You're Making Me Hate You (7 page)

It’s frucking fuss-trating, isn’t it? That confidence you earned by trimming two hours of planned prep into twenty minutes of panicked performance is effectively rendered moot by the knowledge that you will now have to maneuver through the maze of pure hell that is the experience of having to fly with other people. If you have never flown before—Jesus, even if you have never been inside an airport before—no matter how eloquently I speak or how descriptive I get, there is no way I can truly describe this eventual excruciating hindrance. You can only live it, then talk about it at some support group in a YMCA basement somewhere while you drink see-through coffee and sit in shitty plastic chairs designed to make it impossible to cross your legs comfortably. I don’t know about you, but it’s hard for me to share with survivors and peers when I can’t get my crotch in an acceptable position.

It’s an issue so prevalent that no matter where I’m going, I could set my watch to it. It is exacerbating, perplexing, vexing, and so disproportionate to the right way of thinking that it’s a wonder I can think half the time. Out of all the industries of the
world, it is
the
supreme example of shortsightedness and lack of common-sense thinking I have ever experienced, and I swear to fucking Christ that it starts as soon as you pull up to the curb out front. There is a literal exit of conventional problem solving, a total evacuation of togetherness, and an embrace of all things selfish, inconsiderate, and manipulative. You’d think I was describing a fight club or a coliseum ready for a battle of epic size. Nope—that’s not even in the same ballpark as the address I’m about to dress down. Anyone who’s ever had the displeasure of traveling abroad or in bounds can tell you with absurd detail just how sucky it is to trounce around your local airport, a place as diverse in its asinine ways as its clientele.

There are a number of airports all over the world, and I have been through a majority of them. I have been flying to and from work and home on a constant basis since I was twenty years old, nearly as much time as I have spent driving on my own or shitting in places other than the pants I happen to be wearing. I’m not bragging; I’m just saying: I fly a lot. It’s important for you to understand this before I start to eviscerate the airline industry. I deal with these people and the morons who board their planes too often for my own good. I don’t like it. Honestly, I feel sorry for the employees of the airports of the world. But I can’t be bothered giving a shit about them right now. This is about
you
: the baboon-assed travelers of this softball called terra firma. This is about the painful experience of having to move through airports with the assholes of Earth.

This chapter isn’t even about flying, even though there are a host of problems that come once you actually board the plane. I’ve heard that at any given time there are at least one to four hundred
thousand
people in the air on jetliners en route to places around the globe. If only that number were higher, maybe I wouldn’t bump into drill holes on a revolving basis. This,
however, isn’t the issue at hand. The issues occur in the hubs, code for the cities that the various airlines use as bases of operations. The issue is the behaviors I have to suffer through before you butt fucks even board the equipment, and I’m pissed to say that this list is extensive. In retro, it’s a fascinating anthropological discovery that can be summed up in four phases: Me-Me-Me, WTF, Where Am I, and Hurry Up. These are the stages of air travel that have presented themselves over the last twenty years, predating 9/11, the popularity and availability of the Internet, cell phones and smartphones, and buckwheat neck pillows. But these incapacities of thought have certainly been made even more painful because of where we are now.

Me-Me-Me isn’t the worst on the list, but it pisses me off almost as badly because it happens right out of the gate and sets the tone for your time in the terminals. You can feel it even before you pull up to unload: a general mass of troglodytes jockeying for a temporary parking space in front of a federal building where you can’t smoke within twenty-five feet of the entrance. Cops swarm the sidewalks, making sure you’re not there for very long, clipping hugs, handshakes, and good-bye kisses to nothing more than high fives and pecks on the cheek. It also seems like there’s always one taxi driver who doesn’t give a drippy shit about the flow of traffic, putting it in “park” directly in the middle of the third lane and tossing someone’s luggage over Toyotas to land by the wayside. With a bit of luck and a favor owed to Allah, you finally find a sliver of concrete and slide in quickly. One awkward speedy exchange with your transport later and the dance of the damned begins. First things first, you have to get inside. This activity is stymied by a group of folks who seem as if they have never seen a revolving door before. This is the first signal that Me-Me-Me is in full view: not giving a wet tickle about anyone behind you. It’s also a precursor to the pain that
is Where Am I, because if you can’t figure out a technological advancement as significant as a fucking door, there’s no hope for you and you should be euthanized.

By hook or by crook, you get inside to the ticketing area. Me-Me-Me is now in full effect, and it presents itself in an experience that is akin to having a razorblade slide slowly across your hacky sack: the line to the ticket counter. Yes, it doesn’t seem as laborious when it’s written down. The reality is, unfortunately, the exact opposite. The ticket line has become a snaking mound of ill will, like waiting too long for the worst Disneyland ride ever created. Everyone in this line is mad as hell, and the strange thing is that the farther ahead you are in this line, the madder you get. The mindset is “I should
be
at the counter by now!” This is classic Me-Me-Me: your self-importance mounts as you get closer to your turn to get your boarding passes. Now, common sense should let you know that this is only the first step in a strenuous process leading to actually getting on the plane. But this isn’t the case. The impatience levels reach such lethal numbers that I have witnessed sixty-year-old women scream at little kids who don’t get out of their way fast enough. It’s insane.

Another sign that you are in a line full of crazy assholes is the venom spat at people who don’t get their bags around the corners of this Disney queue quick enough. That’s space that could be taken up by another person, therefore moving you closer to the counter! To quote Magenta: SHIFT IT! You can tell from my rancor that I am indeed one of those pricks who bitch about this very practice. Those responsible for this are almost always the men and women who are going to beat the system by carrying on a suitcase that is clearly “checked bag” size. They drag this monstrosity behind them, knowing full well it’s the size of an ancient steamer trunk equipped with wheels that can barely handle the weight of whatever’s inside. But then they stand at
the corners of the line like they’re not sure whether they should keep going or not, as if at any moment they’re going to change their minds about the trip and their excessive cargo. After a festering bundle of seconds that feels like hours, they finally lumber forward with a vacuous stare and a shuffling gait. I got to be honest here: it’s enough to make me want to stab a motherfucker with a ballpoint pen, another vague hint at the Where Am I that lies just beyond the metal detectors.

Finally you reach the first trial: the ticket counter. Now, I’ve never been one to challenge the authority of the men and women who stand vigilant behind that counter, doling out tickets and bag tags like sentinels with printers, scarves, and individual name plates. But that does not mean that I haven’t heard other travelers ripping into these people like kids on Christmas morning. This is where Me-Me-Me really comes into view. No matter what these people have done online, over the phone, through intermediaries, or what not, nothing makes sense now and everything has to been redone …
immediately
. Seat assignment? Change it. A checked bag that wasn’t part of the original reservation? Add it and they’re not paying for it. A carry-on bag that is the size of a Mini Cooper? It’ll fit under their seat, they’ve flown with it a million times, and they refuse to check it. You got a problem with that? Get your manager over here; they want to register a complaint. People who work the ticket counter are in a no-win situation 99 percent of the time. In the past this might have been terms for suicide or at least a bit of disgruntled payback. But after 9/11 the power has shifted to the staff. Go ahead—run your mouth. You’ll find yourself on the no-fly list faster than you can inhale cool air for a hot-winded retort.

If you manage to get past this labyrinth of rabid hostility, it’s then a race to get to the security line—that is, if you’re not heading outside for that last-minute cigarette at an illegal distance
from their front door. Now, the security line is where things start to get interesting. The transition from Me-Me-Me to WTF begins here, amongst your fellow jetsetters and chart hoppers. It’s like searching for a clean drink while wading through brackish waters: you never know what you’re going to taste with each step of the way. You get the self-absorption, sure, but you also get the crushing reduction of brain cells as well. People can’t figure out whether they’re in a hurry or whether they have a clue to where they’re going or even why they’re going there to begin with. You eventually get to the front, TSA checks your credentials, and you make your way to the second trial: the detectors. This is, regretfully, where the “joy” of WTF begins.

Back in the line marching toward security clearance there appears to be a general emptying of the intellectual bowels, like a frightened person making pee-pee in the pants region. Brainiacs become dullards in the blink of an eye. Suddenly something as simple as showing your driver’s license or passport to an official becomes a desperate search of every pocket while blinking uncontrollably. Even if you have your ticket and your ID in your hand, people who normally have a firm grasp of how NEXT IN LINE works now falter and pause, unsure whether it’s their turn to go. I’ve seen virgins more self-assured while fumbling at three-hook bras. This culminates in the stupidity of the metal detectors and other more advanced booths of their kind. Trouble is, they have to sort out their shit at the assembly line to the X-ray machine first. This is a problem because apparently it’s the first time for everyone standing there.

In their defense, countries all over the world have slightly different variations on the rules of this engagement. Some places are shoes on, and others are shoes off. Some lands give not one hot fiery fuck for iPads and stuff; others advise you to remove them and leave them behind for your loved ones to retrieve. However,
America is virtually unchanged in the last decade: shoes, belts, and jewelry off; computer out; no liquids; no toiletries over three ounces without a plastic bag; and empty your pockets of all the garbage you’ve been collecting since you arrived at the airport. This is standard procedure. Not only that, but there are security officers screaming these things in your face at different volumes and various ways while you’re standing there. It’s not fucking rocket science: it’s all
right there
—on all the signs, on everyone’s breath and minds … it’s all right there. And like David Copperfield—the magic one, not the Dickens one—turning the Statue of Liberty into unblocked sky, this knowledge vanishes. What is left in its place appears to be a person who has about as much use as a door with no handles or hinges. Do you know what a door like that is called? A wall—hence the saying “dumber than a brick wall.”

It begins with a slow, cautious spinning-head routine, casting empty looks around like a clumsy attempt to cheat from another student’s test answers. If you’re lucky, someone else pulls his or her belt off in plain sight so you do that, hastily trying to keep up. None of this matters, of course: someone always forgets something major on the list. They walk into the metal detector with a pocket full of laundry change and a wristwatch. They push their bags through the X-ray, loaded with their computers and three half-full bottles of soda. Coats come off … then go back on. Then the coats come back off, get wadded up, and are stuffed into the same bin as the computer. After security cautions them against this, they then place the coat with their shoes. But now they have to sort out their bags. This process is repeated with each person who gets to the conveyor belt. God forbid you get behind a family with more than one kid. By the time they have shoved everything and everyone through the machines, you’ve missed your flight and you should just go
home. It’s repulsive. Here’s a piece of serious advice for anyone who clogs the throughways for the rest of us: if you’ve never flown before, take a bus.

With any bit of luck, you finally get through and to the other side, the gates, and the shops. Welcome to the most expensive convenience stores in the world. This has been a source of contention for everyone I know and every comedian on the planet who dares to rip open this tried and true mine of punitive gold. The prices in these newsstands, bookshops, and tiny markets are unbelievable, and that’s on a good day with a fistful of twenties. Plus, there’s a part of me that wonders why there are so many types of clothing for sale in the terminal stores. The sports tees and hats, I comprehend; souvenirs have been shilled since pharaohs offered parting pyramids to camel riders on the go. But suits? Cashmere sweaters? Dressy shoes and ties? Dresses and skirts and scarves (oh my)? When the hell did this become commerce for shit heels just passing through? Who in the sweet shit is showing up at the airport naked? I have never found myself in the market for a new suit of clothes while on a layover, no matter how fucking far I am flying. And even when I was drinking, I was never in need of a giant bottle of whiskey the size of a spare tire. How about this: instead of all these designer clothing stores and Worlds of Whiskeys, how about a fucking smoking lounge or two? DADDY NEEDS HIS FIX, YOU FuckERS!

Ahem … sorry.

Anyway, one $12 coffee, a pair of neon-green dress socks, and a bag of stale Chex Mix later, you can now start looking for your gate. But you should know better—it’s not that simple. Before any of that shit can happen, you have Where Am I to deal with. Simply put, Where Am I is a minefield of dickheads who are wandering around
slowly
, with no idea where the hell they are
or where they are going … and they’re always in front of
me
. I have never wanted to kick old people so hard in my life. I have never felt such vile, bitter hatred for couples in matching Adidas gear before, and rarely does it come up outside of airports. There was that lovely husband and wife from Manchester who nearly ran me over with their Razor scooters, but that might have been my fault: I was on a bender eight years ago and had one of my own shoes off, brandishing it in an effort to fight off invisible beasts while they were trying to get by me. To Mr. and Mrs. Appleston, I sincerely apologize once again, and I do hope you’ve gotten the sight back in your respective eyes. Let’s hear it for the Applestons! By the way, guys, I did end up slaying that Smaug-like bastard.