On that day, there was terror in the air.
And every single passenger on that plane knew that it was coming from back there…
“Would the owner of the unattended black Samsonite suitcase please immediately come to the Delta Airlines check-in?” the nervous voice came over the loud speaker.
I, for one, simply had no time for this non-sense at 6:35 am. Maybe I would have exhibited more patience with those brave souls trying to handle a potential terrorist threat if I was merely trying to catch a routine flight back to North Carolina. I possibly might even been cool with it, had I been also just tasked with making sure My Beautiful Bride and our 1-year-old daughter got back safely as well.
But no, not this not-so-fine day.
“Why is that, Beej?” you may be asking me, feeling familiar and comfortable enough with me to use my nickname’s nickname.
Well back in the narrative form of this story, I’ll feel that detail in:
“Fools!” I muttered to myself as I stood in line to check-in for our connecting flight to Atlanta, “I am the one who tocks!”
I paused for a beat before realizing that no one was within earshot to appreciate my rather witty Breaking Bad reference…you know, “I am the one who knocks” and what-not.
No? Nothing? Ok. Whatevs…I had to take a second-stab at being openly witty back then anyways.
“Simple morons, the lot of you!” I tried again, “My stomach is the ticking time bomb you should be worried about!”
And I, sh*t you not, I spoke the truth: if you didn’t read last week’s installment, pop back and catch up real quick why don’tchya? And once you do, you’ll fully understand the dire situation I was in, whence I had been expelling bodily fluids like clockwork since 12 am the night before this most wonderful glorious day of traveling.
Yup, it was misery indeed: almost down to the minute, every 2 hours I could count on either projectile vomiting (12, 4, &–I’m extrapolating here–8 am & 12 pm), or suffering violent diarrhea (2, 6, &–once again, extrapolating–10 am & 2 pm). I knew shouldn’t have had Chipotle for dinner the night before–or was it the chorizo that my dearest step-mother had gifted me earlier in the week and I didn’t eat until the previous morning? Either way, I was pretty sure it was ethnically seasoned meat to blame.
Anyways, as I waited in line to check-in, I was seriously debating sending my beloveds on without me, and seeing if I could catch a later flight when I was less volatile. On one hand, I wanted to be there for My Beautiful Bride, as I knew that traveling alone with a baby can be a real challenge. On the other hand, I was running a real risk of being a public health hazard–can you imagine the devastating consequences if I were to have an ‘episode’ when I didn’t have a way to contain things in a sanitary manner? A perfect example would be desperately needing a toilet during take-off or landing. Or while taxiing. Or while boarding and/or deplaning. Or anywhere not within sight-line of an airport bathroom or airplane lavatory.
You get the drift. There were plenty of ways things could get ugly real quick.
But, being the Noble and Beloved Father that I am, I wasn’t about to give up on my family just yet. Let’s consider the schedule of my body and see how it would line up with our flight schedules.
As I mentioned above, it appeared that my body wanted to get rid of fluids on the even hour, so I could anticipate an incident occurring at 8 am, 10 am, 12 pm, 2 pm, etc. (Central Daylight Time, that is.)
Now our flight from Wichita to Atlanta was set to take off at 7:02 am and land at 10:15 am. After a brief layover, our flight to RDU was scheduled to take off at 11:26 am and land at 12:49 pm.
Adjusting for crossing into Eastern Daylight Time en route to Atlanta, I should set my watch to count down to 9 am: something–probably vomit–was coming out of my body right in the middle of Flight 1, I could almost guarantee it.
But wait! That would be the best-case scenario, barring any unforeseen turbulence that would keep me strapped into my seat. I surmised that I wouldn’t be in any compromising shituations during take-off or landing, and that was about all I could ask for.
Okay, onto the next timepoint, 11 am. That would be roughly in the middle of our layover. While I would have preferred it to be 15 minutes into the layover, if I needed to handle things 25 minutes before departure, I figured I would take what I could get.
Now, where would I be at 1 pm? Hoping for not a moment’s delay in our departure from ATL and praying for some serious tailwind, that’s where I would be up until that time, that’s for sure! If we landed at 12:49 pm or slightly earlier, I probably wouldn’t be feeling too well, but I would at least have a fighting chance to make it to the airport potty before my “1 o’clock appointment”.
Given that it would be a 45 minutes or so drive back to my in-laws’ house (whom we were living with at the time), I should be in comfortably quarters if I still somehow had any gas left in the tank at 3 pm.
“Just check us in and get me through security.” I politely demanded from the Delta check-in agent. “Oh, and by the way, go ahead and just give me any barf bags you have available here and now. Asking for a friend…”
“Okay, I guess I’ll see you when we land…” I tucked my unused barf bag back into the seat in front of me and scurried to the lavatory located at the rear of Delta Flight 2250.
After clutching said barf bag in anticipation of throwing up for the first 20 minutes of the flight, I realized that a plot twist was afoot: I needed a toilet ASAP!
Now normally I find sitting down in an airline lavatory to be grody and icky experience that I will go to great lengths to avoid. And I would also normally find it extremely embarrassing to spend nearly an entire flight camped out in such a location.
Further, under normal circumstances I would rather die than make really, REALLY loud bodily noises for an hour straight for the entire rear half of the plane to hear, only to emerge with all eyes on me.
I would say that that particular day, I didn’t give a single sh*t, but, *ahem* the truth is that it was literally quite the opposite.
I mean, I didn’t care about any of that–I figuratively didn’t give a crap–but as you don’t need or want to be told, that poor lavatory toilet saw a traumatic amount of butt-action during those next, very intense, 60 minutes. (PS: My sincerest apologies to residents in northern Arkansas, NE Mississippi, and northern Alabama.1https://www.flightstats.com/v2/flight-tracker/DL/2073?year=2023&month=4&date=29&flightId=1179267412)
Right about the time the pilot made the announcement that we were beginning our descent into Atlanta, my misery subsided and I came out of hiding just in time to get buckled in before landing.
“What in the world was happening in there?!?” My Beautiful Bride asked as I sat back down.
“Whatever do you mean my dear?”
“You were making, um, alot of noises in there. I think even First Class could hear you.”
“That, my dear, was the sound of an airline disaster being averted…”
“Um…could you pass me my barf bag?”
…and that, in the Atlanta airport, is where I leave you hanging until next time. I know you can only handle so much graphic details of my bodily fluids, so I figured I would give you a seven-day break.
And, uh, spoiler alert: as you may have guessed, I wasn’t quite home-free yet. But would I get stuck in Atlanta? Would I embarrass myself in an epic (or minor) way? Would I make it home that day? Would I be branded a terrorist?!?
Tune in next time to find out questions to these answers and more…
Content created on: 28/29 April 2023 (Fri/Sat)
Footnotes & References:
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