As much as I love a good airport story…
10/3/2007 10:16 PM
All summer long I had been looking forward to my trip to Colorado. By my own qualifications it is far too short of a holiday. Time constraints have forced our hand in scheduling. And now the proverbial “we” is not my wife. Rather my best friend and Wrigley Field hater and quote maker, Norb. He’s an excellent traveling companion top notch photographer, smooth navigator and a firm believer in the late morning cocktail. Our trip has been condensed into 3 short days, in all actuality 2 days, to enjoy the 3 R’s of Colorado…Rest, Relax and Rock out. I arrive at the airport with plenty of time…to sit, drink high priced airport coffee, read and watch people. Norb arrives a short time later. The back slapping hugs between friends takes place and WE’RE OFF!!!

Well we’re off to the airport bar. Beer and Jameson is brought in quick order. During which my wife calls to remind me not to “drink and drive”. “I’m not flying the plane.” I respond I get “the sigh” and the “you know what I mean”. Not to worry dear reader…I will not be driving for quite some time as our tale will tell. The conversation between Norb and I comes fast and easy. Trying to catch up on each other stories that only the other person would get and showcasing bad jokes that have been saved up for weeks in honor of this trip. Time runs too quickly and we joke we could forgo the trip and settle into the airport bar. We then get our tab and find that and airline ticket is decidedly cheaper. We stroll down to our gate shortly before boarding is set to begin. As we look over the crowd of passengers (I always like to do this in the unlikely event of a crash so I have jump start on who we may have to eat if it’s a deserted island) and the lights of the concourse flicker…then dim…then go out.

I say “That…cannot be good.”

For a few minutes people stand about, like they typically do when the lights go out. Standing there squinting in the dark hoping some one will do…anything. We stand about a bit longer using the collective “power of hope” to will the lights back on. When an angry middle aged woman in an ugly dress storms the gate agent. I’m not kidding that dress was ugly.

“WHY YOU SHOULD MAKE AN ANNOUNCEMENT!!!”

Norb and I trade smirks. The gate age looks only frazzled letting his response come via a shrug of the eyebrows and let intercom mic swing from his finger as we watch read his lips a mile a away form the words “No pow-er”. We mill about waiting for mechanic or miracle. I over hear the agent say “It will be at least one hour…probably more.”. Oh our jet is here it lay a mere 4 feet away from the jet way but with no power our best hope would be a swing of the whip Indiana Jones style. Why not let only the agile and long jumped be allowed passage to Colorado. Talk about all dressed up and now where to go. We do what your average photo geeks do. We start messing with the cameras taking obscene yet good natured shots of each other. After a few minutes Norb says “Beer?”…”Uh…power?” I respond with and edge of knowing smarminess.. With out missing a beat he says “The taps here are all gravity fed.”
I blink in stunned fucking amazement. “Gravity fed. I feel I must ask. How the fuck do you know that?” Then like Rain Man in Caesars he says “I don’t know. I just do.” It was a rare moment of genius that you usually only see on McGyver or the A-Team. When they put they A-Team inside an industrial shed with a set of tools, and acetylene torch and a bulldozer. C’mon I’m no evil genius but even I wouldn’t even do that. “I’m sure now that we’ve captured the A-Team they will follow the rules of capture and…KERBLAM!...oh hey.”

Sorry I digress on matters BA Baracus. Where was… oh yes. “I’m not sure I just do.”. No way I demand proof and more importantly I could use a beer. Standing around in the crowd has all but destroyed my previous mellow. We make our way back to the bar. I find the nearest tap jockey and ask “Do your taps work with the power out?”. The tap jockey smartly replies…”Yes! They are the only thing that works with the power out. They are gravity fed!”. Again I blink in wonderment. I’m traveling with Beer McGyver. We take our beer and wander the concourse. It seems like in these situations people have no sense of humor or are ALL sense of humor. Thankfully Norb and I are the latter. We seem to be a hit among the small group. How could we not be. No one here has heard our tired old jokes. I chat up some young woman in the old days it would have been a promising start. Now however, I realize I’m talking to some one that hadn’t been born when I watched Tron for the first time. Alas. Its not long before the airline figures out what to do. They’ll escort us out to the plane on the tarmac and we’ll climb a ladder ro the plane. I think I heard more than one person say “you’re kidding?” when they say escort they mean it. We are lead out in about groups of ten with airport employees spaced every 5 yards. Its nearly a prisoner exchange. All we need are the German Sheppard’s and some one yelling “ROUST!”. But I get the rare opportunity to stroll over the tarmac. I’m a big fan of the tarmac. Love the tarmac. Its jaunty spelling…its flatness and its something I hear fighter pilots talk about in movies. Adding 30 cool points. After a lifetime of watching Top Gun…I’m finally strolling the tarmac. Then you get that “stride”…that fighter pilot purposeful step. Its nearly instinctual. The steely eyed gaze. The need to peel your T shirt of and play volleyball. We climb the stairs that really is more ladder than stairs. I have made exacting plans for a window seat but my companion has already snuggled in. “You sleeze! My bed!”

It’s going to be a good trip. Minutes away we are winging are way west…