At 6:54 a.m. at Little Rock Airport Gate 4, everyone seems to respect the quietness called for by the early hour, except two people. Of course. There are two men seated in the Sky Priority section that have the good grace to drink their orange juice and read their paper serenely, bothering no-one. Befitting of the higher class seating.
I sit at the counter facing the breezeway, where only occasionally does someone shuffle by on the way to who knows where. To my immediate left at the counter is a couple of guys. By their neat attire, enunciation, and clean grooming, I would say they are, indeed, a couple.
Further to my left is the general seating area, where a man that resembles Shaq slumps in his seat, expressionless, with earbuds in and hands in the front pocket of his gray hoodie. In the row behind him is a jock guy with a blue bandanna on his head, 80’s rocker style, sitting beside his cheerleaderish girl. Both are studying their smart phones diligently. A middle aged couple sits in the same row but by the window, also looking at phones. Another row back we have a young black woman, traveling alone and dozing off as she has no one with whom to look at cat pictures on the phone. Sad. Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe she has just been freed from a stifling relationship and she is moving to a new place to re-create herself, like a phoenix.
In the back corner by the window is an disheveled man, unshaven, a little fluffy, leaning against the window and napping. If the window suddenly shattered, he would be a big puddle of pain on the tarmac.
Same aisle but further toward the breezeway is an older couple. Based on hair and body shape, I’m not sure which is male or female, because they match quite well. They seem to enjoy one another’s company though, so it’s all good.
Now we get to the noisy section. HA, HA, HA, ha. One lady laughs loudly as such every 7.5 minutes, like clock work, or maybe like one of those Amazon Alexa creepy things.
I can hear the crinkling of a water bottle and the constant chatting of the gate attendants behind me, and the flushing toilet and the hand drier from the women’s restroom in front of me. You would think there would be a hand drying sound for every flush, but there isn’t. I would expect the men’s restroom sounds not to match up, but I’m disappointed with the ladies. Double standard, I know. Don’t judge me.
Here’s the intercom reminding me to report “any suspicious activity.” Shall I report the fact that the gate attendant talks so much I suspect a manic persona to hide a guilty conscience? Should I explain that this one woman laughs like she most certainly is a mad scientist villain with a bomb in her brazziere? I suspect they don’t really want to know.
And isn’t that what’s wrong in this world? We don’t really want to know, until it’s too late usually, because only then do we know it affects us.
Shaq is now wandering around with his luggage and coffee and earbuds like a lobotomy patient. Aaaand he sat back down in the same seat.
The Brady Bunch just walked by in the breezeway. Not a word though.
A thin young lady has come into the Sky Priority area now with a toddler. The mommy is dressed in all black with straight dark brown hair, and she is stacking cups with the toddler, who happens to be one of the more appropriate residents of the gate. I don’t know where they found the cups to stack. I’m afraid they might have found them under the seats, in which case I would object if I cared more. Here comes Daddy with muffins.
I have named the loud woman. “Cackles with la joie de vivre.” Let’s just assume she has a french/Indian background.
Young rocker couple rises, gathers their luggage and sets off to unknown parts. I can only assume they figured out they were at the wrong gate for the Poison concert.
For the 6th time, the same young black woman with a head of bouncy braided hair just strolled by. She has headphones on over the thick hair. I can’t imagine she’s enjoying an accurate representation of whatever is playing on the headphones, but whatevs.
Sky Priority is filling in. In general, they really don’t seem to be a higher class than the rest of us. For example, one guy is wearing a Carolina Tarheels sweatshirt, and eating some sort of starchy waste of calories from a paper wrapper. If he was really higher class, wouldn’t he have a plate, with utensils and a napkin, and maybe wipe his mouth when needed? I’m not suggesting tails and ascot, but there really should be a standard besides simple money to be classified as an upper echelon.
Almost time to board.
We made it to Atlanta but our flight was delayed to the point that we arrived at our Atlanta connection just in time to watch the plane taxi away. We were placed on standby for the next flight, and the crazy lady who didn’t have any crap left to give apparently mispronounced our name by saying Hughes. The Hughes family boarded, but then the crazy Delta lady figured out that they didn’t have the right FIRST names (DMCL) and it was US that should have boarded. But she refused to correct it, so we waited for the next flight. We boarded that one and made it to Boston, where I sit typing now.