It’s Thursday afternoon and we are sitting here on the runway at JFK for, let’s see, close to two hours now. Husband and I had this madcap idea of dashing off to St. Augustine, Florida for the weekend for reasons I will get to in another entry but this post is strictly plane-bound.
I used to be a big fan of JetBlue back when they first came on the scene and I think we even have some shares of their stock. They didn’t make me hate flying any less; they just enabled me to watch Law & Order while I was hating it.
Our pilot came on the speaker shortly after boarding was complete and said our plane had recently returned from Mexico where it got a new paint job and to please be patient while maintenance came onboard to take care of a few things. This caught my interest because I didn’t know planes go to Mexico to be painted (Hacienda del Earl Scheib?) and I was busy contemplating that when the girl behind me made a loud cell phone call.
“How you doin’, nigga?! Shit, I am one sorry nigga sitting here on this runway!! Fuck this shit!” I can’t even describe how loud this was on our silent, motionless plane but I guarantee every person within 10 rows either direction heard it all and no one reacted the tiniest bit. Not even the parents with little kids. We live in curious times now where courtesy is optional and privacy is obsolete but commenting on what is thrown before us in public is avoided. Why? Because it would be rude? Because we’re afraid of what might happen? The general public has become the hostage of people with no manners.
Out of sheer boredom I considered whipping out my cell phone and calling my friend Caryn and yelling, “Hey, what’s up? Happy fucking Hanukkah, bitch!! Man, they are gonna keep my hymie ass on this ground for-eh-vah!” I didn’t of course because one, I’m not the maniac I profess to be; two, I might be garrotted with a headset wire by the chick behind me; and especially three, Husband would change his seat.
So I’ve watched the yellow-jacketed maintenance crew come and go for the past two hours, horrified that one went into the cockpit carrying duct tape which you can’t tell me is an acceptable repair for anything more advanced than a screen door. The pilot just came on again and assured us the repair crew is working “frantically” to get us airborne and he should really know that people in a giant metal cylinder that has the ability to fly but isn’t doing so don’t ever want to hear their pilot say the word frantic.
Fortunately, Husband booked us seats in the emergency exit row so we have extra legroom. You probably already know this but you should NEVER book the seats in front of the emergency row because the backs don’t recline. This may not be a tragedy on a trip to Florida, but if you’re flying from New York to Seattle you’ll be sitting bolt upright so long your crap will be shaped like rigatoni for a week.
The flight attendant is now giving her talk that starts out telling us where the exit doors are and ends with terra blue chips. I’m aware that there’s more in the middle but if it’s stuff I really need to know I’m sure the doll behind me will fill me in at the top of her lungs while I’m kissing my ass goodbye.
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