The day’s final meeting had concluded. Following hours consumed with discussion of Puget Sound’s water quality, Clean Water Act intricacies, and prospects for litigation, my coworker and I fancied a beer. Thus, on a cloudless Friday afternoon in Seattle we ambled a block or two over to the pub, settled at a table, and ordered pints.
After talking shop for a bit, the conversation wandered across life’s nuances, politics, books worth reading, and the meaning of it all. A subsequent round was delivered. A few laughs, a little gossip, musings on matters of arcane esoterica. When you genuinely revel in chatting with another, invest in their speech as much as your own retort, awkward pauses hold at bay, topics of considerable depth are on the table owing to mutual curiosity and knowledge, similar senses of humor are shared, personal interests align, and resinous IPAs continue appearing as the previous glasses empty—time passes swiftly.
What time is your flight again?
Oh, um… wait… what time is it right now? OH SHIT!
The big metal bus in the sky was departing in about 90 minutes to ferry me home to Eugene. Seated in a pub near the University District north of downtown, my chances were slim. The Seattle-Tacoma International Airport is sited south of the city, likely a 40-minute drive with light traffic from where I sat. But I had no car. I planned to ride the Link Light Rail to the airport. It was imperative that I got my ass moving, posthaste.
We hustled away from the tavern, cut across a grassy park, made our way toward the light rail station, and carried on chatting leisurely while I attempted to cloak my burgeoning anxiety. As a general rule, I detest being late. But the prospect of missing my flight because I was occupied drinking ale and shooting the breeze with a coworker added a practically unbearable layer of embarrassment. By the grace of Zeus and Cronus, please allow me to make it in time!
Wonderful to see you! Then: purchase ticket, ascend stairwell, and wait. And wait. And wait. Next train entering the station in two minutes, twooooo minutes… Step aboard, claim a seat, remain calm. 79 minutes to go…
As the light rail rumbled along at its lethargic pace, I prepared myself for the security theatre. Remove watch and empty pockets. Locate ticket on phone. Zip every zipper. Tighten shoelaces. Get set in position for the sound of the starting pistol. Deep breaths, deep breaths. 63 minutes to go…
The train gained passengers at downtown stations and began to crowd, but the doors kept closing, delays were avoided, and we pushed on. I habitually checked the time on my phone, counting down the minutes until my ultimate failure. Maybe if we arrive in the next 15 minutes? Or, maybe 20? Flights are routinely postponed for some inane reason or another—perhaps I could be so fortunate. 42 minutes to go… SoDo. Beacon Hill. Mount Baker. Columbia City. Othello Station. Damn it, hurry up!
Then, finally, the moment of truth: next stop, Sea-Tac. I gathered my bags and nudged toward the exit doors, impolitely shimmying ahead of the lukewarm and apathetic. Slowing, slowing…stopped. The aperture opened, I burst forth in a fury, and the race was on. 27 minutes to go…
I became that annoying asshole running top speed down the escalator stairs bumping you with my duffel bag as I passed. Excuse me! Sorry! Exiting the station’s turnstile, the stars began to align. Sitting idle was one of those golf cart-type dune buggy thingys that travel through airports as the driver honks a whiney horn and shouts for people to make way. Three of the four seats were placidly occupied by elderly passengers and their bags. I approached—sweating and out of breath—babbled something about being late for my flight and could I please take the remaining spot? The driver acquiesced, I hopped on, and we zoomed away.
I checked the time—this might work! I had about 26 minutes until the flight was scheduled to depart. But, of course, the boarding process starts about 20 to 30 minutes prior to the aircraft’s door closing. This was cutting it close, without doubt. Onward toward the promised land! The golf cart whizzed past pedestrians, beep-beeping at oblivious headphone zombies, and zig-zagging around bipedal obstacles who had resolved to camp in the middle of the path and ponder their mortality.
We finally hit the shiny, polished floors of the main terminal and came to a halt. A 30-something white man donning the costume of Usain Bolt was off to a strong start, galloping toward the security lines with reckless urgency. Hermes, that heralded god of travel, had parted the TSA seas and the line was relatively short. Naturally, someone fumbled with their belt, forgot to remove their keys, and asked a senseless question about doffing their shoes.
22 minutes to go…
Naturally, someone necessitated being examined via a magical blipping wand, the conveyor paused for the viewing pleasure of a toiletry kit voyeur, and weathered hands were wiped with a towelette to ensure that grandma on her way back to Miami had not keistered an IED. The grand performance eventually concluded, the curtains drew closed, and I was granted my liberty to patronage a Cinnabon or purchase a neck pillow.
I ran.
No apologies, no worries of impropriety, no concern of looking like an utter fool—I just ran. Glancing at the digital display board as I passed, I spied the gate number for my flight. Hermes had blessed me with a fairly close-in gate. I dashed past a busy McDonald’s and a half-mile-long line at a Starbucks. Soy vanilla latte no whip, and do you guys still have those little sandwiches with the… 17 minutes to go…
I broke through the ribbon at the finish line and arrived at the gate. People were standing aimless near the door to the tarmac with luggage in tow. The screen behind the gate’s desk indicated the flight was “on time.” After searching for some official signal as I tried to catch my breath, a voice came over the loudspeaker: “We will now begin boarding Group A for the 6:15 flight to Eugene. Please have your boarding pass ready to ensure that…”
Woo-hoo! Victory!
The TGIF Alaskan Airlines flight from Seattle to Eugene is an interesting one. I would wager that 75% of the passengers are business fliers, heading back home following some form of meeting, super-commute, or corporate junket. Chubby, perspiring men in gaudy ties and ill-fitting suit coats. Oodles of mini gin and vodka bottles on order. Boisterous conversations about forthcoming sporting contests. Smiling faces intermixed with visages of exhaustion. The few pleasure travelers likely perplexed by the happy hour meets boys’ club scene, the multitude of I’m-a-very-important-person laptop jockeys puttering around with Excel at 30,000 feet, and the unusually high ratio of pant-suited middle-aged women clutching well-worn Dooney & Bourke cross bodies.
I plopped proudly in my seat, savoring the win. Yeah, sure, I’ll have a ginger ale and a mini bottle of Jack Daniels. Yeah, what the fuck, gimme the tiny bag of stale pretzels too. Might as well go for the gusto during the next 45 minutes! Hell, I might even recline my seat back all four inches and really live it up—yeah baby!
The weather in Eugene is 74 degrees and partly sunny with light winds out of the west. Should be a smooth ride as we do not expect much turbulence. So, please, sit back, relax and enjoy your flight.