Tarmac Warrior

It was the jet age but it's gone now. A memory.

I'm sitting in a E170/174 jet. ORD>LAG.

We pulled out of the gate on time, taxied onto the field and the pilot said we're holding here for an hour.

I've been flying since I was a kid.

My family always dressed to fly.

Still do.

With my mother it was jacket and tie, combed hair, polished shoes, spiffy luggage.

Flying was high class. Airports were smooth. You got dressed, you stay dressed.

Martinis and small plates of prepared food. Three course dinners. Linens napkins. Steel cutlery. Good wine. Lunch. Breakfast.

Hard to imagine. But that's what it was. Jet-age glamour.

The pilot comes on and says we're welcome to get up, move around, use the rest room. But we're not moving. The plane shakes a little in the Chicago wind.

I've been traveling for a couple of weeks now. Every flight has been delayed. I've lost my luggage twice. Long lines at security. Full pat down search. Had my toothpaste confiscated. My hair gel. Confiscated by a bald guy. Is that some kind of bald guy revenge move? Nah. He's a nice guy. We laugh about it. He gets the irony. He still tosses the gel into the waste basket.

I have to walk as mile or so to the gate.

O'Hare is larger than some towns.

We sit here in the wind.

I am a tarmac warrior.

Maybe we can roll to New York. Down I-80. Squeezing our E-170 through the toll gates. Do jets need an EZ pass?

I miss the jet age.