The Transfer 2.0 (Blogophilia 5.12)
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain speaking. The seatbelt light is on. Please replace your tables as we are on our final approach to Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport. It’s a beautiful spring day down there in Atlanta, it’s 63F. and sunny. We’ll be disembarking at gate E-63. We at Delta Airlines appreciate you flying with us and we hope you will remember us for your travel needs. Please prepare for landing…”
“E-63? Looks like I’ll be getting my exercise.” He looked ruefully at his waistline. “And I need it.”
The laptop went dark and slid into the backpack. With an audible pop, the thin tray found its home and the soda can in to the offered bag. It occurred to him they were like the poop bags required of dog owners these days. Bag it up and toss it rather than leave the little bombs for everyone. For the better, he supposed.
The text from Corporate had come before he boarded. There will be guests at the roll out. No indication of who they might be, probably Chinese vendors. They were polite enough, but he needed to be careful. they would steal anyone's work. This was one of the most important presentations of his career. It might mean a directorship if it worked and there didn’t need another group of people judging the performance. At least he was going through Atlanta. You can find your way around here, concourses lined up by letter. Pick the one you need and hike five miles to the gate. Most of the time, the storm of people twenty-four didn’t matter. Can’t say that about JFK, where you went around in circles and half the time missed the gate.
A small bump announced touch down. A sea of white and black concrete filled the small window. The flight had alternated between Power Points and power naps. The squeals of a toddler on her first flight messed up the start, but her Mum got her sorted out. The life of the modern road warrior, all on someone else’s tab. It did provide a nice lifestyle. Nice detached house in the suburbs. A wife that put up with him being gone. He’d been doing it so long, nothing ever surprised him. Weather, arguments, death. He had seen them all and nothing had changed his mind about any of it.
The red skirted attendants performed their end routine as they pulled into the gate, securing drink carts and clearing the aisles. When everything stopped, the herd dutifully rose and retrieved their belongings. The chief, who Bill had flown with before, wished him a good day as he went down the gangplank. At the end a billboard touted various local tourist spots… Coca Cola Museum…Georgia Aquarium, interesting...a picture of a couple panning for gold. Can’t do that in Buckinghamshire. Maybe he could swing a lead-hunting trip here and kill two birds with one stone?
An announcement came over the speakers.
“This is Delta Airlines paging a Mr. Bill Henderson. Mr. Henderson, please report to the nearest gate agent. Mr. Bill Henderson...”
“Really? I haven’t been on the ground three minutes.”
The Concierge desk was to his right. A bored woman who looked like she wanted to be somewhere else handed him an envelope. Nodding thanks he stepped away to looking inside. The contents made the blood pressure rise, another itinerary. The connection was now at gate T-16, instead of somewhere on B. Is this a joke? That’s all the way to domestic. Looking again at the sheet of paper, departure had been pushed back twenty minutes. Small comfort, really.
Rubbing his chin, he wondered who sent it. Corporate would have just sent a text headlined “Another Change.” No, this message had come from somewhere else. The agent didn’t know anything other than it had been passed along from someone at security. The printed sheet of paper with his name and corporate credit card account number was missing, replaced with a note about equipment. It didn’t matter. He shrugged his shoulders and ambled over to Customs.
Bill dutifully joined the main queue in front of the counters. A song blasted from the earphones of a woman a couple of places back. Poets have been writing about bedding women for millennia, but not quite so descriptively. A uniformed agent with a dog strolled casually through the crowd. On a prior trip, he witnessed a scruffy fellow taken away after the mutt sat down beside his bag. Apparently, that was the signal. “Sit, Boy!” and off you go to jail. No such drama this time, though.
Backpack, passport, and itinerary were handed over. The agent did the talk and grope, returning everything none the worse for wear. Not that he would have anything funny in there. Bill had learned years ago to pack light and use the hotel laundry. It was faster, and the company picked up the tab. Other People’s Money, it was the way to go.
Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, he stepped into the open station and boarded what was called “The Plane Train.” The automated system was impressive. It was missing the unmistakable scent of humans most subways had, which made it almost a pleasant place to decompress. His fellow travelers staring blankly toward the aisle, like in every other system he’d been on. At each stop a soft bong accompanied by a detached feminine voice floated above the crowd.
“We are now arriving at D Concourse. D concourse. Please stay seated until the mover comes to a complete stop. Please check to see you have your belongings before you exit…”
Doors opened and closed, discharging rivers of humanity. This repeated many times during a typical day. What was the children’s book he’d used to read to his son? Thousands, maybe millions of people going different places most having no idea where they want to go. Life seemed to always be that way.
The soft voice announced they arrived at T Concourse, reminding everyone this was the end of the line and all must leave. He suddenly felt lightheaded. He saw the woman with crying toddler who had been on his flight. She was holding a piece of paper like his. The thought of little girl screaming again, made his head hurt worse. Best not say anything. At the top of the escalator was a sign: T8-15 pointed to the left, T1-7 to the right. The paper said gate T-16. A chill went through him. Something wasn’t right. It must be over by T-15, right?
At the end of aisle, there was a solid door opposite the gate. T-16 was visible in small letters at eye level. Bill paused a moment. Solid doors were secured areas, right? As he was standing there, the woman with the baby opened the door and disappeared inside. It must be the gate. He followed her inside.
The room divided into two very different areas. On the right side, the furnishings that would not look out of place in a law office, totally empty. On the left, it was broken benches filled with broken people. Between them was the gate desk staffed with a small man in a blue uniform coat two sizes too large. With a smile, he reached out his hand.
“Itinerary, Sir?”
The man glanced, nodded and gestured to the right.
“Have a seat over there and we’ll be calling for boarding shortly.”
All sound ceased as he settled into the wing back chair. He wondered where the mother and child had gone, but all he could see was a wall. Bill was alarmed when he saw the departure and the destination had disappeared off the itinerary. He was going say something when the gate agent came over the speaker:
‘Good evening, Ladies and Gentlemen and welcome to Saint Peter airlines. Most of you have checked in and have had your flights assigned. Flyers to my right, your flight to Heaven will be departing in ten minutes and you should prepare for boarding. For those on my left, the flight to Hades has been delayed by a hurricane and will leave Wednesday, Thursday at the latest. And as always, we thank you for letting us interrupt your destiny.”
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Topic-Diana Jillian
Pic Guesses: Storm (in blog), cyclone, eye, around in circles (in blog), Big one, hurricane
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