On the Tarmac

We're on our way to San Francisco, ready to fly out of Denver, when we experience the altered state of consciousness which is "flight delay." The airline does its part by easing us into it bit by bit, like a gateway drug. The Departures sign first indicates a delay of fifteen minutes, not a big deal. Hey, it's summer, the airport's busy, and United is not the EuroStar, right?

And then the minutes increase: half an hour. The reason for the delay, posted on the electric sign at the gate, is "Aircraft delayed." Cosmo's becoming anxious. Always full of impossible questions, he now has a battery of them: When are we going to leave? How long do we have to wait here? Why can't the air traffic controllers get their act together? I maintain my cool, of course, and try to say "I don't know" with as many different nuances as possible. Forty minutes, and we go get pizza (Cosmo) and burritoes (his dad and I). Fifty-five minutes, and I feel like we are caught in a time bubble, where nothing ever happens. (The Talking Heads describe heaven this way, but I doubt this is what they had in mind. Personally, I think planes are probably on time in heaven.)

When we finally board the plane, four hours after arriving at the airport, we let go of some of the anxiety that has been building like Marge Simpson's hairdo, blue and implacable. The plane backs up--hooray!--and sits there. The captain comes on the intercom to tell us that we have to wait until he gets the okay.

Cosmo's anxiety level shoots up to eleven. Why don't we take off? Why are we just sitting here? Are we going to even get to San Francisco tonight? Why don't we take off? And variations on the theme. His voice is just this side of hysterical.

His dad, a frequent flyer and thus eligible for a seat farther up in the cabin with more leg room and strangers for seatmates, isn't privvy to this. I'm thinking, You owe me, pal. (In fact, later he admits to having his own freak-out, wanting to scream and tear out his hair, so maybe it's better he wasn't there. Cosmo does pull out his hair, literally: I can hear a few strands ripping.)

"Cosmo. I don't know when we're going to take off. The captain doesn't know. See those clouds over there? See that lightning? That's why we're not taking off: it isn't safe."

"I don't care if it's not safe! I want to go! I want to get out of here!"

"Sweetheart, I know this is upsetting to you, but there's nothing we can do. You're going to have to find a way to deal with it."

"I am dealing with it! This is how I deal with it!"

Okaay...Maybe ignoring him is the better way to go. Now he's crying; I stroke his back.

Of course Time, as it is wont to do, moves along. The storm moves along. The plane moves along, as does the baggage carrousel, the taxi, the front desk clerk, and the elevator. We're given a room on the highest floor--36. I look out the window at the lights of the city: there's the Bay Bridge, and if I step over here, I can see the Golden Gate. The bed looks comfortable and inviting, with its six or eight pillows. I don't need that many pillows, just as Cosmo didn't need that many questions. Safety in numbers? Reassurance in reiteration? I don't know. I have but one answer now: Go to sleep.