Recently I traveled to Chicago on a certain airline of which name I will not say, but it rhymes with BrUnited. Now, despite not having brushed my hair in four years I think I'm pretty harmless looking. I perpetually look 12. Or 2. Yet everytime I travel I'm the one getting "pulled" to the side for extra security checks, baggage invasions, and intrusively wanded, which to some counts as sex when it hits your cervix. Being relatively newly single, this time I didn't mind the extra attention. But, Geezus.
It all happened so fast. The TSA man circled my ticket with his colored sharpie and gave me a creepy look that said, "I know what's about to go down, Ms. Costa, and I can't wait."
Shoeless, I made my way up to the grey bins, ready to pass through the metal detectors. And after I did, still belt-less, cell phone-less, and bag-less I was motioned to the "side" by a large woman named, Marge...as it should be. While there, I was further stripped down, hair pulled, "wanded", ass-banged and given a small cup of water. You can really get parched in these situations. And all the while everyone was watching, including the little Asian girl with the salt water taffy and hopelessly sad eyes. And then it got scary. A bunch of A-Holes in blue shirts were digging through my carry-ons as if I was smuggling cocaine or Nick Nolte. Apparently they didn't find what they were looking for amidst my self-help books, boy panties, unfinished poetry, Superman knee-hi's and pictures of Tina Fey.
Across from me stood a petite frightened woman who was very much in the same predicament I was. I felt sorry for her as she cringed at the sight of the "love" wand. She took it well, however, and I was impressed. Small she was but she had the vaginal capacity of a much larger woman.
As Marge gave me the signal that I was clear to go I re-dressed and blew her a kiss. "Thank you, Marge", I said. "Thank you." She was a woman of few words but something in her He-Man Thundercat growl told me she knew I was "that" kinda Girl. I proceeded to my gate with my belongings, a little less dignity and a smile. It was quite the throwdown and not every airport is capable of providing such. And one never knows when one will find it again. After all, who's it hurtin'?
Was it a case of "racial profiling", I don't know. I'm mistaken for a Latina woman often. And if so I say, "Por favor darme más."
As I boarded the aircraft I quickly realized the difference between BrUnited and Southwest Airlines. Southwest crews tell jokes and act a fool. It's like flying with fun clowns & jesters. BrUnited, not so much. They're very serious about their time. And they love their videos. Instead of a flight attendant I had a video to ignore. I don't wanna know what to do if we crash. I'm pretty certain I'd forget what Betty said if we did crash and manage to survive anyway. And all though I do enjoy the spacious seating in the exit rows, I'm not being very honest when I smile, & nod & say I'll accept the responsibilities of sitting in such seating. And the pilot's red eyes didn't at all make me skeptical. As soon as we were in flight the tv screens came on again, this time announcing their new merger with another airline. But all my newly hypoglycemic self wanted to know was, "Where the fuck is my treat?!" I'm used to being "spoiled" by Southwest's generous bag-giving of pretzels and or trail mix peanuts. These "guys" provided a beverage and a sloppy business man sleeping next to me. I don't like assigned seating. It's not fair.
There's always a lot of turbulence when flying to and from Chicago but it was excessive this time and quite nauseating. I couldn't help but to close my eyes and grab the arm rest, squeezing and tugging hard as we flew through. Thirty five minutes later the "sleeping" business man next to me politely informed me that, "That's not the arm rest." Then he thanked me. Several times. But who's counting? Other than him... There's only one thing this man likes more than honey roasted peanuts when 30,000 miles in the sky. But they "Proudly Serve Starbucks Coffee", so I can forgive and forget.
I resorted to listening to music the remainder of the flight. Three songs into Michael Jackson's Bad album I got a violent nudge from an angry flight attendant. "We announced ten minutes ago that all electronic devices needed to be shut off and properly stowed", she said. How was I supposed to hear the "captain" when I was listening to my Ipod and texting above the clouds? I told her it was shut off and I just had the ear phones in my ear still. I lied, and all of a sudden I was back in second grade denying to Miss Nelson that Lamar and I were looking at her starch white panties under her denim skirt during circle time. As punishment I had to write. It felt more like a win-win to me. Even now. (looking off & up to the right and smiling) I could tell the bitter flight attendant didn't believe me, however, so I said, "Ok sir." She got the point. Then the man next to me asked her for another Coke and instantly her and I shot him a look that shouted, "Are you f*cking serious, dude?! You want Starbucks, a gay hand job, AND a second can of Coke?" That's when I knew my next ex would be that quick-witted flight attendant with loads of baggage. And for the next ten minutes we had a lasting relationship. One of my longest.
Upon landing I grabbed my bags and headed far from the gate, feeling all shades of cheap and used. I got on my Palm Pre and immediately booked another adventure, winking to all the flight attendants and TSA agents as I passed. I heard somebody yell, "I love you, Costa!", but I know what that means. It translates as, "You make me laugh and I love you for that but I don't wanna stick around and raise your big-headed children." "Me voy a volver!", I announced in Spanish. "Me voy a volver!". "That's what she said", someone quipped back.
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