The “sign-of-despair” says “DELAYED - UNITED 309 - DENVER - 1:51PM - NOW 3:10″. 

The sign is not the red scrolling lights like in Denver terminal, but a LCD flat panel.  It’s very attractive, with a picture of a clean, half-empty jet flying through the friendly skies. Like most everything related to airline travel today, the marketing does not come close to reality.

Mr. Confused Frown on His Face is not here, so I’m saved from whistled [1] Beethoven in my left ear.  However I’m challenged to explain why the most advanced technology in the world, run by the most advanced air traffic control systems, still can’t get an airplane from point A to point B without frustrating the entire load of people, and still claim that its a rare occurrence, even though it happens to me at least 35% of the time.  Contrary to the marketing campaigns; this is NOT the friendly skies.

I’m in the boarding area of gate B4 in Des Moines, but it could be any airport, even the newest, cleanest, most advanced ones.  Could they make the waiting area seats any more uncomfortable?  Not only to sit in but the military barracks way they are arranged?  Playing footsie with a flustered floosie from Florida who insists on leaving her bags in the 12-inch aisle so you have to step on her painted toes, foretells a wonderful journey today. 

I’m convinced that the cold steel armrests of the always-blue prison-style seating – with an inch-and-a-half strip of fake leather – are specifically designed to create pain and discomfort for the traveling public.  An inch-and-a-half! And there are two of us contending for elbow-real-estate.  My elbow needs more than an inch-and-a-half of real-estate, but now I’m unwillingly snuggling up with Charming Charlita’s elbow while she chows down on a chorizo and chips from the fast food Mexican booth manned by Abdul Mohamed Fitzpatrick and his cousin Fazil Ahmed Jihad. 

The contention for elbow room in the waiting room is good practice for the coming turf war on the airplane where the consequences of losing my spot on the bigger two-inch elbow landing spot on the seat divider is far more severe. You can’t just get up and walk around, and if you lose the elbow-war on the aircraft, Charming Charlita will most likely stake her claim on your lap with her hairy, sweaty elbow, where she’ll share her chorizo crumbs with you whether you want them or not. 

I have a strategy to win the elbow-estate turf war; I learned it from Jon.  First, I stake my claim by getting to my seat first and planting my elbow firmly where it’s most comfortable and doesn’t intrude obtrusively into the rib-space of my soon-to-be sitting neighbor, and then close my eyes.   If on the other hand I get beat in the race to stake my claim, I have this plan . . .

I’m still in the Des Moines boarding area, the late flight is landing and people are beginning to mill about staring intently at the sign-of-despair, challenging it to announce another delay. The rising tension of a hundred people unsure of their evening’s fate with connecting flights and parties and dinners they might miss is strong enough to smell.  I can’t describe it, but I can smell it.

I’m writing this blog, and multi-task-mapping my strategy to win the elbow-turf-war knowing I’ve been re-assigned to a middle seat, when the smell of tension goes away in a snap.  I can’t sense the tension any more.  I look up from by beat-up Gateway laptop and see people milling around in front of the window facing the now-landed aircraft.  Nobody is deplaning, nobody is crowding the counter or forming a line, nobody is furtively glancing at the sign-of-despair, a couple of people even politely smile at each other as they share the same window view. 

Jon, who’s supposed to be in the bathroom as I watch his bags, sends me a text message.  “No wonder the delay”.  I stand up and leave our bags unattended - for some reason I know they will be OK. 

Six men in military dress uniforms create a hedge for a red carpet that unrolls from the open cargo door to a golden vehicle.  At first I think it must be some politician come to sucker the Iowans with vacant promises of “more of this and less of that” before super-Tuesday, but then a better view reveals a golden hearse. 

I’m griping about a delayed flight and insufficient elbowroom, and here are the remains of one of our military.  Passengers reverently and respectfully watch the whole sequence of unloading the casket.  Amazing. The military precision.  The dignity.  The finality.

We may have the crappiest air transportation system in the world, but here’s a hundred people standing tall for just one of our fine soldiers killed in some brainless, messed-up, waste-of-life, hole-in-the-earth country.  I wonder how this soldier lost his or her life.  I hope it wasn’t wasted tracking down some unshaven loser who delights in blowing up innocent things and people just to make a point.

The smell of tension is gone.  A few people make eye contact, even smile at each other.  A couple is crying by the water fountain. 

The flight will begin boarding in 15 minutes.