Leaving On A Jet Plane

LEAVING ON AN JET PLANE

“Come on, come on, come on!” I said out loud, pacing back and forth across the porch.

My best friend Daja had insisted on driving me to the airport, and she was now very late. I needed to be at the airport two hours before the flight, and the airport was a solid fifty minutes away. We should have been on the road forty minutes ago. Instead I was wearing a path across my front porch with my pacing. I’d called her and reminded her this morning at five-fifteen a.m., and she said everything was set, she was just getting ready. She said she’d see me at six a.m. so we would have enough time to get me to the airport to catch my nine a.m. flight. I’d been calling her since six, when she hadn’t showed up on time, but she hadn’t answered. This was not like Daja at all. She was usually on time, if not early, for everything. She was very dependable. Worry started to niggle at me.

When I had told Daja that I was flying to New Orleans, she had offered to drive me to the airport. Usually I take an airport shuttle — less muss, less fuss. But Daja had insisted. Really insisted, almost stridently. It was weird, but that was Daja. So I’d said yes. Now, I wasn’t so sure that had been such a good idea.  

I didn’t want to miss my flight. I’d much rather be the person at the boarding gate looking bored because I’d arrived early for my flight, as opposed to the person dragging their bag behind them, running towards their boarding gate, yelling “hold the plane.” But now, I realized, I just might be that runner if Daja didn’t get here soon. 

At that moment, Daja screeched to the curb.  

“Where have you been? I tried calling, but you didn’t answer!”

I ran down the stairs dragging my luggage.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry!” Daja looked at me, all contrite, using her big Puss ’N Boots eyes on me. “My phone died. When I went out this morning, I had a flat tire, and had to change it myself. I’m a mess!”  

She showed me her dirty hands.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, feeling my stress calm. There was no point in getting angry. She was here now, and we had to get going.

“No, problem,” I said, trying to sound calm, “but, we’re going to have to hustle to get to the airport on time.”

Daja popped the trunk, and I threw my suitcase in, along with my carry-on bag and hopped into the car. 

"Let's go!" I said, glad to finally be on the way.

I was travelling to a destination wedding in New Orleans. I hate destination weddings. I find them … well … inconvenient. Not only do you have to travel to some far-off locale on your own dime, but you have to pay for your own accommodation, and food, and new clothes, as well as give a gift. And then you’re trapped with all of these people you don’t know, doing all these group activities that the bride and groom think will be fun. It was worse than a bus tour. There was no way I would be going on this little jaunt except it was my father’s fourth marriage, and I had no real reason not to go. But damn it, I was still going to resent it.

Daja put the car in gear and we took off, heading for the airport. By my calculations the ride to the airport should be about half-an-hour, forty minutes, if the traffic wasn’t a nightmare. But the traffic was always a nightmare, which is why I had built in an extra half hour of travelling time. Which was gone now.

“Daj, we’ve got to hurry. I’ve got to catch this flight.”

“I know, Willa, I know. We’ll make it. But if we’re late, you can catch another flight, right?”

“NO!” I shouted, causing Daja to startle. I felt bad, took another deep, calming, breath. “No, because it’s the beginning of Mardi Gras, and there’s not another flight for about a week. So, no, I can’t book another flight. I have to catch this flight, or I’m walking.”

Daja looked at me out of the side of her eye. I guess she could tell I was stressed.  

“We’ve got lots of time, Willa. It’s what— “ She glanced at her watch, “Almost seven? And your flight doesn’t leave ’til what, nine o’clock? That’s over two hours. No, problem. We’ve got this.”

In theory she was right, of course. So, I wouldn’t have time to browse Duty Free or read my book, but I would catch my flight. We were good. I hoped we were good.

Daja took a number of lefts and rights, and got on the eastbound ramp to the highway that would, eventually, take us to the airport. And, yay, the traffic was moving. Not moving fast, but moving fast enough. But it was rush hour, and that could change, quickly. I practiced some alternate nostril breathing, and focussed on the traffic ahead, visualizing me sitting in my seat, watching out the window while the plane took off. Still moving. I silently thanked the traffic gods.  

And then it happened. The car started to jitter. At first it was just one jerk, then a couple in a row, then it was like the car was stuttering.  

“Daja?”

She looked down at the instrument panel, then back at me.

“I … I … I don’t know. There are no red flashing lights on the dash. Maybe it’s nothing?”

I wasn’t buying it, but we really did not need car trouble right now, so we tacitly decided to ignore the bucking of the car and hope it at least got us to the airport before dying. We were moving, and in the right directions, so I was hopeful.  

Then the other thing happened.

BANG!

We both flew forward, straining our seatbelts, 

“What the hell?”

I twisted and looked behind us. There was some guy throwing his hands in the air, and gesticulating wildly. I watched as he got out of his car and stomped towards us. By this time traffic around us had stopped — looks-loos. Mr. Angry Hands rushed up beside Daja’s window, and started hammering his fist on it. She rolled it down halfway. No reason to open it all the way, increasing the ease at which he could lay hands on her. And he looked like the kind of guy who would try to drag her out of the car through the window -- kinda scary and pissed right off.

“What the fuck were you thinking!” he screamed.

Daja looked at him calmly, “What are you talking about? You ran into me.”

“You slammed on your brakes, and forced me to run into the back of your car. That’s called stunting. I’m gonna sue your ass!”

Then there was a timid knock on my window, and I turned to see a less animated man on my side. I rolled down my window half way.

“Don’t listen to him!” said the man. “We were driving beside him and he was on his phone, not paying attention to the road. My wife filmed him.”

A woman beside the man, smiled, and held up her phone.

“You!” shouted the first man, “Mind your own freakin’ business, and get back to your car before I come over there and shove that phone up you ass!”

I noticed that the woman was still filming. She waved at the first man.

“Turn that camera off!”  

He made a move towards the woman, who took a step back. I looked around. Because traffic was stopped, we had quite the audience. And in that audience were about ten more phones recording our confrontation.

Hearing sirens approaching. I got out of the car and turned to face the man who had hit Daja’s car.

“I’m a lawyer. You are at fault. You were following too closely.  Regardless of how slow we were going, you are, by law, required to follow at a safe distance, or change lanes. Add to that the fact that we have video evidence of you on your phone while you were supposed to be paying attention to the road, you will also be charged with distracted driving. Continuing to threaten those around you will undoubtedly bump your legal troubles from traffic-related to criminal. Questions?”

His face turned red, and I was sure that the top of his head was going to explode. It was right at that moment that the police arrived. They had us move to the breakdown lane, took the names of the witnesses, and got traffic moving again. 

Daja and I were fine, and the car only sustained a bit of bumper damage that Mr. Angry Hands, a.k.a. Rob McLain, was going to have to pay for. Insurance information was exchanged, tickets were issued to Mr. McLain, videos were shared with Daja and the police, and it was over. It had taken a little over an hour. It was now 8:30 a.m., and we were still about fifteen minutes away from the airport. I looked at Daja.

“We’re not going to make it, are we?” I said.

“We could try,” said Daja.

We eased back out into traffic, and she started driving towards the airport. Whatever had happened in the crash, the jittering was gone, and the car was once again driving smoothly. I checked my flight information, hoping against hope that my flight had been delayed. Of course it hadn’t. No such luck. If we made it to the airport in fifteen minutes, I would have fifteen minutes to get through security and get to my gate. Nope. Not doable. Plus, airlines liked to finish boarding about fifteen minutes before take off. I had to face the fact that I was grounded. I sighed.

“Nah, there’s no way. And, for some reason, the airline chose today to take off on time. I’m stranded here. No New Orleans. Let’s go home.”

“I’m so sorry, Willa.”

I tried to act nonchalant. I shrugged. 

“It is what it is.”

Daja drove to the next exit, and took the off ramp, crossed the bridge, and entered back on to the highway, going the other direction. It took no time at all to get back to the house, ironically. We sat in the car, looking out through the windshield.

“I guess I should call my dad,” I said, looking down at my phone, “and tell him I’m not coming.”

Daja pulled out her phone, touched a few keys, and looked at me.

“You know,” she said, “There’s another way.”

“What are you talking about? I told you all the flights were full, and the train takes two days -- if I could get a ticket.”

“We could drive.”

I looked at her, not believing what I was hearing. I started to shake my head.

“No. Listen,” she said, looking down at the screen. “It’s an eighteen hour drive. We could take turns driving. If we leave right now, we’d be in New Orleans by two in the morning, then you’d be there to do all the fun things your dad and Mavis had planned. And, added bonus, I’d be there as backup.”

I must still have looked skeptical, because Daja continued.

“And I have my go-bag in the car, so I’m ready to go.”

Daja was a very spontaneous person who also had a very spontaneous boss, so she was always ready to go with three days worth of clothes packed in a suitcase in her trunk, just in case. She continued.

“We could take your car, because, you know, it hasn’t being in an accident. And it’s probably not doing the jitterbug. The safer choice. Plus, it’s my fault that you missed your flight. Let’s make this right. Besides, how many times do you get to go to NOLA to see your dad get remarried … again … this year?”

I laughed. Daja was right. We could drive down. And I wouldn’t miss my dad and Mavis tie the knot.

“Okay,” I said, smiling for the first time today, “let’s go!”

We parked Daja’s car in my garage, and loaded everything into my car, and set out. Daja insisted on driving the first shift. We only stopped once to pick up snacks and coffee and tea before we hit the road. We had been driving for about two hours when my phone exploded. Text after text after text — five almost simultaneous texts arriving on my phone

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding!

“What the heck?” I said, looking at the screen.

My dad, my mom, my sister Linda, Mavis, my boss Jeffrey — all these people were texting me at the same time? I read the texts out loud:

Dad: Are you okay? Call me!

Mom: What happened? Call, and let me know you’re okay.

Linda: Were you hurt? Let me know everything’s good.

Mavis: Where are you? Your dad's worried sick!

Jeffrey? Is everything okay? Call when you can.

I looked over at Daja.

“What the hell? Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

I looked down at my phone, trying to decide who to call first. But, my Dad made my decision for me. I answered, and put the phone on speaker.

“Hi Dad. You’re on speaker with me and Daja.”

“Are you okay?”

I was confused. “Of course. Why?”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “Where are you?”

“Driving. With Daja. I missed my flight, so we're heading down by car. We should be there—”

“You’re not on the plane?”

“No. I’m—”

“You’re in the car?”

“Yes, we’re—”

“Oh, thank God!”

“What’s going on Dad?”

“You don’t know, then?”

“Know what?”

“Your plane was struck by lightning, knocked out all the electronics, fire in two engines, rough emergency landing in some little airport, where the plane drove right off the end of the runway and cratered in a gully, catching fire. Some fatalities, lots of injuries, a total disaster.”

I said nothing. Daja had pulled over. We looked at each other.

“Willa, are you there?”

I was stunned. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“Sweetie, I’m so thankful you’re safe.” He started to cry.

“Me too, Dad. Me too.”

I quickly sent off texts to everyone, letting them know that I was fine, and promised I’d get back to them later.

We still hadn’t started driving again. I looked over at Daja.

“Holy crap,” I said. “I’m freaked out.”

“No kidding,” she said. “It was like the universe was trying to keep you away from that plane.”

It was true — the flat tire, the engine trouble, the accident. The combination of those three things had kept me from boarding my flight.

I looked at Daja, smiling weakly, “I guess it wasn’t my time.”

She nodded, turned on the car, signalled, and pulled out into traffic, heading for New Orleans.