The Beginning of the End of Chapter One

This week did not start off well. I was set to depart on a 6:40am flight out of Los Angeles to be in Minneapolis by 1:00. Problem is -- the plane that allegedly had 14 seats available was a bit of a ghost ship. The flight was supposed to be a 757, and paying passengers had been booked seats accordingly. However the flight was actually on a smaller 737. Immediately 60 people were displaced. Chaos ensued. A man was nearly in tears because he was enroute to Minneapolis to see his dying father. A line to get rebooked was 50 deep. As someone who was not a paying customer, I was in the back of this line. By the time I reached the front and asked for the jumpseat, the Delta gate agents were less than keen on helping me. A flight attendant was also looking to jumpseat, but we were met with a cold shoulder and a, "Sorry, we have to close the door." It would not have been difficult. A few key strokes, a swipe at the printer, and a badge verification were all it would have taken. Too much. They had done their job with the paying passengers and immediately signed off. And just like that, two employees couldn't get to work in Minneapolis because a few gate agents were acting like Janice in accounting. As a result, I had to call in and get pulled from the trip. While my company was understanding, I was not looking forward to being back on reserve.

I put myself on the call list. Again, I've seen the big mall and the big spoon already. I've exhausted my MSP to-do list. Around noon, I got a call! A deadhead to Appleton of all places, and then a flight back to MSP. Not too bad. I got to the airport. Ring ring. "Yeah, Delta decided to cancel that flight, you don't need to come to the airport." Reverse.

Several hours later,  I noticed an email from my airline. I had been awarded a transfer. I always figured my next base was going to be San Francisco. After all, there were only four people in front of me asking for SFO. Houston and L.A., on the other hand, had over a dozen. So I was a little surprised when the email said IAH on it--the airport code of Houston Intercontinental. No doubt I will be sitting reserve in Houston, but it will be a warmer reserve. I can stretch my legs, go for a run. I've become fluffy living off of Culver's butterburgers and cheese curds. If I do get called to fly in Houston, there will at least be some variety. And when I'm not flying I can further my efforts to befriend my niece.

If you take a look at the route map, compare Houston to Minneapolis. The routes in Houston go farther and (typically) warmer. I'll gladly trade Fort Wayne for Fort Myers, or Aberdeen for Albuquerque. In my boredom of reserve, I even wrote a poem about the transfer.

"Minneapolis?!," I shouted. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No" said the company, and went out for a smoke.
It's three point five hours to get there one-way!
A long way from home back in sunny L.A.

I put in my time learning all sorts of things
Like CAT II approaches and de-icing the wings
To Kentucky, Iowa, and the Dakotas I flew
My teeth all a chatter, my hands turning blue

"Please, a transfer!," I wailed up to the skies
But the only response was more snow in my eyes
I had waited months for the glorious day

that I'd transfer to San Fran, Houston, or L.A.

I had always figured that San Fran would be next

With its pricey hotels, fog, and black turtlenecks.
Yet against all odds, came the LoneStar state
Free lodging indeed! . . at my sister's estate.

No it's still not quite home, but that time will come
For now I am thankful just to thaw out my bum
So cheese curds and poutine must now make their way
For burritos, beef brisket, and Mexican soufflé

Sure I'll probably be sitting reserve there at first
But that gives me time to see my niece at her worst
Off to Houston I go! Not a moment too soon
Farewell to Fargo, South Bend, and Saskatoon!