I launched out of bed when the alarm went off! …so I could turn it off and go back to sleep. I sat back in the bed for a moment, wondering if anyone would notice if I missed my flight and just stayed at home and slept for a few days. I shrugged, resigned to my fate, and climbed out of bed. Alicia dragged herself out of bed shortly after me, and looked on in mock disgust as I ate a pair of overdone waffles for breakfast. It might have been mock disgust, anyway. She could have been nodding off. I printed a copy of my itinerary, checked for flight delays and decided to skip online check-in so I could try out the fancy computerized kiosks at the airport.

After narrowly missing no less than two rabbits, fourteen deer and a grizzled possum, we made it to the relative safety of I-40 and arrived at the airport in a most timely fashion. I checked in, strolled to security and presented my belongings to the privacy invasion agency. Shoes off, in a bin! All liquid, gel, non-solid and potentially damp-smelly-moist-squishy stuff in quantities no greater than three ounces in a quart-sized plastic bag. In the x-ray machine, not in the agent’s hand! Laptop out and in a bin. Jacket off, in a bin! Bags placed at a reasonable distance from each other—SIR! Is that a metal belt buckle? IN A BIN, THROUGH THE MACHINE! Obey. Obey! OBEY!

I felt like I’d been processed for a life of enslavement by a squadron of Daleks. Unbelted and barefoot, my pants yearned to become glorified ankle warmers. I staggered through to the collection point and struggled to simultaneously gather my belongings and my dignity. I pulled myself together in the bathroom and jogged down to the last gate where my flight was just announcing final boarding. I had an assigned seat, but I slipped into line between an elderly couple and a pregnant porn starlet. I had to keep my skills sharp for future cattle call flights and my eventual entry in The Amazing Race! No one noticed, which must mean that I’m awfully smooth. Or that it was 5:45am and no one was awake enough to care.

On the first leg, Kevin Costner woodenly cheesed his way through The Guardian and defended the lives of idiots and the good name of puddle pirates everywhere. I nibbled on raisins and sipped orange juice. Ahh, the Continental (airlines) breakfast! An old man strode heedless of the fasten seatbelts sign to the rear of the craft. I wasn’t sure if he was bound for the head or to berate one of the hostesses for the poor breakfast, but another geriatric followed him. Others came too. One by one they returned, all but the two old folks. Like my ankles, my bladder was swollen. I had to go too! I unbuckled, slid past an airline hostess and bounded for the pair of aft lavatories. Both were occupied. From the right were the sounds of someone struggling with a mighty load. From the left were… other sounds. I was practically pissing myself and those old people were scrogging in the shitter! I realize that septuagenarians have sex too, and that they have just as much of a right to scratch off items on their “Things to do before I die” list, but ew! Ew! Ewwww! They finally emerged, red-faced and avoided my knowing eyes, and those of everyone else nearby. I relieved myself and returned to my aisle seat next to Carlos and Charlie as they grumbled quietly in Spanish about the fat bastard sitting next to them. I should have skipped my pre-flight shower so they would have had more to bitch about. They were mightily surprised when I asked them if they knew of any good places to grab a beer in Houston. In Spanish.

My Latino seatmates never answered my question, and I never got to find out. I had less than an hour to get from one end of the airport to the other. One train, a tram, three people movers and two escalators later, I jogged down a jetway and slumped down into my seat. “Lo siento senor,” I apologized in advance to the brown skinned fellow in the middle seat. “Eh?” he replied. “Not good English… Saudi Arabia.” Aha! No wonder people kept looking at the guy funny. As our Boeing 737-900 sped down the runway, he whispered “Not good… fly.”

Ding-diiing! “This is your captain speaking. I have illuminated the fasten seatbelts signs, as we are entering some rough air. We’ll be in beautiful San Diego in a little less than an hour. Hang in there and you’ll be enjoying the sunny city or well on your way to the city or country of your final destination!” My seatmate was sweating. More people were looking at him. Not just quick glances, but full blown sideways stares. We began our final descent into San Diego. The jet shuddered and bounced like a bag of microwave popcorn. The recipient of so many stares to my left started opening and closing his hands spasmodically and murmuring “Allahu akhbar!” under his breath. People were whispering. He was shaking. I slammed my hand down over top of his and looked him in the eye. “Listen,” I began. “You have to calm down. We’ll be on the ground in ten minutes. Got it?” He twisted his hand around and squeezed my fingers. I looked away. He didn’t let go for the next ten minutes. He did shut up, though, until we were safely on the ground. “Thank you!” he said. I nodded. “Don’t mention it.”