BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

Staring down the barrel of the unexpected flight delay, I began doing arithmetic in my head.

Now please understand, I didn’t embark upon this mental math exercise because I enjoy crunching numbers. Truth is, I’m not really a mathematics sort of
guy, hence the reason I became a writer. You see, they pretty much promised me they’d keep the math to a minimum if I tossed words for a living. Judging from the size of my royalty checks, they’ve been keeping that promise, but that’s a different story.

Actually, the math I was doing was the kind that involved food. You see, if we didn’t leave until 7:11, that would put us into Columbus at 8:15 or so. Wait for luggage, hoof it to the car, ride an hour to Newark, and by then it would be 9:30 or thereabouts. The 1/2 cup of raisin bran and rubber chicken sandwich I had consumed earlier in the day were already waning, so after adding, subtracting, multiplying, dividing, and generally estimating, my conclusion was none other than 7:11 + travel time + wait time + drive time =Murv’s Stomach Will Be Growling.

Easy enough to fix. I mean, after all, I now had all the time in the world to hurry up and wait. So, I checked out the area and a little before 6 PM I wandered over to the eating establishment situated immediately adjacent to my gate.

Now, I have to be a little nostalgic here for a moment. Back when I met E K, and we were both in the computer repair biz, my dear and lovely had been fortunate enough to be sent to IBM Certification Training. This was where they “learned you how to work on a PC.” Well, obviously we already knew how to do this, but getting the training meant you received a “Tech ID Number.” This authorization allowed you to file warranty claims, and also looked good on a resume. So, why am I bringing this up? Believe me, there’s a very good reason. You see, back then The Evil Redhead often waxed poetic and drooling about a restaurant she visited while in Atlanta for the training. The oasis of food was called Fuddruckers, and apparently this place served one of the best hamburgers she’d ever eaten, and that happens to be a pretty mean feat given that she’s not really a hamburger sort of gal. Problem is, there wasn’t a Fuddruckers in Saint Louis, so she could never take me to one in order for me to experience the “carniverous pleasures of the cow flesh” so to speak…

See where I am heading with this? Yeah, exactly…

I’m sure you have all surmised that the eatery next to my departure gate was none other than a Fuddruckers. Having a halfway decent memory, I flashed on my semi drooling wife as she lauded praise upon the distant establishment where she had consumed the grandest of ground, seared cow on a bun. Suddenly my world brightened. I may be stuck in Detroit waiting for a long delayed flight, but what the hell, I was going to have the king of all burgers and that would certainly make everything better.

I stood in the long, snakelike queue, my anticipation building as with each shuffling step I drew nearer to the counter. I perused the board hanging over the register and made my choice, changed my mind, made another choice, changed my mind again, and finally settled upon a burger and fry combo that boasted three kinds of cheese along with the beefy goodness. My order finally placed, I waited again as it was freshly cooked and assembled just for me. Violent twinges of the anticipation danced around in my stomach, ran down my leg, and climbed right up to the top of my head. I had to lean against the wall across from the pickup counter just to keep myself from doing something akin to the “happy happy excited pee-pee dance” dogs do when you arrive home late from work and they are dying to be let out. Finally, and not a moment too soon, my name was called. The Holy Grail of cheeseburgers was waiting for me. I needed only to pick it up and dress it from the “garden fresh” bar off to the side of the counter. Forcing myself not to dance across the room, I retrieved the beefy goodness on a bun and tossed a few maters and onions atop it. After a quick squirt of ketchup for my fries I ran gleefully back to my gate, parked myself in a corner, and prepared to be transported to dead cow nirvana.

One bite was all it took for me to decide my wife must have been on drugs during her trip to IBM Certification Training.

I quickly ran back through the restaurant’s enormously appetizing description of the burger in my head. Even after scrolling through the mental listing several times I was unable to recall having seen any mention of hockey pucks or toupee’s on the ingredient list. Lucky me… Unfortunately, the line leading up to the counter of the restaurant was now longer than it had been when I had first joined it, so I resigned myself to consuming the less than stellar cuisine. It took me around ten minutes to shave it since all I had at hand was a plastic fork. Once satisfied that all of the hair was gone – at least the hair I could see – I sawed it into small enough bites that I could swallow it without choking to death, seeing as how too much chewing was likely to result in a broken tooth.

One saving grace was that after a few bites it no longer mattered that the burger was devoid of any taste that remotely resembled seared cow, because I scalded my tongue with a molten french fry and my taste buds had retreated to an area deep inside my body somewhere near my pituitary gland. This was for the best given that burnt hockey puck is not on the top of my list where favorite flavors are concerned.

I now have a new name for Fuddruckers. I call them Hairy FuddPuckers And The Inedible Stone.

So, with my stomach now attempting to digest a furry brick, I sat back and waited. When our flight finally boarded I was ready for the odyssey to be done. A quick jaunt to Columbus and I would finally be able to relax. I plopped into my seat, buckled my seatbelt, and sat back to await takeoff. It was right about then I noticed that the interior of the airplane was inordinately warm.

Sixty seconds later the pilot came on the speaker to inform us that the auxiliary power unit was malfunctioning, we had no air conditioning, and that instead of sending someone to Sears for a DieHard battery, he had bribed some guys in yellow vests and earmuffs to give us a jump, just as soon as they could find where they stashed the cables.

I began to wonder if I was caught in one of those Groundhog Day time loops, but upon inspecting my surroundings it was obvious that I was not on the earlier DC-9, I was on a CRJ-700 regional jet.

Yes… It was happening again, on a different plane at a different airport.

This time, however, the guys took the pilot’s money and disappeared, probably to the local bar. Therefore, we spent an additional 35 sweltering and melty minutes sitting at the gate waiting for him to flag down another carload of yellow vests with jumper cables. At one point, trying to be helpful, I called out through the open door of the cockpit that if they wanted to put it in gear and hold in the clutch, I would get out and push.

Jason, our flight attendant, didn’t find my idea particularly amusing. I guess that explains why once we were airborne I didn’t get my complimentary cookie or peanuts…

More to come…

Murv

Next Installment: Fly The Friendly Skies?