Nov. 29: Facing fear, flying, profiling

By Larry Berteau

There I was minding my own business, waiting to board a United Airlines flight at Chicago's O'Hare Airport, keeping my furtive glance on the floor in a futile attempt to not make eye contact while noticing how oddly different 123 pairs of shoes can be, putting aside any thoughts of danger despite the incidents on Sept. 11 and the even more recent crash in Queens, not to mention all the while harboring my inherent ruminations on the fact a Boeing 757 has the glide ratio of a crowbar which were prompted by the early morning TV weather report at the hotel before heading to the airport that indicated a storm blowing from Portland (my destination) into Chicago was so threatening as to make Robert Service smack his lips over a long draw from a Yukon Jack bottle before diving into an epic poem, and seeing into the future how difficult it would be to avoid writing the longest sentence in the history of journalism when I tried to describe the absurd scene - only to have the moment come to a screeching halt when a United gate attendant (dressed like a doorman at a $15-a-night hotel in Shreveport) croaked into a microphone that sounded like it was manufactured in a prison for the descendants of Nubian slaves: "Would United passenger Muhammad Aziz please report to the boarding gate."

Waiting for Aziz

Now I have never considered myself an alarmist, although I tend to overreact to sudden loud noises, and I would go to the mat insisting I'm not subject to "profiling" in this time of national emergency, but when 123 sets of eyes whirled simultaneously in the direction of the United gate attendant-come-Louisiana-doorman, I confess mine trailed along.

Suddenly, not a single passenger was boarding the aircraft. As one, we remained in queue as stalwart as 124 Marines waiting for the rear door to open on an assault C-130. The chap collecting the boarding passes could have been confused for an Oregon carpenter in January. He had nothing to do. He was as useless as a throat full of tonsils.

Boarding passes held limply in our hands, carry-on luggage draped over sagging shoulders, 124 passengers held a collective breath and waited, and watched, for Mr. Aziz to sally forth.

Unflinching rodents

He didn't come. We didn't go. The out-of-work carpenter guy tried to nudge us along in a vain attempt to make us good United lemmings. "Have your boarding passes and photo ID ready," he whined.

They were ready. We weren't. The Nubian microphone guy tried again. "Would United passenger Muhammad Aziz please report to the boarding gate."

We watched the desk like 124 ravenous red-tailed hawks hovering over a lost gopher.

First-class courage

Finally, a few courageous souls at the front of our boarding line - or else common fools disguised as first-class passengers - shuffled past the airline carpenter and into the gaping tube that demands we relinquish all control of our lives, cast our fate to the wind, and kiss our glorious derrieres au revoir.

We pedestrian souls - known as passengers of a more classless order - rummaged behind our classy leaders. Before I handed over my pass and ID, Mr. Aziz was paged a third time.

A grave situation

At this point I'm prepared to drive home. Are you kidding? I was prepared to crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass to get home.

Of course, I didn't. Instead, I bartered my soul a couple dozen times - and that was just going through the tube - and sat down dutifully in a United seat designed to hold a skinny hijacker, but not an editor of ample importance.

The plane crept along the tarmac and chugged to a stop. A few minutes later we were informed we were in a delay. We weren't entirely disappointed. After all, the storm was raging outside but we were snug and dry. We were still held securely in the good earth's bosom by that unflinching, albeit baffling, ingredient gravity. And Mr. Aziz never got on the plane.

In-flight insight at 38,000 ft.

Ultimately we were airborne and quickly went about spilling our cocktails in our laps as the weather tossed our 757 around like a rubber duck in a bathtub of crocodiles.

I comforted myself in the fact that I had not felt sufficient panic as to change my life over Mr. Aziz. For surely he's a fine lad who simply missed his plane. In fact, as the storm's turbulence buffeted us about, I envied him. At least he was on the ground. And I had overcome my concern for him.

As for the 123 plane mates of mine, I can only account for the woman sitting in front of me, who half-stood up from her seat in mid-flight and turned to me. "That was pretty stupid of us, back there, huh?" she said. I nodded. "Makes you wonder how much we really stand for." I nodded again.

The woman was African-American, with large, acquisitive eyes, and confessed toward the end of the flight that she too had a fear of flying she had never been able to completely overcome. The storm, fear, and hanging in the air at 38,000 feet, had grounded us.

Larry Berteau is editor of The Tidings.