Chapter One
(excuse errors and my personal notes)
“Miss, please put your seat in its upright position. We’re about to land.”
Six strait hours on this plane and I am beginning to lose feeling in my left leg. Even though my bladder is the size of a thimble, I usually opt for the window seat on cross-country flights. At least then I can pop some sleeping pills, prop my legs up in a suedo fetal position against the window, and attempt to get some rest.
I raised my seat, jabbed at my leg a few times to get the blood to start flowing again and drifted back to sleep.
“Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Atlanta. The local time is 6:25am. For those of you with connecting flights, please check the screens when you deboard. Attendants will be waiting to assist you should you have any questions.”
Six twenty-five. Yikes. It’s only 3:25 in Los Angeles. I despise red eyes.
I despise the Atlanta airport. It’s got to be the most unorganized, chaotic conglomerate of aviation mess I’ve ever seen. My mother was a flight attendant. By my second birthday I’d been on more planes than most adults, but I have yet to master Atlanta’s airport without stressing just a tad.
It’s 6:30am and I’m attempting to board the tram from terminal A to terminal C where I’m scheduled to meet my cousin Heather and board a 7:20 flight to Fort Myers. I’m on my fall break from school and we figured it would be a good time to surprise Grandma and Grandpa Hecklau with a visit.
I wedged myself on to the tram and try to hold my balance so as to avoid touching any of the rails and handles. Heather calls this sub-way surfing, a skill she mastered while living in New York city. With just the right amount of balance and thigh strength, one can balance even while the tram is coming to a stop. It’s either a fun city-dweller’s sport, or a surefire way of avoiding contact with the most disgusting of germs. Of course, lose your balance and you’ll be gifted with a face full of scummy subway floorboards.
Six forty-five. I exit the restrooms. The one thing I do love about airport restrooms is there never seem to be any lines. And if there’s one place you can’t deal with lines it’s in an airport, especially when you have less than an hour to catch your next flight. Good thing I inherited my mother’s “fastest pee-er on earth” skill. Of course maybe that is merely a result of my thimble-sized bladder.
As I approach the terminal, it doesn’t take me long to spot her. Kaitlin’s black carry-on bag has a bright pink ribbon tied around the handle. I look down at mine and take note of the a worn and faded Carolina blue ribbon as I walk closer.
“Someone must have taught you how to mark your luggage,” I say.
“Everyone has the same black bag,” she jokes turning around.
“If you mark your luggage with a ribbon, you won’t mistake someone else’s for your own,” we mock our mothers in unison.
“God it’s good to see you,” Kaitlin says as she throws her arms around me.
“Attention passengers of flight 1030 with service to Fort Myers. Scheduled boarding time will be delayed. We apologize for the inconvenience and will inform you once we have further information on the matter. Thank you, and again we apologize for the delay.
“Hurry up and wait,” Kaitlin says as we slump into the seats behind us. “Hurry up and wait.”
