Lady On The Plane

Southwest Airlines has the boarding process wired when it comes to the queue. Passengers line up in alphanumeric order according to their boarding pass like school kids on a playground.

American Airlines is not so good.

Last Monday morning, passengers waiting to board an America flight to Washington DC resembled an angry mob in The French Revolution. The gate agents fueled the fire barking out terse “We have a FULL flight! If you are in Section C or D, you will NOT have any overhead space!”

We merged forward like a hill of ants, crowding in more. Backpacks bumping. Handbags swiping. Closer we crept to the Holy Grail… the two lanes leading to the plane separated by retractable, thin nylon straps.

“May I have your attention, please,” the gate agent called out again. “There. Will. Be. No. Upgrades. Everyone has checked in!”

“Excuse me,” said the pushy blonde woman (who had just moved into my space) to the couple who had just moved into hers. “This is Priority? Are you Priority?”

“If First is Priority, then, I guess we are,” the man said.

I looked at her ticket. She was “Priority” but, way back in 26C. Got her, I smiled.

Pre-boarding is the worst part of the flight. There is no political correctness here. You’re either “Elite,” “Priority” or in the  “main” cabin, a euphemism for “back of the bus.”

It’s when I’ve seen people practically mow down a woman with a cane. Step in front of a uniformed serviceman, and clip my heels with their roller board because I wasn’t going fast enough down the ramp to the plane.

On this Monday, no one was in a good mood.

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“You’re going to need to put your bag in the overhead,” the man in the window seat said, pointing to our seatmate’s bag at her feet. “It’s bulkhead. They make you do it.”

She reached down for her small backpack: “I know this particular plane, it fits under the seat on these.”

The man, middle-aged, and dressed in a suit, wasn’t having it. “Look, lady, I fly a lot. You’ll have to put it up.”

Keeping my eyes on my Kindle, I shifted in my seat, thinking, oh man, this is going to be a long cross-country flight.

“I fly a lot, too,” she replied, deadpan.

The man didn’t even try to hide his surprise: “Really?” he said, measuring this thirty-ish woman, eyeing her faded cotton leggings, the no-name tennis shoes. Her ethnicity… 

I stood up. “Here,” I said to her, “let me help you out. I can squeeze your bag right above.”

She smiled, resigned to the man on her left, and handed me her bag. 

I sat back down to buckle up, but the seat buckle wouldn’t fasten. “Shoot,” I said aloud.

“Here,” said reaching out her hand, “let me look at it.”

Expertly, she sized it up, clicking and unclicking, testing the hinge.  “Now try.”

It fastened. “Wow, you’re an expert. What do you do that you fly so much?” I asked.

“I’m with the FAA.”

“Ah,” I nodded and motioned to the man next to her. “So, if his seatbelt isn’t working. Don’t fix it.”

She laughed and gave me a wink. “I hear you.”

 And, I knew then that it wasn’t going to be such a long flight after all.