I checked my plane ticket. It showed the same flight time as when I last looked––an eternal two minutes ago.
I drudged through the carpeted halls of Nashville International Airport. A pointy-shoed man halted in front of me. He gawked at a store the size of a closet as I swerved around him. His pendulous arm lurched mere inches from my crotch. Murderous thoughts crossed my mind.
Past the swinging arm of doom, I plunged into a ropey security maze. Gassy flyers surrounded me, their roller luggage in tow. Lumpy TSA agent #2 ushered us through line. I disrobed of shoes and belt, spreading my legs for the full body scan.
How much of my innards can the gum-chewing technician see? I wondered, sliding through a scanner plastered with warning stickers.
“Nice reproductive system, Mr. Trotter!” I imagined the tech saying.
“Why thank you, Security Lady. And no, I do not have grenades in my colon, but thanks for checking.” I fictitiously replied.
Pumped full of radiation, I scavenged my personals from plastic bins and made my way to airline purgatory. Two escalators and a tram later, I arrived at my gate.
“There will be no empty seats on this flight.” A voice announced.
I sighed evaporated hopes.
On the plane, I plopped down into my lung-squeezing chair. My fiancée took her seat two rows behind me, despite having booked this flight three months prior.
Thanks a bunch, Delta.
The oily smell of McDonald’s fries fumigated the cabin, the source of which I couldn’t identify. Ambiguous feelings of nausea and hunger fought for dominance in my bubbled stomach.
“Takeoff is delayed,” the pilot announced through the speakers, followed by a Please hold tight, folks.
Stale airplane minutes crawled by. I rubbed elbows with a broad-shouldered linebacker of a lady, waiting for signs of movement. She booped and beeped about on her IPad as if the fate of the world rested upon her to execute a perfect Candy Crush combo.
To the right, a meaty-thighed man had eclipsed my view of the aisle, the seams of his jeans on the verge of bursting.
Both of my armrests had been snatched away by my bulbous co-flyers.
I twitched, body threatening claustrophobic spasms.
Sweat rolled down my ribcage––a single bead of tickling perspiration.
Hipbone to hipbone with complete strangers, I tried in vain to locate my seatbelt. I feared where it could have been lodged.
Where did I wrong?
I held my breath and told myself it would all be worth it.
I wasn’t sure I was right.
Here we come, Puerto Rico.
Writing Intangibles 