THE INMATES & THE ASYLUM

I spoke at a writers conference in Hyannis, Cape Cod this weekend. I intended to blog about the conference. Instead, I would like to share the story of my journey. I had an epiphany and it is this: a novelist cannot make up anything stranger than real life and sometimes the best stories involve the lunatics running the asylum.

LAX (Friday): Boston weather delays my flight. Thankfully, they told us this before we boarded so we didn’t have to sit on the tarmac. I arrive in Boston and bolted for my connecting flight on Cape Air for a 25 minute flight to Hyannis. Piece of cake.

Except it wasn't.

Tornado warnings (who knew there were tornadoes on the east coast?) caused Cape Air to cancel the flight on their teeny- tiny-little plane. Good call, except how was I going to get to Hyannis?

Answer: An old lady whose son has ordered a Town Car offers to share  because the car is sooooo expensive.
I am saved.

We are joined by a very large man who has just come in fron London. He and the older lady need to make the ferry to Martha’s Vineyard.

Our merry band becomes less merry as the driver battles rain and traffic. We inch along. The large man threatens no tip if the driver doesn’t get him to the ferry on time.

Two hours later, we are almost there. The large man convinces the driver that the light we are sitting at is not red but green. My heart goes out to the driver. I object, the man continues to insist. The driver runs the red light (this is not the same as running a red light in a big city, so no worries).

WE MAKE IT!

The ferry is loading as we drive up. The big man bolts through the rain, leaving the old lady behind. I WILL HELP! I get out of the car but the driver has somehow engaged the child lock. The lady inside screams LET ME OUT! LET ME OUT! She pounds on the car windows. We scramble, get the door open and I grab the lady's bag. I see the large man settling himself on the ferry. He has forgotten us.

I get back in the car. The gas warning light is on.  Forty minutes later he is still out of gas and cannot find the conference center. Finally, we arrive. The hotel was less than half a mile from the ferry.

Sigh.

Conference happens.

48 HOURS LATER:  

A friend picks me up, shows me the beach and we stop for lunch.  I have a margarita. My husband calls.

Husband: “You’re at the airport, right?”

OOPS!  I have misread the itinerary (blame the margarita). At the Hyannis airport, I strip off belt, shoes, jacket, pass through security, put everything back on, pack up my iPad, and rush around the corner only to find the Hyannis airport is so small I could have crawled on one knee and still made the flight. I also could have had another margarita.

So, I’m waiting with my seven fellow Cape Air passengers ) when the ticket agent appears. She needs our weight.

My turn comes. This feels like making my first confession all over again. Will she give me absolution or tell me I can't get on that teeny-tiny-little plane because I weigh so much it will tip the whole thing over and we'll all end up in the drink?  I get absolved.

The teeny-tiny-little plane ride was rather pleasant. The lady pilot must have known what she was doing because she didn’t spend much time flying. She adjusted her sunshade, filled out paperwork, even whipped out her lipstick. She was rested and gorgeous by the time we landed.

BOSTON: I am an hour and a half early. I have a bag of Checks Mix, a limp rod of string cheese and an apple to get me through the 5 hours to L.A. I am happy.

Boarding: I have the first seat in the bulkhead in economy plus. I am first in and I will be first out.  I am blessed.  With that thought, everything goes to hell in a hand basket.

I will try to be brief if for no other reason than that I fear the ramifications of reliving the lunacy of this flight.

I am seated along with the business class passengers and my seat mate . One hundred and seventy-two people line up, ready for a Hunger Games fight for overhead space. A very tall woman carting a toddler enters with her shorter husband who carries a baby carrier (baby inside).

Woman (frantically):  "My family got separated! We're not sitting together!"

Stewardess (calmly): "I can't leave here, but you can see if anyone will switch with you.”

 Woman (frantic building to crazed): "Two babies! I have two babies! You have to switch 'cause I have two babies! Who wouldn't do that for two babies!?"

ANSWER: The group of Chinese people she's yelling at who do not speak English. 

SIMULTANEOUSLY:  The woman behind me pops up  (tall, lovely, and reminiscent of a young spinster in an English novel).

Young Woman (equally frantic):  "I have a cat!"

She says it like she's warning "I have a gun". The cat is in a carrier under her seat but the man next to her is allergic to cats. She must now find someone to switch seats with on the sold out flight. The cat is passed over my head and everyone cooes and clucks at the darn thing while the Two-Baby-Lady screams. The cat woman climbs over the bulkhead seats because it's easier than trying to get across the allergic man and his wife.

I have always preferred dogs and I do not like the idea of animals on the plane at all. I do not coo. 

LOGISTICS: These two events are happening in the first five rows and passengers are getting antsy.

Stewardess (on intercom): “Please move out of the aisle so everyone can be seated, or we will not leave on time.”

Someone has listened because now there is a tsunami of bodies pouring through the doorway. All these people carry luggage (don’t try and tell me these things are carry on items). As people twist and turn and maneuver said carry on items my head takes a beating because I was lucky enough to get the first seat.

Whack! Wham! Smash! I get up. I stand near the galley. The man seated next to me reads a literary novel. He is safe and oblivious.

Now, one of the Chinese travelers swims upstream toward the door.

Chinese man (anxiously): “Broken leg! Broken leg!”

Those seem to be the only words he knows other than Los Angeles. It is determined he is concerned that there will not be a wheelchair for his wife who has a broken leg once we land. He is swept back by the wave of humanity with large backpacks.

TAKE OFF. Two-Baby-Lady is up and down, looking frazzled. I believe she is hard of hearing. She does not seem to notice her children screaming and when she addresses anyone about her frazzledness it is done in decibels that defy description.

To keep the toddler quiet (about an hour into a 5 hour flight), the father walks him to the front of our section (in front of my seat which is in front of the galley where they keep the giant drink carts).

The toddler (a darling toe headed child) jumps and dances and hollers AND plays with the red levers that act as safety devices to keep the giant carts from crushing someone should the plane take a wrong turn.

I look at the father; he looks at me. I look at the kid; I look at the father; he looks at me. The kid whirls like a dervish. I look at the father. Finally, dad gets it.

Father (daring to touch child):  "You shouldn't do that" 


There's an impressive bit of parenting.

The child's name must be Damien. He becomes a little ball of curly-headed devil-possessed fury and throws himself into my tray. I grab my drink and  glare at the dad who manages to get the kid back to their seats. Damien continues screaming a few rows behind me.

CONTINUING ON: One Chinese tourist tries to hijack the galley microwave for his HUGE bowl of noodles. The stewardess sends him packing. Another Chinese gentleman bounces on his toes while he puts his hands and nose on the door marked DANGER.  It's the door that will suck him and me out if opened at 30,000 ft.  Lucky me for scoring the seat in front of the door.

The stewardess makes him move back so often that he is finally banned from the front of our section. She won’t even let him go to the bathroom ‘cause it’s near the door.

At which point, I take a powder.  The bathroom is quiet. I wonder how long I can stay in there before someone reports me. Just as I get my pants around my knees someone THROWS themselves against the door. The door shakes, heaves and strains. OH GOD! What was happening?

Pants up, I fling open the door expecting the worst only to find a Chinese boy who did not understand the concept of locked. The look on my face transcended verbal communication. He ran.

Finally, there was our pilot. Every half hour he advised us to fasten our seat belts, going so far as to insist the stewards take their jump seats.  HURRY! HURRY! NOW! NOW!

We brace.

Nothing. 

The flight is as smooth as silk which leads me to wonder if the pilot had a wing nut loose if he panics  that easily.

If you’re still with me, God bless. I won’t bore you with with more about Damien, Two-Baby-Lady, the Chinese tourists or what happened to my little, wheeled carry-on bag once we landed. Just know that if you happened to be driving by LAX last night around ten o'clock and noticed the silhouette of a woman kneeling down, that was me kissing the ground. And, if you read my next book, you won't have to wonder where the inspiration came from.