I settled my elbow on the strangely soft plastic of the armrest, pressing the heel of my palm into my jaw. I then spent the first few minutes of my pre-takeoff zoning trying to configure myself into a more optimal daydreaming pose. As it was an airplane, whose necessarily close quarters reminded me of the innards of a tube of toothpaste, I was unsuccessful.
The man across the aisle grumbled about the airline, most notably the lack of overhead compartments for us, the back row. I would have pitied him had he not had an empty seat next to him, the oft-heard of but rarely seen jackpot air bubble of the mile-high traveler. He feebly tried to make it look like he was trying to put his carry-on underneath his bonus legroom. With my negligible talents of depth perception and volume estimation, I wasn't fooled by his failure.
For my part, I was just happy to be there. My bad travel juju, karma, luck, whatever superstition have you, had continued to feed the whirlpool of anxiety with block letters: DELAYED. It took the goodwill of three United/Continental employees--Craig, Stephen, and Maria, to piece together a new flight plan that would put my comfortably-shod feet on the affordable carpet of RDU.
I had found my most-optimal-but-not-quite-there etude, and I stared, my eyes more glassy than the plexiglass paned oval that served as my headrest. The sun set, bleeding the clouds pink. It reminded my out of it self that haste makes waste when it comes to a load of whites. There had been a brief mention of a thunderstorm, but since it had been brought up during the pre-flight safety spiel, I had ignored it.
That is, until a brief flash of focus caught a wink from Mother Nature.
Act I:
Forks of lightning prodded the swirl of purple clouds, looking for an escape route. As the plane engine (somewhere in the vicinity of my left ear) or the altitude had drowned the accompany grumbles of thunder, I could watch the spectacle without fear. Slowly, we passed the sparks of the approaching tempest.
Act II:
The cabin lights came on. ORD was near. Beneath the plane, the terra firma had taken up the entertainment for our descent. Fog was rolling off Lake Michigan. Having consumed Navy Pier, its greedy fingers crawled to the Willis Tower and its antenna beacon. Beyond, the city was alight in a messy grid and blood vessel highways. The headlight veins, still so small, approached while taillight arteries darted away.
Act III:
The landing gear whined over the runways of ORD. A technicolor light show of red, blue, green, and orange spoke in a code for which I had no key. They welcomed us to the tarmac, guiding us to Terminal F in their cryptic manner.
Finis.
And then the show was over. There was no applause--it's passe now. Instead, we picked up our baggage and squeezed out of the tube, efficiently dispersing. Our time as an audience was over. After all, you can't put toothpaste back in the tube.
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