Andrew Grossman, please come to gate K20.
I’m fortunate in having a quasi unique name. When someone shouts “Andrew” in a public place it isn’t like an episode of meerkat manor where a bunch of heads pop up. Nevertheless, Mr. Grossman was playing hooky with this flight and kept being called to the desk. The repeated calling for Andrew disrupted me pre-flight meditation/prayer for mercy. He never showed which made me wonder if we needed to form a search party a la Mitch Hedberg.
Her calves were indistinguishable from her ankles and she hastily wanted to board our delayed flight 1399 to San Francisco.
When the first class seating group was called to board she went to the counter and presented her boarding pass.
“I’m sorry. You’re number 4, we’re currently seating first class passengers.” She returned to her seat. Next they called priority. Again she got up to board. Again she was told she was number 4 and to sit back down.
Perhaps the most memorable passenger award goes to the couple in front of me. The man had a baseball hat atop his snarled mess of gray hair. The hair was matted and clumped around some wet blood that has dripped onto his black tshirt. His female companion had long, braided silver-colored hair. She had some illness that required a wheelchair once we landed. But there was an aroma coming from them that is nearly indescribable. It wasn’t quite feces. But it defiantly wasn’t roses. Most of the flight was spent trying to find a pocket of non-stenched air like an animal surfacing from the ocean.
Wineries on deck for day two. Let’s dance Frisco.