Flight 281, Chicago to Pittsburgh. Or, April 1, 1968

Ahead of me, an old man
takes his time removing his
belt and shoes before
stepping through the frame.

“Listen, man, there’s a bunch
of us got places to go.”

Later on, another announcement
would delay the flight at least
half an hour. Unison groans of
disapproval.
The old man would smile and
continue rehashing his part
in Operation Pegasus and a few
of us stranded travelers would
chew on every word,
wide-eyed.

The terrified look in his eyes reminded me
that if the worst thing I have to deal with
is a short flight delay,

I haven’t got it that bad.