by Phil Geusz
The cart proved to be a major blessing, as Gate Seven was located nearly at the far end of the long concourse. By the time we got there I felt able to stand again, though I leaned heavily on the railing in the jetway. Like the rest of the family, Uncle Andrew and I made it a matter of pride not to flaunt our wealth. This was one of our most important traditions. Most of the time, therefore, we flew in the back of the plane. But my curse made me an exception, one that everyone understood. I flew first class as way of maintaining my privacy. The passengers there were more discreet as a rule; I’d yet to meet one who stared or asked annoying questions. Besides, the far-front row in first class often had only two seats in it. Somehow Uncle Andrew had managed to reserve these for us. It was either a minor miracle or else a flagrant example of VIP ‘pull’. But I wasn’t going to look a gift horse in the mouth. We still hadn’t taken our seats when the plane began taxiing, and we were in the air almost immediately thereafter. From the window seat I enjoyed the takeoff, then called for a pillow and took yet another nap.