Recently I made an urgent business trip to Grand Rapids, Michigan. Because the airlines price their tickets based on demand rather than distance (i.e. Cleveland to LA is 2000 miles and costs $300; Cleveland to Grand Rapids is 300 miles and costs $700), I had to shop around to find the best deal. As a result of my effort - one of the few things at which I am quite good - I found a very reasonable flight on Midwest Airlines (Never heard of them, you say? Neither has Orbitz, Travelocity, or, I have to believe, the F.A.A.) The flight connected in Chicago before arriving in Muskegon, Michigan, a small city that is 30 miles from Grand Rapids. Since I needed to rent a car anyway, I figured the extra half hour drive was worth saving several hundred dollars in airfare. I'm a good soldier that way.
The morning of my trip, the flight segment from Cleveland to Chicago was uneventful, effectively lulling me into a false sense of security. In Chicago, I make my way to the connecting gate and the Midwest ground crew is waving people out onto the tarmac - never a good sign. We walk out and, I kid you not, just like the scene from "Major League," a modern jet pulls out to reveal a twin prop "plane" that looked like is should be up on blocks in some redneck's front yard.
At this point my spidy-sense kicked in and I physically turned and looked back at the gate as if to say, "You got to be kidding me. I'm not getting on that turd with a wing." As is always the case in these types of situations, my rational mind then conspired with my fear of public embarrassment to convince my common sense to ignore the warnings and follow along like a good boy.
The inside of the plane looked like an oversized, conversion van. Every interior piece had that irregular retrofitted look. The twelve seats were in slot tracks on the floor that looked like cheap utility shelving from Home Depot. The curtain separating the pilots from the passengers was the kind of thing that is left over after the garage sale has ended. Park it near a junior high school and throw in an unkempt creep and you've got yourself an episode of "Unsolved Mysteries" in the making.
After taking my seat and buckling what I swear was an old AMC Ambassador seat belt, the pilot (yes, the pilot) began the safety presentation. I travel 2-3 times a week and have not listened to the pre-flight safety presentation in years. This time, though, I paid attention. Not because I thought there was some way in which I could keep myself safe in the likely event that this pile of shit began disintegrating in mid-flight. I did so because the plane was so small that the pilot was standing right next to me. It was less of a presentation and more of a conversation. It just seemed rude to ignore him.
The pilot returned to his seat and the Raytheon Beech (don't they make toasters?) 1900 aircraft took off. I haven't vibrated that much since that night I burned through a roll of quarters in the Omaha Motor Lodge. Now, you ladies might be thinking that this is the flight for you. However, you are not considering the OSHA-flouting racket that overstressed, rusty, metal-on metal moving parts can make. It was like getting a tooth drilled with a jackhammer.
Fortunately it was a very short flight. After 45 minutes we arrived at Muskegon International Airport (M.I.A. - irony or omen?) and there was not another plane in sight. M.I.A. has two gates: #1 and #2. A large, middle-aged woman in street clothes waved the plane into gate #1, briefly disappeared, and drove up an old tailgate-less Toyota pick-up truck to unload the luggage.
Two days later, I'm driving back from Grand Rapids to Muskegon to catch a very early return flight. Again, having spent a lot of time traveling, I have never had a problem finding an airport. Not so in Muskegon. There are no signs, no indications, no planes overhead to follow. It is before 7:00AM, so there is no place open to stop and ask directions. Not only am I lost, I'm running out of time. As far as I know, there are no other flights out of Muskegon that day. The clock in my car begins to resemble a ticking time bomb and my anxiety level quickly elevates into panic.
By the sheer grace of God, I find the airport and dump off my rental car. I check the clock and see that my flight departs in 15 minutes: Too late, I'm fucked. No airline or airport I have even been in will let you check-in for a flight if it is less than 45 minutes before scheduled take-off. This is an F.A.A. regulation.
Inside M.I.A., I realize I am the only passenger in the place. The counter agent - a guy in a maintenance suit - sees me coming and says hello to me by name. Thinking I am going to have a fight on my hands, I begin by profusely apologizing for being late. He casually waves off my groveling and is nothing but kind as he checks me in. Not only that, he also offers to make me change so I can buy some bottled water from the vending machine out front. I ask if I have time and he replies that he hasn't even "gassed-up" the plane yet. As I walk away, he points out the free coffee in the pot over against the wall.
I buy a bottle of water for $0.50, the very same one that would cost me $3.00 in any other airport. Pleased with my frugality, I head over to security where three workers see me coming and proceed to temporarily close the checkpoint in order to test the system. Normally, I would lose my mind and go ballistic at such a turn of events, but I'm still attempting to process the pleasantly surreal conversation I just had with the counter agent. As I stand there waiting, the very same guy from the counter walks over, berates the security guards for making me wait and then proceeds to escort me through. I seriously consider becoming gay just so I can make-out with this heroic hunk of a man.
Once through security, I head into the shared waiting lounge for gates #1 and #2 where I am the sole lounger. Out a large, floor-to-ceiling window, I watch as my Raytheon Beech flying toaster pulls up and the familiar large woman heads out to block the tires and retrieve the pick-up. As my new boyfriend begins to fuel the plane (I resist the urge to tap on the glass and wave), the pilot steps out and - I swear to almighty God - kicks the front tire. Two hours of tension, anxiety and fear of being stuck in Muskegon melt away and I begin to giggle like a schoolgirl.
Occasionally, being M.I.A. is just what the doctor ordered.