Not Cleared For Takeoff - Wednesday, August 15, 2012

Ari left from New York City.  I left from Newport Beach.  We were set to rendezvous in Atlanta, home of our favorite team: the (1995) World Champion Atlanta Braves.  We had it all planned.  Ari would land at 2:30, giving him enough time to get the rental car and maybe check into the hotel.  I would land at 4:15, giving us enough time to grab some soul food and arrive before the national anthem.  We already had tickets for the first of our fourteen games in fifteen days.  They were good tickets, too: first base line, just six rows behind the Braves dugout, right on the aisle.  Here are some photos from the game:

Ari before the game

Pretty good seats

Ari making friends

Turner Field

One thing you might have noticed about these photos is that I am not in any of them.

I got to John Wayne Airport well before my 6:45 AM flight.  While waiting to board, I overheard a fantastic conversation between a mother and her son.  They could not possibly have fit Orange County stereotypes any better. She was about 55 with some body parts that were much younger.  Her dress was expensive but extremely revealing; it would make mannequins blush.  He was about 25 and a jerk.  He looked like his name was “Craig.”  There is no reason to think that wasn’t his name.  Craig did not approve of his mother’s skimpy attire.

Craig: Mom, can you please pull down your skirt.  It’s like you’ve never been out in public before. 

Mom: Stop being overdramatic. 

Craig: I’m not being overdramatic.  You’re showing everyone your reproductive organs. 

Mom: This is how women dress these days. 

Craig: No, Mom.  This is how young women dress.  This is how attractive women dress. 

Mom angrily stands up and pulls her skirt tip as low as it will go, which is not very low.  She adjusts the rest of the outfit as if searching for a concealed weapon.  Craig appears horrified.

Craig: Mom, what are you doing?  You’re humiliating both of us.  [Editor’s note: I think he was correct.]

Mom: Honey, would you like some McDonalds?  They have French fries.  Would you like to share some French fries?

I do not know whether Craig and his mother got the fries because, at that moment, the man at the US Airways gate got on the loudspeaker.  “Can I have everyone’s attention?  We’ve detected a small mechanical issue…”  Probably not a big deal.  “…it looks like we just need to replace some batteries on the aircraft…”  See, not a big deal.  “…but we may have to cancel the flight.”  Okay, that is a big deal. 

Let it be said that US Airways handled the situation much better than some of the passengers.  One man yelled loudly, “I’m supposed to be in Miami.  I’m supposed to be on vacation.  I won’t stand for this.”  Another man began cursing at the airline representative.  He looked like the comicbook guy in The Simpsons, except if that comic book guy really let himself go.  “You’ve detected a small problem?  Is that just the polite way of telling us we’re totally f@$#ed?”  But the fine women and men of US Airways kept their composure.  Richard B., if you’re reading this: Nice job.

Ninety minutes later, I was in a shuttle to the Long Beach Airport with a 12:30 flight to the Phoenix International Sky Harbor and a 3:15 connection to Atlanta.  (By the way, it turns out an “international sky harbor” is a lot like an “airport.”)  I was scheduled to arrive in Atlanta somewhere around the ninth inning.  At least Ari would catch the game.

The day did deliver one gem.  My flight from Phoenix to Atlanta was getting ready to take off.  I had a turkey sandwich at my feet.  I was stuck with the middle seat but had successfully acquired all-important control of both armrests.  The plane started to taxi.  That’s when the flight attendant strolled the aisle and stopped at the exit row.  This was the row immediately in front of me, giving me a great view of the action.  The flight attendant turned to the gentleman in the aisle seat of the exit row.  He was about my age, with messy hair.  She asked politely, “Sir, can you please buckle your seatbelt.”  I have given this some thought and I am confident that the only acceptable responses to that request are all variations of “sure thing.”  But the gentleman in the middle seat thought of another response.

“No.” 

Now, if I were a mature person, I would have felt bad for the flight attendant, or annoyed at the guy, or concerned that we might be delayed.  But instead I felt excitement.  How often does someone flat-out refuse a flight attendant’s request?  And how often does that person own a coveted exit row seat? 

“Excuse me?”  A natural reaction by the flight attendant.

“I’ve flown hundreds of times.  I’ve never had to put on my seatbelt.”  I call shenanigans.

“Sir, I need you to put on your seatbelt.  It’s a requirement.”  The word “requirement” should have alerted him that playtime was over.

“No.”  He said it again!

“Are you refusing to put on your seat belt?”  Translation: Are you officially crossing a line from which there is no return? 

Seatbelt Man didn’t hesitate.  “Yeah, I’m refusing,” he said.  I turned to the guy next to me and whispered, “I call dibs on his seat.”

The flight attendant walked to the front of the cabin and picked up the phone, covering her mouth.  Moments later the captain came over the loudspeaker.  “We’re going to return to the gate.  Sorry for the delay, folks.  It shouldn’t be long.”  We rolled to the gate.  A representative from US Airways boarded the jet and asked Seatbelt Man to come with him.  Seatbelt Man said, “I’m not going anywhere.  I haven’t committed a crime.  What crime have I committed?”  The representative replied, “Fine.  We can do this the hard way.”

I didn't know exactly what the hard way entailed, but I knew it would be good [Ari’s Note: TWSS].

Next, the captain came out of the cockpit.  He could have been the body double for Sully Sullivan.  He asked the guy to leave quietly.  This time, the girl next to Seatbelt Man spoke up.  She was also about my age, also with messy hair.  “My boyfriend isn’t a terrorist,” she insisted.  “Don’t treat him like he’s got a bomb and is gonna blow up the plane.”  If there’s one thing I learned from Meet the Parents, it’s that’s you probably shouldn't use the word “bomb” when trying to diffuse an aviation dispute.  [Ari’s Note: To be fair, she might have been a bombardier.] 

Standing up for her boyfriend was a nice gesture.  But nobody messes with Sully.  I said to the guy next to me, “It looks like two people are leaving the plane.”

Their fourth set of visitors was a trio of police officers.  All three officers looked like bulldozers.  They also had guns and handcuffs.  One walked to the row behind Seatbelt Man (my row).  A second walked to Seatbelt Man’s row.  The third took the row in front of Seatbelt Man.  He was surrounded.  The officer in the middle looked at him and paused with outstanding dramatic effect.  I wished I had popcorn.  “Collect your personal belongings.  You’re leaving this plane.”  Seatbelt Man and his girlfriend rose, cursed under their breath, and left with the officers.  Passengers applauded.  I felt like I was at the ballpark.  The manager tried to argue with the umpire, he got ejected, and the crowd cheered.

Thirty seconds later, I was sitting in Seatbelt Man’s exit row seat, enjoying plenty of legroom:

I would have preferred Braves versus Padres at Turner Field but, still, I’d say the trip is off to a pretty good start.