So, everyone has boarded our transoceanic aircraft at O’Hare.
The flight safety message starts. It’s the kind you watch on TV monitors instead of a flight attendant’s live reenactment of what you should do if something goes woefully awry.
I still don’t understand why airlines offer flotation devices instead of parachutes.
The power goes out, the monitors go blank, black as death.
An apologetic flight attendant’s voice comes on the PA telling us it’ll take a few minutes to reboot the computer.
Monitor comes back to life. Safety message restarts.
Power shuts off. Monitor goes black.
At this point, a thought comes to mind: If an aircraft can’t even provide dependable power to run a pre-takeoff safety video, might there be something more to worry about than the prospect of being deprived of inflight movies?
The flight attendant again apologizes.
Monitor comes on.
Power shuts off. Monitor goes black.
“Are you kidding me?” an aggravated attendant says.
The flight attendants resign to skipping the video. They do a live safety demonstration instead. They are really rusty, what from relying on the computer. They seem to be winging it. Still, I really try to pay attention, for I can’t think of a better time to do so than when you’re aboard a jumbo jet that doesn’t even have sufficient power to run its TVs before takeoff.
That the date is Sept. 11, 2014, is not lost on me.
Sept. 11! That date alone makes one soul search before willingly committing to a boarding pass. I convince myself that Sept. 11 is actually the best day to fly since airport security will likely be at its peak. During X-rays, I hold my hands above my head like moose antlers and hope my baggy jeans, now without my terrorist belt, don’t drop.
“What’s in your pocket, sir?” the security guy asks.
I notice the tiny bulge of my lucky rabbit, a good-luck gift from a Thai co-worker a few years ago when she learned I was a nervous flyer. I have safely traveled the world with my lucky rabbit. I put the rabbit in my palm.
The security guy eyes it suspiciously, as if I’m actually palming a grenade.
“What the—”
“It’s for good luck,” I explain.
He gives me a big eye-roll and motions me through. “No, there’s nothing weird about that,” he says, obviously meaning the opposite. The rabbit incident earns me a very thorough pat down, so thorough that I crave a cigarette afterwards – and I don’t even smoke.
After the safety instructions, the captain’s voice fills the cabin, telling us our flight will be delayed because of a MINOR TECHNICALITY about not being able to COMMUNICATE WITH FLIGHT CONTROL. “My god,” I think. “Why don’t they just drop the oxygen masks now to avoid the surprise later?”
Scott may have been a bit fearful about his plane predicament, but at least he had his good luck bunny. (Photos provided by Scott Saalman)
About an hour later, we are told that the inflight computer system will likely have to be replaced before takeoff. About an hour after that, we are told a wing might have to be disassembled. We will fly, the pilot tries to assure us.
About an hour after that – we are still on the plane, mind you – the pilot tells us the mechanics aren’t sure what’s wrong. Two ill-humored mechanics actually walk down the aisle a few minutes later, looking not at all pleased with that announcement.
I don’t know about you, but I prefer airplane mechanics to remain unseen, like that army of monkeys in the bowels of the plane beneath us that pedal bicycle-like contraptions to actually make our plane airborne.
The natives grow restless. My fellow passengers are hungry and angry. Someone uses the word “hangry” in a sentence. We are offered two bites of cookie and a thimble of water. Alcatraz served better. The woman next to me talks her pouting husband down from the hunger ledge. There are too many whispers. There could be a coup. The husband gazes at me as if he’s actually seeing a Big Mac. Donner Party Airlines.
The pilot announces that no one in maintenance is returning his calls now. Duh. What does he expect after throwing them under the bus – I mean plane – earlier? We will fly, he assures us, which is not what I want to hear at this point.
A few people actually gather their carry-ons and exit since we are still attached to the gate. Legally, this is allowable, the pilot announces. But we are also told that “when it’s time to fly, it’s time to fly,” leaving me with images of fellow passengers running down the runway in pursuit of our jet as it lifts off. Come Fly Are You Kidding Me Airlines: We’ll Fly, But You Mightn’t.
At this point, I’m too tired to exit and am resigned that I will willingly fly in a doomed plane on Sept. 11.
Nearly five hours into it, the pilot announces, “We deeply apologize, ladies and gentleman, but the flight is canceled.”
A make-up flight will not be available until nearly 24 hours later. It will be Sept. 12 then. I like the idea of not flying on Sept. 11, though some around me groan at the news. I affectionately pat the bunny that’s in my pocket.
Contact: scottsaalman@gmail.com