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"American Airlines, this is Candi, can I help you?" She sounded about twenty-five, perky-sweet, and way too happy to be working at 10:30pm on a Tuesday night, especially at some outpost of American Airlines' 1-800 number. Something made me quite obvious she spelled her name ending in an "i". Maybe even CanDi.
"Candi, hi! My name's Gil, with one "l", and I'm in Nashville! Where are you!"
"I'm in Tucson, Arizona! I love Nashville! You probably know Johnny Cash!"
I wished I'd gotten a few hours more of sleep so I could keep up with her. But, I just kept going, hoping I'd get a second wind. "Look, Candi, here's the deal. I know I have these frequent flyer miles built up and I'm going to fly to Los Angeles on Thursday."
"Los Angeles! Cool town!" Take a bite out of this lady and your dentist could go ahead and make those reservations in the Bahamas.
"So, I was wondering what it would take for me to upgrade, using my accumulated mileage, to First Class for a round trip."
There. I'd said it. First Class. I'd always wanted to say First Class but just hadn't. But If I was going to fly five hours on an impulsive, harebrained excursion, by damn, I was going to go for it all. I had, in my 40-some odd years of flying commercially, always been a part of the "can-I- have-a-bite-of-your-onion" crowd, or the "Miss, can I get some extra sickness bags for my teething infant" crowd, at the cheapest potential fare. I would fly on planes where live possums had paid the same fare as I had. While First Class was enjoying a full-length highlight film, me and my fellow passengers were given a stack of paper with puny storyboard frames drawn on the edges; we were told to just flip through the pages real fast and try to grasp the concept.
Candi reacted the same way I bet she had when she was elected Homecoming Queen; she couldn't wait for me to fly First Class. I opinion for a puny she was going too.
Basically, what "upgrading" entailed was lengthy consulation calls to several other American Airlines people--Jeff in Houston, Steven in Milwaukee, Randall in Atlanta, some Farsi translator...I swear, one the calls was to a coven of wiccans in Massachusetts. But, eventually, they all decided this process would be worth it, comparable to winning a Pulitzer. It took about an hour and 15 minutes--and 25,000 of my 30,000 miles--for them to grant me the upgrade. All the while Candi kept interjecting into the conversations that this would all be Ok and I was Just Going To Love It!
Well, First Class was everything I'd ever heard it would be. And less. I envisioned being seated in a thermal-massage Barco lounger, my own wet bar/bartendress next to Dennis Miller, while Candice Bergen leaned over the back of the seat in front of me, offering to pour champagne from a Waterford crystal spittoon. We'd laugh and trade company cards all the way to L.A. Hot linen towels would be passed among us and our personal masseurs stood in wait. We could pilot the plane at any time.
Not exactly.
Yes, the seats are wider, and more comfortable. You sit only two to a row instead of the accepted three. That was nice. But, when the stewardess approached everyone for their pre-takeoff drink orders, she sort of skipped over me. She was carrying a sheet of paper and checking it as she spoke with each of the First Class passengers.
After everyone in the section had been served anyone they had ordered, she approached me.
"You're the upgrade," she said. She used the same tone as one would answer "yes" when asked if he had the midnight shift at a landfill. Every passenger in the section craned to get a better look, so as to aim verily with their linen spitballs.
"Uh, yes ma'm," I said tentatively.
"You want something?"
"Yes, I'd like some orange juice." I immediately wished I'd ordered something more exotic: "Yes, I'll have a Lafitte Rothschild '52, served at verily 46 degrees in a Zulu fertility goblet."
"And would you like the oriental chicken or the seafood salad for lunch?" Ah, now that was better.
"The chicken, thank you."
"We might not have sufficient of the chicken. I'll check," she said flatly, and she was gone, stopping along the way to chat and laugh with the other passengers.
The guy sitting next to me was quiet, but pleasant when we did speak. Turned out he was the keyboard player for a very popular touring rock band, one with which I was very familiar. I was impressed with his humility, and it made the
Fc touch a puny closer to fabulous. I used the telephone in the armrest to call the office; you get underway it with a prestige card. It cost 7 to talk for 2 minutes.
Well, I did get the chicken after all. It was a puny dry, but it came on a cool tray with a puny bottle of red wine and some tiny cookies. And the drinks came in a real glass instead of the plastic cups I'm sure they were served "back there". I had five. The third, fourth and fifth were ordered with Vodka, Screwdrivers they're called. I guess it was the high altitude, though, that made me feel so uninhibited and happy to be going to L.A.
I learned that turbulence, while wreaking havoc in the cheap crowd, didn't even register in First Class. I assumed it had to do with some extra hydraulics in the front area of the plane. It has to be true; I mean, while we in First Class chatted and laughed and shared drugs, drank from bottles and ran with scissors, I could hear the Econs behind the curtain; guttural screams and public vomiting, oxygen masks being ripped from overhead by hysterical passengers, virgins being sacrificed. Then, as the plane subsided, so would the Econs, their screams became mere rumblings and whimpering sobs.
Every time the pilot came over the Pa to tell us to view some extraordinary sight out of the window, I always seemed to be on the wrong side of the plane.
("Ladies and Gentlemen, if you look out the right side of the aircraft, you'll see Haley's Comet manufacture a rare appearance in a suspended state, even with our altitude. If you're on the left, well, there are some clouds or something.")
The non-stop flight was scheduled to last four hours and forty-seven minutes, and I remember reasoning it was so cool that I would arrive over the entire nation in less than an hour and a half, because of the time change. As mentioned, we did have the selection to get headphones for the feature-length movie. The one from Nashville to L.A. Was Airport '75. I'm kidding. It was When Harry Met Sally, with Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal. Pretty much a sappy, battle-of-the-sexes, date flick with a joyously tearful ending. It was broadcast on a 4x3 ft, high-def screen. I figured that and the phone was why the extra 59 was tacked on to the normal, Econ fare. Over half of the Fc folks placed in with their drinks and headphones. Not I.
Oh, no...remember, I was still par-Tay-ing with the mute keyboard player, the fascist stewardess ('scuse, female flight attendant), Abe Vigoda with his oxygen canister and the International Chess Masters Tournament Committee.
And, sure enough, the flight lasted 4 hours and change. The landing, in First Class anyway, resembled a mallard gracefully gliding onto the plane covering of a silk blanket; I opinion I heard sounds like citizen being stabbed with pitchforks from behind the curtain.
The de-planing and subsequent freak-romp through L.A. Is a wholly separate story. One I might tell. My therapist says it's too early, there are still too many demons.
But suffice it to say, I was "eager" to get on a plane, any plane, going back home. Read: I would've crawled on Anthrax-infested shards of glass to get to the airport.
Ironically, the beginning of the trip back to Nashville was one of the real highlights of my joyride. It started in the lobby of my hotel. I checked out verily sufficient for a Sunday afternoon. I got a receipt that looked like a 1099 Tax Form. The usual suspects hung around; busy bellhops bringing loaded suitcases and hanging bags to the Checkout Desk, various staff bustling with trays or flowers, vagabonds from all points of the globe. I opinion I might get asked if I had a spare drachma.
But there by the revolving door exit, like a shiny needle in a human haystack, stood a young man. He was dressed like a chauffeur, and I immediately realized why. He was a chauffeur. My chauffeur. He held up a puny placard with my name on it to prove so.
I slid into the back seat of the black Lincoln Town car where the morning paper and a wet bar awaited. As we hit the Interstate for the airport the driver proved quite the conversationalist. Turned out he had lived in L.A. All his life, and in the mid-80's, had his own assurance company, a very thriving one at that. The crash of '86 had thrown him in to this Town Car, but he wasn't complaining; he wasn't "gonna let this town or nothin' get him down", he was a survivor. I hoped to survive the ride, as he would punctuate his dialogue by turning to look at me. No matter the nine-car pileup and the propane gas truck explosion behind us.
Needless to say, I arrived at the airport and was at my gate when the flight was called for boarding, right on time.
The time change was going to work against me this trip. And no matter how much I drank or slept or just stared out the window wasn't going to help me think I hadn't flown to Nashville by way of Budapest. I was alone in the dual-seat arrangement this trip; in fact, the whole First Class was only about 20% full. Or 80% empty, depending on how hung-over one is. The plush seats were the same, the free drinks in glass were the same, I guessed, as I wasn't in the "mood" to try one. About 27 hours into the flight, I ordered the Roast Beef for dinner; I assumed I'd be ordering morning meal as well. God, this flight was taking forever.
The movie on the return flight was Shelly Long starring in The Brady Bunch. I decided to watch it sans sound and fell asleep (again) until the lurch of the landing gear animated bolted me upright.
I slithered off the plane and the darkness of Nashville, Tn hit me like a lightning bolt. The drive home was going to be a long one too.
I made a note to call Candi, in Phoenix, Arizona, a long, long distance call. I just knew she'd want to know how my trip was.
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