Las Vegas (part 2): The Flight

On July 7, 2012 I boarded a plane in Nashville, TN that would get me to Las Vegas, NV with a lay-over in Atlanta, GA.  I started writing this last Sunday (July 15^th), but as with all other writing assignments, that did not exactly go as planned.  In fact, I got so little done before saving and quitting that I am starting over right now as I work on my laptop without internet access.  I did, however, think a lot about what I wanted to write so hopefully I can regurgitate that now.

Most people just wisely sleep away those hours that would otherwise be lost during a flight.  Not me; I guess one might say that it is the perfect time to let my mind run wild.  There is so much available for consumption:  business persons, flight attendants, tourists, vacationers, and just people; all those people living interesting and intriguing lives; that could be me, if only I could be interesting.  I should probably remind myself it is all just imaginary; that glimpse I give myself it is only a fantasy.  Of course that is the problem with fantasy, it is unrealistic by nature.

This trip marks only the second time I have ever been on a plane.  Sadly, the only other time I have been on a plane was also to fly here, to Vegas, when my brother got married.  This is where I could pretend to be macho and say flying is no big thing, but I am not macho and it is a pretty amazingly big thing.  First of all, it is amazing to think those giant metal tubes actually get off the ground.  It is a little bit of a surreal experience:  me being in one of those big jets, which I could never fully tell you about; nevertheless I will bore you with far too many details in the attempt to achieve the impossible.

Nashville to Atlanta was on a smaller aircraft.  I was in the ninth row.  Just guessing there were probably about 2x as many rows behind me as there were in-front.  I had the window seat and in the aisle seat was some guy that appeared to be having a bad day.  It made for a very uncomfortable flight.  I am not sure if his disapproving sighs and scoffs were intended for me or not, but my high level of self-consciousness would allow no other explanation.  I spent the entire flight focused on limiting my behavior to the bare minimum.  I squeezed myself into the smallest space I could and held that position; careful not to use the arm rest, allowing him to claim it if he desired (he never did).  I attempted to refrain from any behavior that might be deemed annoying; if I could have stopped breathing, I would have.  This probably sounds silly to most people, but it cannot be helped.  Honestly, I hate it; however, I cannot ignore it.  I can pretend like I do not care, but then I must deal with the regret associated with that attitude.  These regrets are the kinds of things that linger; I would rather deal with temporary discomfort than live with the continuous playback associated with a moment of regret (like incidentally brushing up against someone, or hogging an arm rest).  Shuddap, I know!  I am a mess.

I do not know if the second leg of the journey was better or worse.  I was in a better state of mind, since I was not so concerned with my impact on the person (or people) next to me.  This was a bit of a relief until it allowed me to focus on the giant metal tube that we were floating in and everything that might go wrong in that situation.  I would not say I am afraid of flying though.  It is not exactly a fear of death either; oddly it is deeper than that.  In the grand scheme of things we all have only a limited time to make an impact on the world.  One hopes to grow old with that time and find meaning.  Some grow old, never achieving meaning.  Still others pass before their time.  An accident such as a plane crash would strip my life of the opportunity to grow old and find meaning.  However, to exchange one life in the service of another is the greatest meaning a life could have.  But, here I am with this death talk; honestly, it was not that bad.  My palms got sweaty after I did all that thinking about plane crashes, cabin pressure, hijackings, and some awesome movie plots.  I also had to remind myself that no matter how many times one watches the Matrix, it is still impossible to learn to fly an aircraft on a moment’s notice.

Since all that fills my head now is on the subject of movies, I must also say:  the flight attendant reminded me of Catherine Zeta-Jones in The Terminal.  I am not sure if that is to the flight attendant’s credit for being beautiful or to the actress herself for imitating reality so well.  Perhaps it was purely a subconscious association between fantasy and the movie.  Picturing myself as the hero, Mr. Hanks’ character, ultimately there was nothing neither he nor I could do to win over the woman’s heart.  In the end everything unfolded as it should. I walked away just another individual among the many she comes across in a day and here I am two weeks later recollecting her beautiful smile and incredible enthusiasm; hoping she has someone out there that can tell her how much she is appreciated.  Why can’t my story be more like Elizabethtown?  Kirsten Dunst is cute and her character in that movie is so lovable.  Perhaps it has something to do with me not being Orlando Bloom.

At 5:22 the plane had landed in Vegas.  Soon all these crazy thoughts I had been having would finally be confirmed as wild fantasies.  By 5:37 I was in my brother’s truck, Kirsten Dunst had not given me her number or directions for that matter.  Before 6:00 I would be at the house, a place I had never been and never thought of calling home until now.  I had no idea what was in store for me, but at least I had finally made it.