N Chick-fil-A… perfect comfort food, especially when you’ve been stuck in CHS for over four hours.
I sat in the front row of my new gate, two gates over from B12, my boarding pass in one hand, my Chick-fil-A sandwich in the other. The juicy tenderness and dill pickle melted on my tongue (I could’ve sworn I grew a few hairs at the end of it to taste them better). I’m not flying American Airlines anymore—no way. Now the 12:15 flight had been delayed to 12:35, so if I was going to make the Bangor flight, I had to run like a son of a gun and hope for the best. Great. Great, great, great.
Not only that, but apparently the new jet to Charlotte was tiny, and I had to valet my bag. Honestly, I should’ve just checked it, but my mind was not in the right place. I was too upset to even work in my handy dandy fourth-grade workbook. Somewhat standing up for myself and dealing with people for four hours had already exhausted me. No crying, though. I could do this… doubtfully.
That jet, though, was the definition of claustrophobic. Have you ever seen that movie, Nim’s Island, and remember the tiny plane Alex Rover flew in to get to the South Pacific on her way to Nim? That was how small my jet was.
I settled in my aisle seat at the back of the airplane, next to the lavatory nonetheless, and almost grabbed the throw-up bag to breathe in, but I replaced that by finishing off my sandwich and sipping my too-sweet lemonade. Maybe I should’ve gone for tea with how tired I was. The seat sucked—I had to smell waste the entire trip—but at least I was on my way to Charlotte, and it was only thirty-five minutes of torture. What would happen when we landed, though? How long would it take to empty the airplane and grab my suitcase? Oh, God.
I held my head and tried to replace the anxious thoughts with best-case scenarios, but it was hard, given how the day had gone so far. At least I had Wi-Fi, so I could keep checking the app—and maybe hope the connecting flight would be delayed even more. Nope. That connecting flight remained at 2:35 PM.
I started up Toy Story 5, just for the heck of it, but then my eyes landed on a flight update in Charlotte.
“Oh, no,” was all I said, lowering my phone. Why? Why? Why? Why? Why did AA just put me on an 8:00 PM flight to Washington, D.C., and a 10:00 one to Bangor? Screw that Because of a problem with the incoming flight message. I was not going to make my parents drive one hour from Brooklin/Blue Hill to Bangor at that time of night in rural Maine: forests full of deer and other wild animals. I wanted to throw American Airlines in the fire pit. It was the worst flying day ever, period.
Finally, a lump formed in my throat, but I swallowed it. Why did I have such bad luck with flying? Was my neurodiversity the problem—my NLD? My Dyscalculia? At times, I wondered why my adoptive parents still loved me as much as they did, despite my struggles.
The thoughts built up in my mind, my emotions going haywire, but the flight attendant must’ve seen that because she asked, “Catherine, may I see your boarding pass for a second?”
I sniffed, but no tears, and showed her my boarding pass.
The attendant gave me a gentle smile and said, “You might still be able to make it if you move fast. I would give it a try.” That sounded eerily similar to my father’s words. I wasn’t a track runner, but it was my best option; the bathroom had to wait. So, I straightened my posture and prepared to land.
***
Where was my bag? Where was my bag? In a panic, I sprinted through the jetway, emerging on the other side at Gate E in the enormous Charlotte airport. Too many people, too many people, but I had to try, as Dad and the flight attendant said.
Voice wobbly, I told the gate agent, “I need my bag. I need my bag. I am not waiting here until 8:00 to get to Bangor.” I tried running back into the jetway, but the second agent held his arms up to my chest.
“You’re not allowed to go in there once you’re out, ma’am.” God, I hated being called “ma’am,” but that was the least of my worries.
“But I need my bag,” I begged. Since when did I start regressing? “I need to run all the way from Gate E to Gate A.” It was a twenty-minute walk to the new gate from there, and it was 2:00 in the afternoon. Didn’t airplanes close doors fifteen minutes before departure?
“You’re not allowed back in there,” repeated the agent, holding out his hand. “Give me your valet pass, and I’ll get your bag for you.”
I handed him the red pass, and he hustled into the jetway, returning soon with my familiar light blue suitcase. How did he do that? No questions now, not ever. Just get to the next gate. Try, try, try. No, as Yoda would say, “Do.”
“Tell them the situation when you get there,” the agent told me. “Good luck, ma’am.”
Again with the ma’am? Ah, whatever. I was overwhelmed, tired, and suffering from sensory overload with all those people, but I’ve done it before, and I could do it again. I just had to find the guts to speak to the agents if I made it.
Get me on that plane. I don’t care what you do. Just get me on that plane. Yeah, that sounded okay.
With the opening of my speech in my head, I turned on my heel, focused on the hundreds of people before me, and ran.
ns216.73.217.93da2
and then Add to home screen.