I'll Fly Home

On Friday night, I flew back to Connecticut from California. As a holiday present, my parents arranged for a car to pick me up and transport me to the airport. The car ride itself was boring, no different than sitting in the backseat of any friend’s car (minus the crumbs, I suppose); far more exciting was the anticipation of the ride. I washed my hands in advance in case the driver wanted to kiss them. When the car arrived, Amber, Shea, and I watched it from the window for a very long time. Though I was packed and ready to go, there was something enjoyable about knowing I could make the chauffer wait for as long as I wanted. You wouldn’t believe how important I felt peering out the window while imagining how important I must seem. I contemplated having Shea carry me out to the car to further emphasize my elevated status. I figured the driver would be so impressed, ey would finally break the silence to ask, “And what do you do for a living, sir?” I would respond truthfully and say I am a teacher, and the driver would be impressed that I could afford a fancy ride in a fancy car. In reality, the driver said almost nothing to me, so I was forced to make embarrassingly unimportant calls on my cell phone.

I sort of like airport experiences. Where else can you find such a large cross-section of the population uniting under a few common goals: trying to get somewhere else, pretending to be patient in the meantime, and resisting the urge to make a joke about bombs? LAX, the Los Angeles airport, was everything I imagined the failed television show to be. One thing’s for sure: people are reproducing like crazy. I swear that more people were toting a toddler than a carry-on. We’re going to need a few more terrorist incidents if we’re going to avoid a population epidemic. Don’t worry; I didn’t make that joke at the airport, though I was prepared to when some shithead (AKA a one-year-old) kept grabbing at my ankle. (Shithead wasn’t nearly adorable as my future spouse.)

Because this flight was my first time on a plane since seeing Snakes on a Plane, I was disappointed at how lackluster and unvenemous the journey proved to be. Though there were no snakes to be found, I did have a seat next to a heavily make-upped woman with a yippy dog on her lap. I felt obligated to tell her that if a python were to emerge, we would have to feed the dog to the snake as a diversionary tactic, but I didn’t want to kill the mood.

Since the flight was a red eye (Visine?), I intended to sleep, but not before first learning what the movie would be. It turned out to be The Illusionist (What? Exactly!), meaning they might as well have looped the safety instructions for two hours. Firstly, it’s a period piece. Secondly, it’s about magic. Abracadumbra! Thirdly, it stars that one actor who appeared on the insufferably preachy 7th Heaven until she hoed it up in order to start a film career. After finding her career not so successful, she went wholesome again to return to the show. Then she was deemed hot again, so she’s back to vamping it up. I’m not sure how that worked in a period piece – perhaps her clothing “magically” disappears, or the title character isn’t the only one
”working tricks.”

As for me, I slept. Snakes, infants, yippy dogs, and illusionists be damned.