Flying The Not-So-Friendly Skies

I’m old enough to remember when commercial air travel was fun. When I was a young man, your family walked you to and from the gate. When there was any security, it was fairly perfunctory. At a lot of smaller airports, there weren’t any at all. And yet, air travel was still pretty darn safe. If you needed yet another reason to revile the memory of Osama bin Laden, then there you go.

Nowadays, flying commercial is just the worst. Absolutely everything about it is miserable. Whatever enjoyable tidbits there might yet remain are drowned out by the toxic combination of suffocating paranoia and unfettered corporate greed. My trek to Las Vegas for SHOT Show earlier this year was a splendid example.

The Chaos

In the past, airlines were fractionated into two broad categories. Budget airlines would sell you a ticket from Memphis to Zimbabwe for about 30 bucks. However, once they had you committed, you then had to pay extra for an actual seat, a seatbelt, bathroom privileges and oxygen rental. By the time you add all that stuff up, you’ve paid the equivalent of a real-live airplane ticket. They didn’t think we knew that, yet here we are, talking openly about it.

I’m cheap, so I booked with Spirit. They offered a non-stop flight from Memphis to Vegas at a decent price. Right after I secured my tickets, I saw on the news that Spirit Airlines had declared bankruptcy … yet again. I got a helpful email explaining that this would have no bearing on my travel plans. I clearly do not understand the practical machinations of corporate finance terribly well.

Then, I got an email apologizing that my flight had changed. I expected perhaps takeoff time bumped a bit one way or another. Nope. What had been non-stop Memphis to Vegas was now Memphis to Orlando and then on to Las Vegas. Most reputable maps will demonstrate that Orlando is in the exact opposite direction from Las Vegas. The layover in Orlando was, no kidding, nine hours. By the time I finally got to Vegas, SHOT Show could’ve very well been over. I rightfully canceled that leg of the voyage. A little scrambling found me on the replacement trip via United Airlines, with a brief layover in Denver.

In the past, major carriers like United typically charged a respectable fee, but they were pretty cool about it. Non-alcoholic drinks and some cursory snacks were free. Some of them would even let you check a bag gratis. Apparently, something changed about that since I flew last.

I got these draconian Nazi emails explaining that if I tried to carry anything more substantial than a pack of gum onto the airplane, they would charge me an extra $65. I couldn’t check in until I gave them a credit card. As a result, I was traveling light, like really light — think indigent Sudanese refugee. My little backpack was about the size of a lunchbox. If you saw some weird guy slinking around the SHOT Show in a loincloth, that would be me. Just blame United Airlines.

The Voyage

I left the house well in advance of takeoff, expecting the obligatory couple of hours of being treated like a master criminal by the sullen security people. I’m not sure exactly how they did it, but Uncle Sam hardwired within me an insensible fear of being late. Perhaps it had something to do with making sure I didn’t fly my Army helicopter into an artillery barrage or leave some poor slob out to die on a forsaken battlefield.

As a result, I am forever just a little bit early for absolutely everything. That’s likely diagnosable on some level. My wife covets your prayers.

The Transportation Security Administration (TSA) people were friendly enough, meaning they didn’t actually spit on me when I asked if I should remove my belt or not. However, when I got through the big machine that either renders you sterile (too late, I’ve been fixed) or steals your soul (also too late, that belongs to Jesus), my modest little backpack was nowhere to be found. I knew in an instant that I was doomed.

The Crime

With great trepidation, I approached the stern-looking TSA guy who now squared off against my tiny bag. He asked if I had anything sharp or dangerous packed inside it. I kind of thought ensuring there were no sharp or dangerous objects in my bag was the whole point of the exercise. However, I assured him I had not brought along anything even remotely sinister.

Upon further reflection, I did admit to packing some Pop-Tarts. Pop-Tarts are indeed dangerous but only in the diabetic sense of the term. A Pop-Tart would be a suboptimal tool with which to commandeer an airplane.

The TSA guy focused on my shaving kit. He rooted around for a while and emerged with my toothpaste. Hefting my half-empty tube of Colgate, he looked at me like I was Jeffrey Dahmer’s unwashed psycho cousin. “This is more than 3.7 ounces,” he said, like that should explain everything.

Legit, I then inexplicably apologized for bringing toothpaste on my trip to Las Vegas. I really hadn’t known that toothpaste was somehow intrinsically bad. He then further opined that my tube was too big.

I offered to squeeze most of it out, but he was unmoved. I then reflexively thanked him for stealing my toothpaste and went on my way. I suspect he texted his wife and said, “Hey, sweetheart. It’s been a great day. I just scored some awesome toothpaste from this idiot guy.

The Aftermath

I found a smaller tube of toothpaste for sale in the Denver airport that was about the size of my little finger. It set me back $4.25. I’m pretty sure that’s more per gram than refined plutonium.

Regardless, all’s well that ends well, I suppose. The second leg from Denver to Vegas was delayed two hours, so I had time to type up this GunCrank column while I waited at the gate.

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