smoking Within 100 Feet of the Door” and “Masks Required” signs. There was a placard on the wall that said: Super Eight Superstart Breakfast, 6 to 10 am, reminding us we hadn’t eaten in hours. The attendant was a bit zombie-like.

“Is there anywhere to get a bite around here,” I asked, instantly regretting my choice of words. There wasn’t. We dined on a bag of Cheetos from the vending machine.

Next morning, I handed Pat a brown paper bag. “Breakfast,” I said. Inside was a bottle of water, a fruit cocktail cup, and a granola bar. “COVID precautions, the unmasked guy at the desk said.” 

Pat went for the first shower. She came out thirty seconds later. “There’s no hot water!” I called the front desk.

“Yeah we know. We called a guy. Should be here in an hour or so.”

We were driving to the final destination, my hometown of Laconia, when the phone dinged. “Please leave a review about your stay at the Super Eight,” it said.

Pat grabbed the phone. “Let me,” she said. “I insist.”