How Was Your 48-Minute Flight?

Fine, just thanks.

Thursday afternoon I did a half-day at work, booked it back to my apartment, then drove over to Scott and Sandy's place. My luggage: a suitcase, laptop computer, and camera bag. I felt I was ready to go after being tired, burnt out, wound up, etc. I needed out of town for a bit.

Scott took me to the airport and I was checked-in, sitting, and waiting by 5 o'clock. The gate I was leaving out of had the “waiters” for a flight leaving before mine so I took the next gate over, with less people sitting in the chairs, and setup shop there for a while. After realizing that I just didn't feel like reading or listening to music, I went to get a drink from one of the restaurants.

At the restaurant I took the last available seat at the bar and looked around. The rest of the seating was comprised of professionals: dresses, slacks, high heels, business shoes, blouses, and pressed-shirts. A bartender asked me what I wanted. “Pale ale.” I end up with a Heineken. A few moments later a guy walked up to my right and ordered a Miller Light. “We have Miller or Bud Light.” He changed his demeanor to say, “Didn't ya understand what I wanted the first time?” and said, “Why don't you just offer me watered-down beer?” I make a reference about iced coffee and we laugh.

Boredom, sitting in the airport waiting for your flight be thy name. I'm sitting at the gate next to the one I need to be at waiting for that flight to leave; it's going to St. Louis. I'm buzzing on the Heineken and am unable to focus my attention on anything like reading so I get out my Zune and kill time listening to music while waiting for the flight.

“Thank you for flying Southwest from Louisville to Chicago... The flight will be forty-eight minutes long.” A 48-minute flight? Did we need to really be in the air for that? I took my seat, lodged between two professionals. The guy on my left keeps his attention set straight on whatever is outside the window. He's maybe in his forties, bald with white hair in his mustache that makes a square on around his mouth. White earbuds are firmly inside his ears and once in a while he checks his Blackberry phone.

Daniel. He's the guy sitting to my right. Late thirties, clean-shaven, ex-military wearing a sky-blue shirt. Quickly he grabs one of the in-flight magazines, the ones that are all pomp and no circumstance, and flips through it. He shoves it back into the seat's magazine holder. I crack a quip about how “in-flight reading” ain't what it used to be.

Everyone is in Louisville for a different reason and his is to sell paper products to law firms. He's from Lavonia, a suburb outside of Detroit. We compared downtown Louisville (he was impressed with Fourth Street Live!) and downtown Detroit. “They've shut down half of the downtown area. The city is designed for four million people. There are only one million spread out across one hundred and thirty-six square miles. The city can't support itself like that.” Retrieving the same in-flight magazine he opens to a page with a large white area and draws the ethnic “make up” of Detroit and how most everyone lives outside it as opposed to in it. Living in Louisville I forget that while we are segmented we are a hodge-podge as opposed to the North where actual races occupy much larger sections.

I talk about what I do, mostly doing movie reviews and writing. “If it's not applicable, I don't read it.” He has problems watching movies, especially fiction, because it's not “applicable” to anything in his life. “It takes me twenty-to-thirty minutes to get into a movie. I have to tell myself, 'It's mindless entertainment' and go with it.'” With his fingers he counts the three groups of books that have made the garbage: lightly read, made it to the middle, and got all the way through it. “You see, I have to get something from the book. I read a book and as long as I get something from it, even one sentence, I consider it worth my time.” He reminds me of my uncle Roy and the fact that some people can't read for enjoyment. This is oil and water talking. “Clutter” is a concept that he has read about. We, as a people, tend to keep baggage whether physical or emotional. “Delegate, diminish, and delete,” he reasserts over and over.

We go back to talking about movies and I plug my reviews on the web. He tells me he'll check them out and we de-board the plane. I call my friend Rob on the cell, he calls me back, and we finally connect over by the baggage area. “How was your flight,” he asks to which I reply, “The greatest forty-eight minute flight ever.” “Yeah... well, when you ask how someone's flight is it's usually longer.” True.

On the way back to his place we talk about various things including that we are now in the realm of “the pregnant woman” which means no late nights, no staying up talking too loud, etc. We stopped off to eat at a place called Buona's and I got a bowl of meat with some vegetables in it. Back at his place Vicky had already went to bed so I took my stuff up to the room I was staying in and we went out to his deck, sat, and talked. I don't think I've ever felt as broke and fractured as I am now...