by Joe Thomas
I never thought I’d commute again after transferring out of JFK. Never! It wasn’t a passing thought. It was never entertained or discussed. It didn’t exist in my realm of possibilities. Why would I commute again when the airport was a 15 minute drive from my house? Ten minutes with no traffic. Even as a joke, if anyone had hinted hypothetically about me commuting again—say from San Francisco to Cleveland—I would have pinched their nipples to the point of reconstructive surgery.
It happened though. It sure did. I became a West Coast commuter. Came out of left field like catching a nasty case of gonorrhea while partying in Las Vegas over Labor Day Weekend. But instead of screaming for hours over that painful pissing glass sensation, you spend the same amount of time fighting off the urge to scream in the airplane lavatory on your flight to work. If only there was an antibiotic strong enough to cure the transcontinental commute like there is to cure the occasional weekend case of the clap. Maybe one day.
Long story short, we moved to California. And I transferred to Cleveland. The major adjustment to commuting was the amount of free time I lost. And sitting on an airplane for what seemed like endless hours while not being paid. That was the hardest pill to swallow and the one aspect of cross country commuting that I detested. When your job includes flying hour after hour, day after day, your top priority should be reducing the amount of time you spend on airplane not getting paid. Unless you are going on vacation to Puerto Vallarta or Cabo—then it’s doable. I did the math flying over Iowa one afternoon and calculated the amount of cash I was losing sitting on an airplane commuting.
$37.00 X 6 hours = $222.00
That was a one way flight. Multiply that times two for the round trip; three for the amount of times I commuted in a month; and 12 for the number of months in the year.
$222.00 X 2 = $444.00 X 3 = $1332.00 X 12 = $15,984
That’s how I computed my time commuting, as money lost. After my first month living this commute, I battled with Matt over the topic while we sat on our new sofa. The new sofa that we bought at some downtown hippy store. My love for the sofa lasted until I returned home from my first miserable commute. There was no love in my heart, only frustration. I may have mistook Matt’s attitude but he projected to have no empathy for my struggle, “What’s the problem? You sit on an airplane and go to work. Big deal.”
I fought the urge to punch him in the throat, “It’s called wasting my fucking time. I work on the airplane so when I’m on the fucker and not getting paid I don’t like it.”
“I just don’t understand. All you have to do is sit there and read a book. It sounds easy.”
I reeled in my emotions. Being arrested for assault after only living in California for one month didn’t seem like the responsible way to introduce myself into the community. He was lucky our conversation didn’t include us standing in the kitchen while I sliced an apple, “Ok. Think about it like this for a moment, alright? What if you went to work six hours early and sat in the lobby. You just sat there. You weren’t getting paid. You were just sitting there. Then you go up to your desk and you work for eight or nine hours. Okay. Easy, right?” I took a sip of water and continued, “Then you go back down to the lobby and sit for another six hours. And then you go home.” He looked at me intently the entire time. I could see the gears working in his brain, there was practically smoke escaping his ears, “How would that make you feel?”
He shook his head, “I see your point.”
By the second month commuting cross country I blamed him. The entire situation was his fault. Why wouldn’t it be his fault? He brought us out here to California resulting in my work life becoming an utter living hell. It was worse than hell, it was like being gay and living next door to the Westboro Baptist Church. On average most of my commutes were uneventful. I don’t want to confuse anyone with that statement. Even though they were uneventful they were still terrible. A broken record of sorts: arrive at the airport, take my seat, fly to Cleveland. Then repeat. I’d work the trips assigned to me and then commute back home. It was the normal commutes that left me in a state of amnesia for when commutes went from good to bad within seconds. And that’s how it happened, like a F4 tornado sweeping through the airport and whisking me off to die. There were countless unpleasant experiences commuting from San Francisco to Cleveland. Each time Matt picked me up from the airport, I’d spend fifty percent of the ride complaining about the commute and the other fifty percent gushing over how happy I was to be home. It really was reserve life all over again. As horrible as the most mundane commutes went, nothing prepared me for the onslaught of bad misfortune awaiting me on my commute home after working a red-eye flight from Las Vegas to Cleveland.
We all have moments that define us or change our way of thinking. This was that moment in regards to commuting. It was actually less of a moment and more of a breaking point. Moments pass, this experience stayed with me like genital fucking herpes.
The story goes a little something like this…
7:10 a.m. — My Las Vegas flight lands in Cleveland 20 minutes early. I’m excited because the flight home to San Francisco is at 7:45 a.m. I feared I’d miss the flight so this early arrival has me grinning like the Chesire Cat. The captain calls the back galley to inform me we will have a short taxi to the gate and I should make my commute flight. Excellent!
7:22 a.m. — We are still on this motherfucking goddamn airplane. Deep breathing and trying to stay calm while I rock back and forth in my back galley jumpseat like I’m autistic. Missing this flight is not an option. I will need to resort to plan B and I don’t have a plan B. Such a novice. Did I just start commuting? I am an embarrassment to every pilot and flight attendant who commutes. The Captain comes over the PA again and informs the entire airplane there’s a traffic jam at the gate we are awaiting. A fucking traffic jam at 7:22 in the morning? This is Cleveland Hopkins International Airport not LAX. What the gay fuck? I am sweating through my uniform.
7:25 a.m. — Pull up to the gate. Finally. It takes forever for these assholes to grab their luggage and make their way off the airplane. I am pacing in the back galley and look manic. My first instinct is to pick up the interphone and start screaming at the passengers like the Gunnery Sergeant from Full Metal Jacket. Panic has kidnapped me. The captain calls the back galley a second time letting me know the San Francisco flight hasn’t started boarding. I’m relieved… for the moment.
7:37 a.m. — Off the airplane. It’s been 27 minutes since we landed and I need to focus on the task at hand. I run to the gate a disheveled mess. If I had hair it would look like I just got fucked in the back galley between handing out Diet Cokes and informing passengers to fasten their seat belts. The gate agent frowns telling me the flight is delayed. I ask if standby seats have been assigned and she says no. Then I ask if any window seats are available and she snickers, “This bad boy only has middle seats available.” I fake a smile and walk away hiding against the wall between the machine that sells iPads and a family of four praying the airplane doesn’t crash. First off, who the fuck buys an iPad in the airport? Has anyone in the history of flying ever passed through security and said, “Holy shit, I forgot my iPad. What am I gonna do? Oh look, there’s a pop up kiosk over there selling them for $500.” Nobody with a functioning left brain. I debate whether to ask the zealots to include me in their superstitious prayers but change my mind and simply stare a hole through the gate agents head waiting for her to call my name.
8:05 a.m. — I’m still against the wall between the iPads and Christians. I fight the urge to lean over and whisper to the two brats that there is no God. How do I know there’s no God? It’s simple. If there were a God we wouldn’t be standing here like suckers waiting for the airplane to depart. That’s how I know! Anyway, I am beyond tired and it doesn’t help that my right ankle is swollen and throbbing. I didn’t injure the ankle this morning running to the gate, although I did sprint faster than a elementary school kid running from a priest. It was injured last week while on a leisurely
jog in the park. Getting old is worse than your cell phone battery dying while jerking off and chatting on Grindr at the layover hotel. Scratch that - midjerking disruptions are catafuckingclysmic. My ankle is wrapped with an ace wrap and has been on all night. It could be cutting off circulation to my foot. Can that make you go insane? I’m starting to think that’s a possibility. Why am I worried about all this nonsense? The most important question is when will this fucking airplane depart?
8:15 a.m. — The gate agent announces, “Ladies and gentleman, I have some good news and some bad news.” Stabbing that bitch in her neck would be great news but her announcement makes me perk up and pay attention. I am no longer standing where I was 10 minutes ago. After the Christians pulled out their Bible and started reading verses from Deuteronomy, I hightailed it over to stand next to the shoeshine guy. The gate agent adds, “The bad news is that this airplane will not be taking you to San Francisco. The good news is the airplane taking you to San Francisco has just landed at another gate.” Victory! She directs all the passengers to gate A3 and I follow the mad dash to the new gate.
8:35 a.m. — The same gate agent magically appears at gate A3. I approach the counter and she gives me my seat assignment. It’s 15A—a window seat. My pain and suffering has been rewarded with a great seat. This has nothing to do with God and all to do with my good luck. I bet the Christians are in row 30. This morning may be turning around. I feel it in my ankle. I smile and stop myself from questioning the gate agent about her false information on only middle seats being available. The idea of her snatching the boarding pass out of my hand and taking it away from me is too much to handle. I’m not saying she would take my seat away but from across the counter she looks hangry. I hobble to the restroom to change out of my uniform. It’s been on since last night and I feel gross. Fatigue must be setting in because I left my crew ID hanging in the restroom stall and had to run back in to get it. Glad nobody was taking a shit because that’s always an awkward conversation.
9:05 a.m. — We are finally allowed to board the fucking airplane. I introduce myself to the flight attendant and start down the aisle. There’s a mother, father, and toddler in my row and I am thankful it’s not the Bible thumping fucks from the other gate. The mother and toddler are in the window seat. I get to row 15 and stare at them like they just stole the only thing that will make me happy in life, the ability to put my head against the window and sleep. The mother asks me to sit in the aisle because she believes children shouldn’t sit in the middle seat. I correct her—because I am a bitch—and tell her that children can most certainly sit in the middle seat. But I am not in the mood to interact with them so I take the aisle seat. It’s for the best because I really don’t want to be prisoner to these three while sitting at the window.
9:19 a.m. — I grab my earbuds from my tote bag and start settling in for the long flight. The first officer’s voice startles me over the PA, “Looks like we’re all having a bad day today. This airplane has a mechanical and we are looking at a four hour delay. Please grab your belongings and deplane.” I stare blankly up the aisle at the pilot and refuse to hear what he is saying. I know it’s true because I just heard him say it but I don’t want to believe it. NO! NO! NO! Motherfuckingcocksuckingbabyrapingasshole! They need a third plane? What kind of Howdy Doody bullshit is this? Do I work for an airline or the Republican Party?
9:22 a.m. — I wish I could reach around and kick myself in the ass for not having a plan B. Who doesn’t have a plan B when they commute? I need a plan B like a whore needs a Plan B One -Step after a gang bang. I probably need it more because what I’m dealing with here is much worse than an early morning toilet abortion. If this flight cancels I will be stuck here for the the entire afternoon. Probably the rest of the night. I want to scream ‘Goddamn it!’ but there’s a toddler sitting in the row. Even I’m not that crass. I grab my shit and stand up to deplane. The father asks, “Will this really take four hours?” I just shrug my shoulders and walk away. Don’t fucking talk to me. Dick! Getting off this broken down excuse for an airplane I run, with my throbbing ankle, to an empty gate and log into the computer. I pull up a list of other airline flights to San Francisco and list myself on the first one I find. The next flight departs in 55 minutes so I shuffle faster than a fat kid chasing an ice cream truck for the other airline counter.
9:35 a.m. — Arrive at the new gate and the agent checks me in but sadly informs me that the flight is full. I am number ten on the standby list and there’s a weight restriction on the flight. Unless I weigh less than a newborn and can sit on some hot daddy’s lap, I am not getting on this flight. She’s not even friendly about it which makes me hate her. Grab a seat across from the gate and realize this shit ain’t-a-working. Looks like I need a plan C. How many letters are in the alphabet? I'm on a time crunch because each moment I’m wasting in Cleveland makes it more difficult to get back to California.
9:39 a.m. — I text Matt, “I’m gonna have a nervous fucking breakdown. I can’t do this commute.”
9:40 a.m. — Matt attempts to call me but I miss his first call because I am too busy looking up additional flights home. Call him back and can barely speak. I lash out at him, “Hi. Can’t talk. Life is fucked. I hate this. I will call you later. Have a nice day.” Click!
9:45 a.m. — I find another flight to San Francisco via Los Angeles. Run into the nearest restroom to put my uniform back on since I have to exit out of the A gates and make my way through security to the C gates. In a frenzy I pull my ID over my head and it snaps off the lanyard. In all honestly, it’s not that big of a deal but I am irrational at this point. I hold it in my hand and fight the urge to drop to the floor of the stall and cry but the lake of manpiss around the toilet stops me in my tracks. I should cry. I want to cry. Fuck it! I will cry… but not right now.
9:55 a.m. — I run from the A gates to the C gates to catch the flight. Is this plan C or D? I’ve lost fucking count. My suitcase handle comes off in my hand while I am bolting around old people meandering through the main terminal waiting for the shuttle to heaven. I stop for a second to search for the screw that came off my luggage but I can’t find it. I have no time to waste. The screw is gone like my sanity. I grab the bag by its side handle and spot an airline employee walking towards me. I stop her asking if I am going the correct way to the C gates but her facial expression catches me off guard. She must have been on her lunch break because she looks ticked off I interrupted her. She says, “No. You need to walk straight to the C gates. It’s that way.” What am I thinking? When did I forget how to navigate through the airport I’m based in? It must have been the same time I forgot how to read signs. I continue to the C gates, get through security, and come face to face with gate agent Angel at the counter.
10:05 a.m. — At this point in the game I am a fucking mess. An Eastern European passenger train derailment doesn’t look this bad. My crew ID is hanging out of my mouth while sweat cascades down my bald head like a Yosemite waterfall. I can barely speak. Angel, the gate agent, should have big fluffy white wings attached to her back because her name says it all, she’s an angel. My angel. I wipe off the saliva from my ID and hand it over the counter to her. There’s no doubt she wants to vomit but she never digresses from her focus. Angel puts me at ease while tapping my employment information into her computer. We engage in small talk while she completes my transaction. I explain why I moved to San Francisco and spend most of the conversation blaming my husband for putting me through this nightmare. She laughs. I don’t. I unload on her like she’s my therapist and she takes it with a smile. A professional. Assuring me that my day will get better she lists me on the Los Angeles flight and then the connecting flight to San Francisco. “The flights are wide open all the way through,” she advises. I’m feeling better.
10:20 a.m. — Standing at the gate awaiting my name to be called and for my seat assignment. Rocking back and forth in place from all the stress. It’s a nervous habit I’ve had since I was in the third grade. I usu
ally try reeling it back a little when I’m rocking in public but today I don’t give a fuck. Let people watch the crazy guy rocking back and forth. Maybe if I rock fast enough people will keep their children away from me. I will remember that. My cell phone battery needs juice so I find an empty plug a few feet away and charge it. Starting to feel like everything will work out. If I think about it, nothing bad has happened yet. All this sweating and overreacting is unnecessary. I fantasize about taking a nap on the airplane and the two hour shower awaiting me at home. Make that three hour. My uniform is still on because I can’t go through another costume change again. I’m not a Madonna backup dancer for Chrissakes! I text Matt updating him and reassuring him that everything will be fine. Let’s cut the bullshit, I’m really just reassuring myself.
10:37 a.m. — The gate agent calls my name for my seat assignment and it is in the exit row. Jackpot! Extra leg room and it’s a window seat. Nap time here I come. I make my way down the aisle behind a slow family. The blond muscular guy turns around and it’s an actor from the television show Dawson’s Creek. You know the one. He’s traveling with his wife, nanny, and two kids. I am too exhausted to care and I don’t think about snapping a picture. That’s just rude.
10:42 a.m. — I am on the airplane in seat 9F. My seat doesn’t recline but I will make due. The older man next to me comments that I am in my uniform and asks me if I will get in trouble for flying on another airline. I’d normally think that’s cute but not today. Leave me alone and don’t talk to me. I hate you right now because you are in my row and I can’t lay down so just shut up and read your book.
10:49 a.m. — The guy behind my seat pushes his touch screen too hard and every few seconds my seat leaps forward. I hope this doesn’t happen the entire flight. I would hate to have to divert to Omaha because his face was embedded into the screen.