It’s been a long time since I was in Montana. I think the last time I was there I was around 12 years old. For me the plane trip was always the best part. Before 9/11 airport hubs were a snapshot of America—a glance of something beyond you and the things you knew.
They were places where only important people went. Captains of industry and businessmen shuffled about each one holding briefcases and Styrofoam cups—disappearing into terminals and blending into the awful carpet with their shiny pinstripe suits.
Heavy box television sets strained on their wall mounts as passengers looked up to see the status of their flights. And the women… my God the WOMEN.
For a latchkey kid with access to antiquated Playboys and fuzzy cable channels the stewardesses were Amazonian goddesses of the sky—infallible creatures whose sole purpose was to assist men with whatever they needed. Thirsty? Here’s a drink. Sleepy? Here’s a pillow. Aww you’re flying all by yourself little boy? You are ADORABLE!
Whenever I was flying there was always a stewardess (or flight attendant, as we say now) who was assigned to me. I used to think that they did it because I was so cute and charming but now I realize that they probably had to draw straws in the back to see who was going to escort the goofy kid in D5.
“Damn I’ll tell you what Karen—if you take D5 I’ll take H2.”
“Isn’t H2 the fat sweaty guy that grabs asses and calls us sweet stuff?… fuck it I’ll take D5.”
Whatever the reason was the stewardesses were always so nice to me. And they smelled so good. Even though the cabin was filled with different blends of smoke and sweat they never lost the faint smell of Dial soap and oatmeal cookies.
A typical scenario was a parent dropping me off at the gate and in the trusting (and soft) hands of a stewardess. From there I was put in my seat which was usually a window seat so I could see how long it took for the cars and buildings to look like a Matchbox play set. As the businessmen loaded in bumped their briefcases and began the battle of armrest superiority I was eagerly awaiting the coveted invitation to go beyond business class beyond first class beyond the galley and pressurized port-a-potties—I was going to the cabin to hobnob with the pilot and trade war stories about our times in the air. If I smiled wide enough and charmed my way past my stupid cowlick and my awkward gait I would get my wings!
I collected plastic airline wings like a WWII vet collected medals and Nazi memorabilia. I wore them with pride as I strolled back to my seat passing all of the commoners and their miserable lives. Sure they had important places to go but I was one of the guys who would help get them there. If the plane caught on fire and the pilot and co-pilot were incapacitated I was basically next in line. There would be no assgrabbing on my watch H2! Treat my girls with respect!
Back in D5 watching us taxi out and hearing my pal Captain Dan talking about the route and time and weather conditions over Colorado I couldn’t help feeling a mix of fear and pride.
I love traveling and I think that bug bit with all of the trips I took as an only child of divorced parents. While other kids spent their summers visiting those same pools playing the same games with the same friends I was a man of adventure and worldly travel. Sure they had the stability of two loving parents but did they have official Delta pilot wings presented by the prestigious Captain Dan?
I think not.
That feeling you get as the nose ascends toward the sky and your stomach clutches onto your ribs and melts back toward your spine like Jello is the feeling I got when I arrived in Montana. No matter how far I flew how many stewardesses sat with me and smiled or how much manly secondhand smoke I consumed in the cabin of Delta Flight 1490 I was still the boy in D5.
The last memory I have of traveling to Montana is positive. I remember wanting to look older than I was so I wore a wool suit—the only suit I had. Sure it was summer and I was sweating but that’s what men do. Even my perception of adulthood at 12 was spot on. Adults are stuffy uncomfortable and just fucking dorky.
To improve my vision of unaccompanied minor non grata I hollowed out an old backgammon briefcase to hold all of my essential business travel necessities: an old sketchbook, pencils and Tales of Ramona Quimby.
That’s all I remember.
I have no idea how long I stayed what I did or when I returned. I can remember the smell of leather and the sensation of ears popping at 20000 feet but for the life of me I can’t remember the trip. Thinking back now I can’t recall most of the trips—just the journey. Every other holiday spent with family is overlapped with peanuts and pretzels with strangers. Long walks with loved ones are just riding an escalator up and down—killing time before the next layover. A warm loving embrace is a low-skirt leggy airline employee telling me that the bumps and shifts are all normal and to try and relax.
Before we had screens that fit in our pockets and ways of taking up time we spent a lot of time with our thoughts. You know those blips that cross our mind that we tend to distract ourselves from if they hurt and focus on if they tickle. The problem I have with thoughts is that I can’t trust them.
To me Montana has always represented the great unknown and facing that after all these years is frightening and inevitable. It’s a state and state of mind that I have purposely stayed away from for over 40 years and now that the secrets of my past are affecting the realities of my present I find myself at a great junction in my life. I can stay the course hope for the best and continue on the lost road I’m on or return to the place where it all began and try to make sense of how I got on this path in the first place.
