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766 Words
1In a syrupy Georgia accent, the red-jacketed ticket agent informed me that my connecting flight to Norfolk failed the equipment check.
Like me, the agent was female, though much younger and far sweeter than I am.
According to her, the airline expected to have a replacement aircraft ready for me to board soon. I’d be only forty-five minutes behind schedule.
A nuisance, but I kept my cool.
I’m in charge of State Department contracts for Caprock Worldwide, a private security company.
Our bodyguards protect American diplomats abroad. I keep tabs on my people.
Over the past seven years, I’ve racked up a million air miles making routine visits to US embassies.
Flight delays are the least of my worries.
I didn’t expect a long layover.
Atlanta is my airline’s hub. Idle equipment’s parked all over the place.
The actual departure time may be sooner than the estimate.
The terminal was muggy on this last Friday in June. Still, I was comfortable in my yellow silk T-shirt, white cotton slacks, and Birkenstock sandals.
I was hungry but I didn’t leave the gate to grab a beer and a burger. As a rookie, I learned that waiting out an airport delay in the bar is a bad idea.
Parking my ass in a seat with a view of the agent, I settled in.
Turned out that my airline had no extra planes in Atlanta. The closest replacement aircraft was in Louisville.
It didn’t roll up to the gate until four o’clock. By then, we needed a fresh pilot and co-pilot. A new crew was on its way according to the same agent.
Faking a smile, she thanked us kindly for our patience.
Our ETD bumped to five-thirty.
I was going to arrive late at Caprock’s flagship training facility in southeast Virginia. I’d miss the anniversary banquet.
I’d be lucky to get there in time to play my part in the after-dinner program.
The prospect of missing the meal made me cross.
I accosted the gate agent. Explained my problem.
If she couldn’t guarantee a five-thirty takeoff, she should put me up in a hotel overnight. Send me to Norfolk in the morning.
In the honeyed tones of a southern belle, she assured me the new departure time was firm.
Skeptical, I reclaimed my seat.
When the ETD got pushed ahead, she was nowhere to be found.
I sent a text to my boss telling him that I wouldn’t make it to the party.
Jeff texted right back. He was at the facility. He’d pass on my message. He wanted to see me first thing Saturday morning.
Miss Georgia Peach reappeared at six-thirty and grabbed her microphone. “Please come to the podium when I call your name.”
I was in her face before she finished saying, “Bella Hinton.”
“Sorry, Mizz Hinton,” she crooned, “but we aren’t gettin’ you to Norfolk, tonight.”
If I’d had anything in my stomach, I’d have puked on her jacket. Showed her how sick I was of her phony politeness.
She rebooked me on a 10:00 AM flight. Swore she’d found me the “last available room” near the airport. Shooed me out to the shuttle boarding area.
The motel’s dented Ford van dumped me at an aged Econo Lodge just off a four-lane highway.
The two-story concrete-block building was tucked between a check cashing service and a Waffle House.
My stomach gurgled happily at the sight of the restaurant.
The motel office faced a cluttered and potholed parking lot. A liquor store sat on the far side. Flashing neon announced that all four establishments stayed open around the clock.
At the motel front desk, a black man in his twenties took the airline’s chit.
He eyed me. Like he was asking himself if I’d pay a higher by-the-hour price for an easy-access ground-floor room.
From the look on his face, he calculated I’d have trouble earning the money back. Lifting his nose higher in the air, he passed me a keycard.
Man’s risk assessment skills were lousy.
True, my inch-long locks are the color of brushed steel. My loose clothing hides my battle scars and the muscles in my calves.
But the desk clerk should have noticed my well-toned arms.
I was thirty years older than he was and still quite capable of teaching him better manners.
I was too hungry to bother.
I dumped my soft-sided carry-on bag in the cramped second-floor room. Turned the air conditioning up to run full blast in my absence.
Looped my berry-colored anchor-shaped leather handbag over my shoulder. Headed for the Waffle House.
Despite my hot-weather outfit, the ninety-second walk through a steamy Georgia evening had me dripping.
The high temperature made the kudzu’s rotten vegetable stink more powerful. Amped up the itchy insect hum.
Stir in the petroleum smell of hot pavement and a weaker woman would have lost her appetite.
But I’d starve to death if I let odoriferous foreign climes put me off my feed.
- Writer
