From Zombies to Superman: Why I Love My Husband
But also why airports can be stressful and stuff for people like me
I’m not feeling super deep today, so apologies. Nothing about Hegel, Derrida or the Stoics this post. Instead, I’m going to tell you about one of the reasons I love the Farrar.
A long time ago, (not that long but it FEELS long), my publisher sent me on book tours. And one of those book tours had a flight saga where everything didn’t work.
So, I went to Conestoga, this convention in Oklahoma and it was super fun. I talked. I met cool people. I saw strange things. I presented on panels, but then it was time to come home to Maine.
My first sign that something was off should have been the airport. I am a person who like airports. I think they are neat. There's all this hustle and bustle and people going off to exciting places like—um—Hawaii or something. I am never actually going to those super cool exciting places.
But to me Tulsa, Oklahoma is exciting.
This is evidenced by the airport experience.
I get to the UNITED counter to check in at the handy dandy self-serve kiosk and there are only two other people there. Seriously. Two other people! There are four people behind the counter. Do you know what this means? There were MORE UNITED workers than customers. Score!
But wait, I think, perhaps this is a bad omen. I look around the airport. There are hardly any people anywhere.
"Oh my God," I say. "Was there a zombie apocalypse? I totally should have gone to the panel at Conestoga about how to survive a zombie apocalypse. AND I AM IN AN AIRPORT! There are no weapons here. They don't even have metal steak knives. Everything is plastic. How am I going to survive? Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!"
"Miss," the airplane guy from UNITED says. "Can I help you?"
I look up at him. His flesh does not seem to be decaying.
"You aren't a zombie, are you?" I ask.
He lifts an eyebrow. It doesn't fall off. I figure it's safe.
I cautiously approach the counter wondering if I can throw my suitcase at him. BUT I DON'T HAVE TO! Instead of eating me, he tells me that my flight to Chicago has been delayed for 500,000 hours.
"But I have a connection," I say.
"You have 40 minutes to make it," he says. He frowns. "If there are no more delays."
I have sudden images of being trapped in a Chicago airport surrounded by zombies.
"Um," I manage. "Is there a reason for the delay like—um—like—um—zombies?"
"Did you say zombies?" he asks.
I shake my head really fast.
"It's weather related."
"Okay," I say, "cool."
Because I now have four hours (feels like 500,000) to waste in the Tulsa Airport, I do this super slow walk over to the security check-in where you get to take off your shoes and walk through the cool metal detector thing, which always reminds me of Star Trek and futuristic things because - well, because I am nerdy and live in Northern Maine where we don't have a lot of futuristic things. We do have lobsters.…
And blueberries...
Which can be kind of scary actually.
So, I get to the security part and still . . .
THERE ARE ONLY TWO OTHER PEOPLE THERE.
"I am totally in a Stephen King novel and almost everyone is dead," I say to my bodyguard also known as Shaun.
My bodyguard, however, doesn't hear me because he is stuck in the futuristic cool metal detector thing because he is made of metal or something and he's kind of big like bodyguards are supposed to be.
I swallow hard as TSA agents surround him.
"Do not take my bodyguard!" I start to say. "I totally need him to -- to -- um -- guard my body?"
He smiles. They let him through. He puts his shoes back on. Side note: May I just say that bodyguards in bare feet just aren't as threatening?
So, there are other people who have put their shoes back on. We all randomly roam around a pretty empty concourse. I decide to go to the bathroom. I am the kind of person who constantly thinks, "I am going to be in a ________(Fill in the blank. Car. Airplane. Deserted Wilderness. Bad theatrical production of GUYS AND DOLLS) for hours and I may never get to pee again. I should pee now."
"I am going to try to pee," I announce to my bodyguard. "If I don't return, the zombies got me. Get back-up."
And I head to the restroom. But there is a woman with a badge there. She is blocking the door! The last time I was in Tulsa there was also a woman security person blocking the door.
"You can't go in there," she says.
"Is it zombies?" I whisper.
"Go away, weirdo," she says.
I go away. I suddenly have to pee a lot more.
There is no place to pee in the Tulsa airport except the restrooms. Normally, this is a good thing. Not today.
Police come. She lets them in the bathroom. Firemen come. She lets them in the bathroom. I wonder if they are there to help or to pee. After hours pass they take a fragile looking older lady out of the bathroom. They let us in. There are blue gloves and EMT type things all over the floor. It is scary looking. But there are no zombies. I start to worry a lot about the fragile-looking older lady. When I come out I tell my bodyguard.
"She'll be okay," he says in a very reassuring bodyguard way.
I decide to believe him.
"But will we be okay?" I ask.
"Of course."
Just then we board and it is the SMALLEST PLANE IN THE UNIVERSE! It is like a Playskool airplane and tall people have to sort of shuffle sideways down the aisle bent at the waist.
I am suddenly happy that I am not tall.
The happiness does not last though because the pilot says, "Um. Folks. The plane has been delayed another 15 minutes. It'll be that long before we take off."
15 minutes!
We will never get our connection. I will be stuck in Chicago. This does not seem like a good place to be in a zombie apocalypse, no offense to Chicago.
The girl in the seat behind me starts murmuring. I think she is praying. She said before that she went to Bible college so I am hopeful. The plane takes off! SCORE 1 for Bible College Girl.
But no - as we are landing, the back of my seat suddenly thrusts forward. I hear a funny coughing noise and Bible College Girl's hair seems to touch my hair through the crack between the seat and the airplane wall. Suddenly, there is a smell of parmesan cheese and eggs. It is NOT a good smell.
I gag.
I look at my seat mate who is reading. I make big eyes. He sniffs. He gags. Bible College Girl has upchucked all over the place.
"Sean," she whimpers to her seatmate, this cool young guy coming back from a wedding. "Um… Do you have anything I can wipe up with?"
He doesn't.
There are no barf bag things. We are landing and the flight attendants are all sitting down. There is no way to clean up the mess. It is all in her hair. I gag again.
"I think I might throw up," I say to the bodyguard next to me.
"Do. Not. Throw. Up," he says and puts his massive bodyguard hand over my mouth and nose so that all I can smell is bodyguard hand smell, which is much nicer than parmesan cheese throw up smell.
Then I have a realization.
"It is in my hair?" I shriek this but it comes out all muffled because of the hand. "Is it in my hair too?"
"No," he says after deciphering my mmphh mumpphhs. "I swear it is not in your hair."
We land. The flight attendant comes.
"Oh," she says to Bible College Girl. "You poor dear."
Bible College Girl says, "There were no bags."
Flight attendant makes scoffing noise and rushes off to get cleaning supplies.
We get off plane. Bible College Girl has now morph into Throw-Up in Long Hair Girl. Satan has scored one for his team. Boo Satan!
So we get off the plane onto the tarmac in Chicago and we have to walk down these steps on this narrow staircase. But the problem is not that it's a super steep staircase. The problem is: I AM WEARING A SKIRT!
Anyway, there is a reason they call Chicago—The Windy City.
This reason does not involve flatulence.
Marilyn was okay with this effect. Me? Not so much.
"Oh no," I say to Mr. Bodyguard aka my seat mate aka my now husband. "Will you hold my bag?"
"Sure," he says as all nice bodyguards do. "Why?"
"Um ..." I cough. I stutter. I end up pointing at my flouncy skirt. This same flouncy skirt made me get patted down by a TSA officer in Manchester, NH. She said I could hide things in there. Hm ... I must not ponder that.
Anyway, Mr. Bodyguard agrees to not only protect my safety (as is his job) but also my dignity and takes my briefcase so that my hands could clutch my short flouncy skirt.
Let me tell you, I needed more than two hands to hold that baby down.
So, once down on the ground, I grab my bag back and sprint across the tarmac towards the airport terminal.
"My skirt!" I explain. "I only have (gasp!) 30 minutes to get to my next flight."
Mr. Bodyguard nods. He has to wait for his carry-on luggage, which became carry-under luggage during the flight.
I sprint to the terminal. Bible College Girl With the Vomit Hair (as she is now known even to her mother) sprinted behind me. I hold the door for her and scoot inside holding my breath so I don't have to actually smell her and become Writing Person with the Weak Stomach and Vomit Hair.
I was going to put a picture of vomit hair here, but then decided to be kind and show puppies instead.
So, anyway, I am happy because soon I will not smell vomit or other human odors, soon I will be on my flight out of Chicago to Manchester, NH. But inside the building are masses of people waiting for some plane, more masses of people in a customer service line complain.
There is no easy path through the sea of people and luggage. I am not super tall or big. I can not push my way through.
"Excuse me!" I yell. "I need to get through."
Nobody moves.
"Excuse me! Zombie attack!" I yell.
Nobody moves.
"Excuse me! Robert Patterson! Oh my God. Is that Robert Pattinson getting off that plane!"
Everyone rushes to the window screaming.
I take my clear path and dash up the escalator looking for the screen that will tell me where the next flight is.
I gasp.
It is not good.
My flight is in C terminal (at the end of it). I am in F terminal (at the end of it). I have a mere 20 minutes to get there. Can Mr. Bodyguard sprint that far carrying me in less that 20 minutes? Wait! Where is Mr. Bodyguard?
Is Mr. Bodyguard perhaps lost in a sea of luggage?
I look around frantically. Forget Mr. Bodyguard. If Robert Pattinson really were here maybe he could do some Twillight/Edward mojo and fly me there. I am not so lucky.
I look around frantically. Mr. Bodyguard is nowhere! I am a lowly writer without a bodyguard. What will I do? Where is he?
Screaming, I go down the escalator I just came up. Mr. Bodyguard is going up the escalator. We are on different escalators separated by a divider thingy.
"Mr. Bodyguard!" I scream waving frantically at him. "Our flight is 42 miles away! And we have 20 minutes! And I am going the wrong way on the escalator!"
Mr. Bodyguard assesses the situation and reaches over the escalator divider and yanks me over. I am now heading in the right direction.
"We are going to have to run," Mr. Bodyguard says.
"Run!" I gasp. "Like Whitney and Kevin Costner in that ancient movie?"
"No." He shakes his head and grabs my hand. "And please stop talking about that movie. I hate that movie! And that song! No, I meant like in the tv show CHUCK when there's all there's about to be an explosion. And if they don't run they will explode into tiny little body parts and not even their teeth will be hole."
I gulp and ask, "Do I get to be Sarah, the hot spy chick?"
"No," he says, "You are Chuck, clueless, but brilliant and lovable."
"But Chuck is tall," I argue. "And a boy. You are tall and a boy."
"True," he says, "but Sarah is bossy and protective and the spy. Her job is to protect Chuck like my job is to protect you and Chuck always makes it harder by arguing random points in her plan, thus complicating things. Sound familiar?"
I don't answer.
"Now run!" he orders in a very Sarah way.
We run through the crowded airport. I spot a sign that says, TO TERMINAL C. We run to the side. There's no walkway. It's a little space near some AIR CANADA flights and behind a coffee kiosk. There's a little hole in the floor with a stair case but it's blocked off.
"Where do we go?" I ask Mr. Bodyguard. "Where is the walkway?"
"It's a shuttle," he says, pointing at a sign that says SHUTTLE TO TERMINAL C.
"Oh. I totally didn't see that."
"That is why you have me."
I look around. "But where is the actual shuttle?"
Mr. Bodyguard doesn't answer. We look out the window. There are gas trucks and luggage trucks and airplanes but no sign of a shuttle.
Some people line up behind us.
We wait.
We wait some more.
"I'm going to go ask," I say and duck under the rope thing that's meant to keep us in place. I run to the Air Canada guy and try to look polite and helpless.
"If our flight is in 15 minutes should we wait for the shuttle or try to run to Terminal C?" I ask. "Would you mind telling me please? I am horribly sorry to bother you."
He shakes his head sadly. "15 minutes?"
I nod.
"I am so sorry," he says. "Can you sprint?"
"Yes."
"Even if you sprint it will take 15 minutes."
"Oh. How long does the shuttle take?"
"2 minutes. Once it gets here."
I go back and tell the people waiting the news. They decide not to listen to me and keep complaining loudly about missed flights, delayed flights, getting to London and New York, and hoity-toity places.
"They aren't listening," I tell Mr. Bodyguard.
"They are fools, who would quickly become zombies in a zombie apocalypse," he says. "You should always gather intel and then create an action plan."
"So, Mr. Bodyguard, what is our action plan?" I ask.
He stretches. "We wait.”
"Maybe it doesn't exist," I say, tugging at Mr. Bodyguard's sleeve. "Maybe it's like that play, WAITING FOR GODOT, and it never comes."
"Dude," he says. "You did way too much theater in college."
Is that a shuttle bus, I hear? I don't know. "I don't seem able to depart." Life is a meaningless, repetitive wait. What's the best Godot quote? Oh! Maybe, "We wait. We are bored. (He throws up his hand.) No, don't protest, we are bored to death, there's no denying it."
But I am not the only one freaking out and possible quoting plays from college.
"Where the hell is it?" said Inpatient I AM GOING TO ENGLAND LADY. "I am going to ENGLAND you know."
Mr. Bodyguard nods.
"I mean! It's an International FLIGHT," says I AM GOING TO ENGLAND MAN. "We are going to England."
Some guy behind them murmurs, "Shut up already we know."
I point out the big window at a small white van/truck. "Isn't that the shuttle?"
Mr. Bodyguard puts his arms around my shoulder. "I think it is."
"Nobody is noticing," I say as the shuttle gets closer.
"That's because they're too busy panicking."
"But not us?" I ask.
"Not us. I am here. You cannot panic. That's the whole point of a body guard."
So, a woman lets us down a little narrow staircase. We rush out to where the jets are waiting and jump into the shuttle. I AM GOING TO ENGLAND LADY yells at people to hurry.
"I AM TRYING TO GET TO ENGLAND," she says. "Land of Simon Cowell and that lady who sings that song from Les Miserables and she's never been kissed. You know? Her. That one. HURRY!"
Spoiler: She is talking about Susan Boyle.
People hurry. Mostly they hurry because I AM GOING TO ENGLAND LADY has started to look like this.
Actually, I am also looking kind of like this because I'm so stressed.
Mr. Bodyguard and I wisely take the seats closest to the door. The driver brings us to GATE 2 or something like that. We are GATE 36 or something like that.
"Is this the only stop?" Mr. Bodyguard asks.
The shuttle driver nods.
"Ho Boy!" Mr. Bodyguard says. He grabs his bag. He grabs me and says, "WE HAVE TO RUN!"
"I thought we didn't need to panic," I ask as he throws me on his back.
"We don't. Just hold on."
We then run. And I realize that Mr. Body Guard is actually Superman because he is rushing through the airport with Superman/Flash kind of speed. He zips past babies in strollers and confused couples from Tuscon. He leaps over toddler mommies and guys who are texting. He swerves around suitcases and those mechanical cart things with that horrible beeping noise. He needs a Superman costume. He needs tights and a cape because he is basically flying.
"Dude," I say as he gets to our plane, which is boarding. "We totally made it!"
I jump off his back and slap him five. He smiles.
"Are you really my bodyguard?" I ask. "Or are you Superman?"
And he says—get this—"I am anything you need me to be, baby. But no tights."
“But you’d rock—”
“No. Just no.”
