Half-Day Road Trip

   In the novel “True Grit,” the villain is always complaining “Everything is against me.” He could kill and rob, but his troubles were always someone else’s fault. That’s how I felt hanging around the Minneapolis airport this past Sunday morning waiting for my short flight up to Thief River Falls. Steve Reynolds was along, which helped me endure the ennui. He never once said “Here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten us into.”
   We had spent much of the previous day at our friend Jerry Solom's funeral and talking about Jerry. My son Joe had flown to Minneapolis on Thursday and arrived late after a detour to Lake Superior for old lang syne.
   I had to work Friday so Joe and Teresa did some touring and went to Warroad to see grandpa. After work we went to the visitation and family service, which was a warm-up for the actual funeral. The funeral at Riverside Church in Wannaska was packed with all of Jerry's family and a good fraction of his friends. I felt disbelief that the object of all these stories and reminiscences will not be seen again.
   Joe had to be back to work on his tugboat in New York City on Tuesday so he had scheduled a Sunday morning flight back to Boston. This made me a little uneasy. He said he'd be fine driving through the night, but I went ahead and looked up flights from Minneapolis back north to Thief River Falls, our closest airport. There was an 8:25 a.m. flight for only $74.00. I confirmed the possibility of riding with Joe and having Teresa pick me up in TRF, sixty miles south of home. Then I booked my ticket.
   We invited friends over after the funeral lunch. When Steve heard about my scheme, he said he'd like to come along. We hadn't gone on a road trip since the last bottle run in July. Joe and I tried to get in naps. Steve grilled porkchops. I brewed some strong coffee for Joe's thermos and at 9:15 p.m. we picked up Steve and Joe pointed his rental Jeep south. "I could have rented a cheaper vehicle," Joe said, "but I wanted something heavier in case I hit a deer."
   A crescent moon sank into the last of the twilight as we drove though the warm night. Traffic was minimal. Not so the bugs. I had Joe pull into the Cenex station in Gulley so I could wash the coating of mosquitoes off the windshield and headlights. Steve and I dozed fitfully. Joe consumed various forms of caffeine.
   We arrived at Terminal 1 at 3:30 a.m. Joe had to turn in the Jeep at Terminal 2 where his flight would leave from. Steve carried nothing but his wallet and cell phone. I had a small backpack and a water bottle. I scanned the Jeep before we said goodbye to Joe. I knew I was missing something, but what? A few minutes later I reached for my reading glasses. Ah, that was it. Joe was filling the Jeep's gas tank when I called and kindly swung by Door 2 one more time. It was now about 3:43 a.m. Then I got a message that our flight was delayed till 9:50.
   There was a tiny Boutique Airlines desk with a sign that said a ticket agent would arrive at 6:30 for the 8:25 flight. I surmised the agent would now show up at 7:55 instead. Maybe the agent was the pilot as often happens with these shoestring operations. My one concern was that all the restaurants were on the far side of security and we'd be needing breakfast after our long vigil.
  By 4:30-5:00 a.m. swarms of travelers began descending on the United Airlines agents and forming a long line for the security checkpoint. The line stretched the length of the terminal then doubled back on itself, and was eventually compacted into three nylon cord and stanchion mazes. The line passed in front of the seats Steve and I had been sitting in since our arrival. There were tons of kids off to camp or to visit the grandparents. Many of the men had those long body bags used to transport golf clubs.
   "Let's go for a walk," I suggested. We went down by the deserted luggage claim carousels. Two people were curled up in a corner sleeping. I told Steve that's how Jerry would handle this. “Jerry would embrace this situation,” Steve said. At length we found a recently awakened Starbucks and got something hot to ground our brains.
   Back at ticketing, our seats were still unoccupied. The line was moving just fast enough to make it not worthwhile for people to sit. We enjoyed the full panoply of the human physique, from the "Come hither" to the "I didn't always look like this." Finally, another couple arrived at the Boutique desk. I saw the man read the sign then get on his phone. I enquired and learned that the agent was on her way.
   As the agent gave us our tickets, she assessed the line and said, "It's not bad. You'll make it. We'll hold the plane for you, as long as we can." So we found the end of the line and wound our way up to the checkpoint. I noticed a TSA agent summoning passengers forward two by two so a dog could pass behind them. That's new, I thought. As Steve and I passed in front of the dog, I saw the agent summoning Steve. Typical, I thought. Earthy people like Steve always get extra scrutiny. But they summoned me too. Guilt by association.
   A more important agent was summoned to handle Steve and I. They had some questions for us before we went through the old fashioned metal detector and through the newer full-body scanner.   While an agent went through my book bag I noticed another agent patting Steve down. This book bag is what I take along when I drive bus. If I had known it was going to be scrutinized, I would have tidied up its flotsam and jetsam. My plastic dinnerware raised no alarms and she sent me on.
   Steve was reassembling his dignity when it was my turn. "Do you want to go in the back room?" the agent asked. He explained that the dog was trained to find traces of explosives. He told me exactly what the pat down would involve. Knowing in advance didn't help. The passengers just coming through the scanners and picking up their carry-on stuff gave me looks of pity or horror as they passed. An Orthodox Jewish couple went by. "Pray for me," I wanted to say.
   Finally he let me go. Our gate was as far from security as it could possibly be. The Boutique agent had told us to take the tram. As we waited for the tram, Steve suddenly realized he didn't get his phone back. "Me either!" I said. As I dashed back, the TSA agent met me with our phones. There was no thought of breakfast now. We had miles to go before lift off, if our plane was even still there. Steve has asthma, but I trotted ahead, figuring I could wedge myself in the plane door till Steve caught up. A young fellow I knew was also on our flight went whipping by me. "Tell 'em Joe's comin'!"
   I reached the far end of the terminal. The sign said flight delayed, but there was no plane at the gate. Our speedy fellow passenger was there but he knew nothing. I called Teresa. "Don't leave home yet." Finally a man in pilot garb appeared. "Who's here for Thief River Falls?" Six of us raised our hands. "Follow me," he said.
   We went out a double doorway to the tarmac. Halleluiah! Our eight passenger prop plane was still there. The co-pilot gave his safety spiel and said we could help ourselves to the snack drawer. He didn't tell us to turn off our phones. Once aloft, I texted Teresa we were on our way. It was a fine day for flying. I identified the lakes and towns below on my phone map while breakfasting on peanuts and Coke. Jerry would approve.

Coming into Tough Rubber Balls, as Steve calls the home of Digi-Key.