Under the Excruciating Gaze of an Evil Vulture

I have endured four separate airplane rides in my life thus far. Two rides en route to Costa Rica and two rides back. That Miami limbo between Toronto and San Jose is enough confusion for anybody that’s failed to reach the ultimate American coming of age that is being 21.

* * *

The blinding white security guard uniforms and bomb-detecting pearly gates are overwhelming enough tasks to insure you will forget where you’ve been.

Cue the overhead distraction screens; slideshows of nature.

Cut to fields of daffodils.

Cut to lazy butterflies gliding on gentle breezes.

Cut to macro shots of dew on carnations with background-lingering obscured horizons that still present definition between blue skies and green fields.

American Airlines makes it very clear that, now, you’ve reached clarity, peace, safety: serenity even. You’re going home, you're going to your own little nirvana – that kind of shit.

Or even better. Instead, you're just visiting. Only having a glimpse of some new kind of paradise and something to look forward to.

And then: greasy, filthy, loud Hogs.

Motorcycles.

American Airlines plays the soundtracks for its relaxation meditation escapist videos and rolls the feature presentation. Rock the damn plane with Confusion for sadist black boxes that are actually orange. Today’s feature is Wild Hogs: a low budget road movie about a bunch of mid-life crisis men played by uncomfortable comedians that are far past their prime. Give me tragedy. Give me vicarious satisfaction. Give me John Travolta, Tim Allen, and Martin Lawrence. Is John Travolta going to dance?!

Give me distraction.

I’ve reached clarity, peace, safety: serenity even.

Give me a barf bag.

And bring me a drink. But I can’t associate with Jack or Jim or James or Samuel. At this point in my life I’m only 19, and according to latitude and longitude, I’m not in the right country for that. American Airlines runs house. It’s the corporations that get extraterritorial jurisdiction up there. The notion of being able to purchase a drink once the airline announcer came across the P.A. droning “Welcome to Canada, passengers, we’ve just entered Ontario” was humouring in a facetious sort of spirit.

While trailers are aired over the P.A. system in the shuttle, thankfully, American Airlines charges two American dollars (no tax extra: the illusion of safety) to purchase special headphones with custom inputs that are necessary to listen to its feature presentations, so I was able to focus my free time on doing some writing without interruption.

I was happy to be on my way home, but even as early as the time I’d left the security course I was too worn out and exhausted. I was in a bad mood, and drinking wouldn’t help my temper or my writing one bit anyway.

* * *

“We know why you fly, we're American Airlines.” That’s the slogan you hear over the P.A. when the plane lands and you prepare yourself for another obstacle course of security devices – but what does it mean?

I had been awake and conscious in this long gauntlet of escapism for long enough and I was beyond agitated. I focused my energy on standing up and transcending the bullshit that resided in the stale, hospital-like air of the vessel. My legs felt young in a crude way, but I had to walk on and obtain my baggage so I could get on home. Leaving the vehicle of single-serving comforts behind me, I was still racked with confusion. Where was the logic behind that bizarre riddle? was this a response brought on to prevent enthusiasts akin to the terrorists of September 11, 2001? Miami airport’s security as perverted and perturbing as it had felt just hours before, this seemed like a reasonable way to understand that mysterious motto.

But I was home, and I was ready to accept real comfort with more enthusiasm than I had for pondering any further on the evils I had just left behind. No more.



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