Fort Lauderdale- LA
California based crew
The past few weeks have all culminated to this moment in time. I have planned, and packed and repacked, and sorted and prepped. Dragged and dropped and applied and submitted. I have drank incessantly and eaten things foreign to my diet- so much so that I am in danger of my entire suitcase of clothes becoming irrelevant. I have been up since 4 am. I am not in a relaxed place.
I am not alone. I can tell who is with me. The eaters of the enormous isosceles triangles of fat aka breakfast pizzas...the impatient….we are the east coasters. And now we sit intermingled- all headed to LAX. You can pick out the Californians by their faces. Partly vacant, partly like they are perpetually viewing a mountain, or Angel or something. Such a nice trait until a task comes on to the table…then its just frustrating as hell. Speed up granola. Get up and board mother f-er.
We have priority access and are grateful for this perk as we drag our children and other assorted remoras attached to us by straps and handles. The ticket-processing guy looks like Dr. Johnny Fever, the DJ on WKRP in Cincinnati. He cannot multi task. One old woman's ticket must look funny so he stops all the lines and partners with the other 2 processors to discuss it. Is it not obvious that a more logical approach would be for 1 to deal with this issue and the other 2 to keep processing? I start wondering if it is the font or a new shade of blue that he just never really appreciated until now seeing it in this light. After long discussions the woman passes- the ticket was fine, did we have any doubt that this ancient woman in the wheelchair was not a terrorist?
Our turn. He turns us away because we are ruby not emerald. In the end, we all discover we are in fact emerald and should be able to board for OZ- but cannot until we are first tormented with the California humiliation package. You know it- where they try to show you the error of your ways and bring about enlightenment. They want you to drink the Kool-Aid. He patronizes me with that groovy slurred California tone with "dude" understood at every freaking pause..a hippified harangue ensues about how we are all going the same place and it doesn't matter when you board, no sense caring about who gets on the plane first, we're all here for a purpose man. I abstain from pointing out that his airline made it a big deal. Instead of giving me food and upgrades now they give me this lame 2 minute advantage to stow my s***. I wonder if his slow speech is from multiple skateboard accidents. I can't fight too hard because I don't want us to be denied boarding. This is the perfect place… insert east coast sarcasm. I mimic his dense, slow, pace and fake surfs up aha aha speech pattern repeating back what he is saying figuring he can't toss me off the plane for doing just what he is doing. My husband watches from a careful distance with both admiration and horror. I float like a butterfly and sting like a bee before he can even formulate his next vowel sound.
East coast versus and west coast. It's all comes down to pace.
Moments from hurling towards latitude 118° West