View from the Office

I had to go to Florida again this week for a meeting at the University of South Florida.  What I didn't realize when I booked my return flights for Wednesday morning was that I would be diving into "holiday" traffic.  My first two flights were over-booked and packed to the gills with holiday travelers.  The problem with this is that there is no longer space on a commercial aircraft for the average American and his two "carry-on" bags.

First, there is the average American, or I should say there is the mammoth American.  You know he isn't going to fit in his seat and he is going to take half of yours.  And, I shouldn't limit this to men, or even adults.  One of my colleagues says that the only thing you can do is keep your head down, avoid eye contact, and hold the barf-bag open on your lap.

Second, there is the "carry-on."  Why bother calling it that?  These things cannot be carried.  They are the size of a farm wagon.  The first one takes up the overhead bin for the entire row, and requires its owner to solicit the help of two of the three stewardesses to lift it that high.  What is in those things anyway?  I mean, the American uniform is shorts, flip-flops, and tattoos.  What can be in the luggage?  More flip-flops?

To be fair, the airlines have caused this by a) charging very high fees to check your luggage, and b) failing to enforce the "carry-on" size rule.  People have learned that you won't have to pay the $60 bucks if you just roll right up to the door of the airplane with your piano dolly.  They'll either let you stuff it in the overhead bin or they will pink tag it for a free gate-check.

Anyway, the thing that makes this all so funny . . . wait I'm getting to it . . . is what happened on my final flight of the day.  The little turbo-prop from Salt Lake to Cedar City was only half full—the front half.  Naturally everybody picks a seat towards the front of the aircraft.  That is what I had done, and I had my best seat of the day:  I was by myself and I was one row from the door.  The door was closed, the engines were running, and I had my magazine open.

Suddenly the stewardess was standing beside me with a somewhat urgent look on her face.  She said, "The Captain needs someone to move to the back row to help balance the aircraft.  Do you mind moving back there?  You can have the whole row to yourself."  (I am not making this up.)  I looked at her blankly.  I tried to think about what she had just said.  I looked over my shoulder at the two buddies wedged into the row behind me talking loudly about puking during spring break—each of them going at more than 250 lbs.  I looked back at the stewardess.  The plane was starting to taxi.  I looked across the aisle at the, um, well-endowed lady filling out the other seat (200 lbs?).  I looked back at the stewardess.  I asked, "You want me to move to the back row?"  "Could you, please, it is for aircraft balance."  I thought about how better our balance might be if pete and repeat behind me moved to the back row, but I decided not to say it.  "Ok," I said.  I stood up and grabbed my bag—the bag had two t-shirts, two pairs of cotton socks, and two pairs of boxer shorts in it, all dirty.  I hitched up my pants so they didn't fall down, and walked to the back of the bus.  She was right.  I had it all to myself.