I was boarding the plane to Tulsa. I was late getting to the gate, but since I carry Elite Status, I was able to push my way through the mass of casual travelers, ignoring their scornful looks, and make my way to the front of the line.
Screw all you casual travelers. After hundreds of flights, I’ve earned it. Hahahahaaaha.
The ticket lady looked down at my bulging suitcase. “Would you like a gate check ticket for your bag, sir?”
It was too big for the overhead, but I didn’t care. “No, it’ll fit. Thanks.”
She gave me a funny look, then shrugged and scanned my ticket. “Have a nice flight,” she said.
I turned the corner and started down. There at the bottom of the jetway, guarding the entrance to the plane, stood a troll of a man, black as night and so tall he had to duck under the jam as he passed bags out the jetway door to the handlers standing outside, loading the plane’s underbelly.
As I came down the jetway, he eyed my suitcase. I knew he would make me check it. I slowed, trying to wait until his back was turned so I could duck into the plane with my bag. One of the stewardesses would find room, they always do.
He read my mind. Shaking his head slowly, he growled at me. “Pink tag, sir.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Sir, you have to check that bag. Where’s your pink tag?”
“Huh?” I tried to act dumb, like I was one of the casual travelers now piling up behind me. “Can’t you give me a pink tag?”
“No sir. You have to go up there,” and he pointed his long arm up the jetway. “The ticketing agent will give you a pink tag.”
I looked at him, incredulous. Maybe it’s because I was tired, but I couldn’t stop the words that came out of my mouth next. “Listen, Bubba,” I said. “There is absolutely no fucking way…”
At that point, this giant of a black man raised himself to his full height of six foot eleven. With a steely glare, he looked down at me. “Them’s the rules, mister. No tag, no bag,” and again pointed up the jetway.
I was beaten. Like a doomed salmon swimming upstream, I pushed against the crush of people coming down the jetway, ignoring the smirks of the passengers who just minutes earlier I’d butted in front of.
I knew that, by the time I made it back down, all the overhead storage would surely be gone. Not only would I have to check my suitcase, but adding insult to injury, I’d have to stick my computer bag under the seat.
I was now sentenced to three hours in an airplane with no legroom and a hostile crowd besides.
The ticket lady knew right away. “Roy got you, huh?” she said, and grinned. She knew this would happen. It was a conspiracy. “Here’s your pink tag, sir. Have a nice day.”
I was now the last one to get on the plane. I scowled up at Roy, pushing the tag into his massive grip. “Thank you, sir. I’ll be sure your bag gets there safely,” he said, and smiled.
I said nothing and boarded the plane. Three hours later, my legs cramped and aching, I deplaned in Tulsa and stood at the bottom of the jetway with all the other casual traveler schmucks waiting for their gate-checked bags.
One by one, the bags came through the door. The passengers grabbed up their belongings and off they went. Thirty-two bags later (I counted them), the baggage attendant came up the stairs with his clipboard.
“Where’s my bag,” I said.
“Can I see your pink tag, sir?”
I rummaged in my pocket for a minute, afraid I might have lost it. “Here it is.”
He checked the number against his clipboard. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s not here. You’ll have to check with customer service to file a lost bag claim. Have a good day.”
I turned to start up the jetway, defeated. In my mind, I could see my bag sitting at the bottom of the jetway back home, pink tag dangling in the wind.
Roy had gotten even.