Finals are over! It’s finally that time again: time to pull out the biggest piece of luggage I have, roughly the size of a sofa, fill it up with all the things I can’t live without for a week, add a few rolling bags and carry them all onto a plane. Then I can sit back and relax in my coach seat, in my bathing suit, muscle-T and flip-flops. After all, it’s time to party.
Checking bags is for suckers. Those fools will have to go to the baggage claim, while I’ll be strolling out the terminal door and finding my buddy Fred double-parked in the “Don’t Dare to Park Here” zone. And boom -- we’re off to Party Town.
There’s plenty of room in the overhead bins for my giant suitcase, my huge backpack and a couple of my rolling bags. Everything else I just shove under the seat. Not MY seat; I need the leg room. I put it under the seat next to me. Some people complain, but I can’t hear them because I’m already wearing giant, noise-blocking earphones.
The flight attendant told me I had to turn off my phone and computer, so I pretended to. Who’s gonna know? And when are they going to start serving the drinks? Why do I have to wait until we hit cruising altitude? The four I had at the airport bar are starting to wear off.
I’ve only got a week to have fun, so why are they wasting my time? I’m trying to stream that movie that’s such a big hit in the theaters. I downloaded it from Russia for free, but the attendant keeps interrupting by talking about oxygen masks and emergency exits. What is wrong with these people? I’m trying to relax. Don’t they know I took three credit hours last semester? At this pace I should graduate right on schedule in 2028, with a degree in Poli Sci. If the pressure doesn’t get to me first.
Wait a minute, what? She says I can’t vape on the plane. When did that happen? It’s not smoking, lady, it’s VAPING. Wow, old people! What’s the matter with them?
She called me “sir.” No tip for you! Not that I ever tip. They get paid for doing their job, why should I reward them for doing what they’re supposed to be doing? That’s why my dad says he doesn’t go out to restaurants anymore. He says he got tired of waiting for an hour to get cold food while people who came in after he did were served before he even got a menu, then tipping on top of that.
Where is that drink? Don’t they know how stressed-out I am? The woman next to me has a baby in her lap. That’s what they should make you check, not luggage. They don’t want me to bring a carry-on bag, but they’ll let her carry on a baby AND a diaper bag! Babies don’t take vacations, babies aren’t going to business meetings, so why do they let them on airplanes?
That old lady who wouldn’t get out of my way at the airport lounge is still glaring at me. Hold a grudge much? Maybe she heard me on the phone with Fred. I told him I’d requested a wheelchair. Those guys always get on first. No, I don’t need one, but how do I know that any of these clowns needs one? It’s not like you have to bring a note from your doctor. Fred and I were laughing but I could tell she didn’t think it was funny.
She finally showed up with the drink cart. Eight bucks for two beers? What a rip-off! And it’s an hour flight! She may not even be back again for half an hour. It’s like you have to wait until you’re on the ground nowadays to get hammered.
I knew I should have driven.
(Contact Jim Mullen at firstname.lastname@example.org.)