The Exit

 

Being the last one off of the plane is tedious.  There is a sea of heads and too many elbows crammed together in single file, all waiting for one or two blocking the flow as they struggle getting their baggage out of the overhead compartment.  Bulky, overweight suitcases holding dirty laundry, overpriced trinkets and bad decisions.    

Along the rows and still sitting are the terminally polite, who let others go in front of them.  They are usually the soft-spoken, meek people who are forever apologizing for things out of their control.   Standing almost out of the way, at the exit door, are the corporate smiles of the flight attendants, muttering their gratefulness for choosing their airline.

I, of course, still standing at the end of the line, wonder if I do make it to the bathroom in time, wherever it is in the terminal, will it be closed for cleaning.  It was last time.  Out of the window I can see the ground crew, already connecting the service lines to the plane and tossing baggage onto a string of carts.  Their bright yellow sound-deadening earmuffs and winter coats tell me I’m back.  "Oh joy."