You can hear it rattle

It's still rather nipply around here and since the weather is what people talk about when they've nothing else to talk about, people are talking about the cold. As I tend to think it's better to just go along with the crowd on these matters, I just agree, "Yes, it's cold and it sucks, etc." The etc. being my only giveaway that perhaps my heart just isn't in such convos. The weather on Jupiter would make for much more interesting discussion. Therefore...

Andy and I never got up the nerve to approach Mr. Coach Romeo Crendel, not sure what I would have said to him anyway. Perhaps, "That sure is a swell coat you got there, chief." But I continued checking back to make sure he was still there. With each glance, I could feel the slightest tingle of excitement rising further up from my toes that I might share a plane with such a person of such note. Not so much note that I recognized him on my own, mind, but of more note than the hoards of Mr. & Mrs. Blue Hairs who would also be occupying our space.

Please understand, I've nothing against the aged. Pulp's Help the Aged is on my running ipod and I have seen an episode of The Golden Girls. Clearly I'm not ageist. And with any luck, I'll get there one day as well but if young whippersnappers ever want to see where they're headed, then fly to West Palm Beach out of Atlanta. Admittedly, I'm not much of a mathelete, but I'm quite certain the median age on our flight was death. In fact, barring an in-flight incident, I think Andy, Romeo and I were the only three who could legitimately expect to live the whole way.

I'm generally not a miserable bastard. Nor do I get into dead pools and the like, but nevertheless I began making mental bets with myself over who might not see touch down in West Palm. (Not that I wanted anything of that sort to happen, because I've no doubt these were all good and decent people much loved by many and even getting the occasional card from children/grandchildren to remind them of such. But when faced with free time one bides the time as best one can. So...) The even money was on the gent who was at the front of the line to board, was comfortably in his seat by the time we boarded, only to discover he was in the wrong seat just before takeoff.

Not to be outdone was the lady who lost her pocketbook. Understandably distressed, she was determined to get off the plane. In fairness, at this point, so was I and had decided that if she led the charge, I'd have her back. I thought better of it since the doors had been shut and the jetway was, by then, a few steps away from the plane. Leaping not being one of my strong points.

Admirably calm, the flight attendants nevertheless were having a most difficult time making the lady realize that in this post-9/11 world, we don't play around no more. Rules are rules. I thought there was a chance some jackboots would come marching down and toss her off onto the tarmac or at fire up the tasers. Of course, I wasn't hoping for such a scene, but again, post-9/11, since she posed no danger to anyone and fit no obvious profile, I figured the full arm of Homeland Security was raring to go.

The seconds passed like minutes and her equally seasoned boy toy began to get a little more distraught. I suspect this was more to do with the fear of being SOL if someone asked him about his grandkids during the flight than the civil disobedience going down. Meanwhile, folks all around gave the the universal look for I'm-not-really-looking-but-I'm-trying-to-look-like-I-am-so-maybe-this-lady-will-sit-down-and-we-can-leave-and-I-can-get-back-to-my-WordJumble. It really was all going to Hell, post-haste.

But at the last moment, her pocketbook was found. By her husband. In her seat. Where she had put it when she sat down. Hiding in plain sight. An odd, somewhat sarcastic cheer/groan swept through the cabin. This cheer may or may not have been led by me. A happy ending to be sure, and all was forgotten by the time the attendants dispensed with the increasingly paltry snacks.

The goodwill carried over for the rest of the flight. I enjoyed trying to hear my ipod over the roar of the engines and occasionally snuck peaks at the bodice ripper, the not-quite-elderly lady to my right was reading. The inflight entertainment, episodes of the funny 30 Rock and somewhat less funny Parks & Recreation, fared less well. I think someone misoverestimated the interest of these on a flight filled with exactly 2 people under 50. In the end, though, everyone survived and we all deplaned with far less drama and far greater speed than we, uh, planed.

Thank Jeebus for the early bird special at Denny's.

(Note: with any luck, my next post might actually get around to the real, live Orange Bowl. Though if one saw said game, one would probably wonder, "why bother?")