Flying the Friendly Skies

I’m trying to erase “the former guy” from my cerebral hard drive

Traffic eased along the Interstate as we skirted the western edge of the city in the pre-dawn haze. A freight train sang snatches of a mournful, quasi-Hank Williams ballad in the distance; we saw the bright lights of jumbo jets floating in to land nearby. But we greeted this new day not with the excitement a new adventure had in store, but with that small amount of angst and trepidation that, frankly, has been lingering long in our bellies the past year.

The last time I saw my youngest was March 8, 2020. Her Dad had spent even longer out of visual touch. We’d flown out across the Pacific to see her two Christmases ago. And I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve been in somewhat of a dither, as my Nana would say, wondering if we could pull this last-minute, post-vaccine vacation off. I had my doubts, let me tell you.

We saw a slice of the moon sinking behind the trees as we wound around and through the airport departure lanes. No ever-present hum of comings and goings greeted us as we pulled to the curb, looking beyond construction barricades for the breach that would lead us into the terminal. We hauled our exhausted carcasses out of the SUV and drug our rollies and carry-ons out, as well. No hugs for the driver, our eldest. Just a few caustic remarks thrown out about the ages of most of the departing passengers — all looking like they were on the older Baby Boomer side of life — and the distinct lack of them, even though most of those in that generation near us have been vaccinated. The hustle and bustle that I’ve always associated with air travel just wasn’t there, and this new normal wasn’t really doing it for me.

I’ve wondered during the past year — through the scares and uncertainties and sadness mixed with a few minor victories — if the “former guy”, as he’s now known in presidential parlance, just didn’t “get” it. Or was the problem beyond that? Have we suffered because he had no idea or because he just didn’t give a rat’s ass? Either he didn’t understand, so he couldn’t empathize; or he had no experience in the realm of the average American, so he just couldn’t goddamn relate. Imprisoned for decades in his gilded tower at 57th and 5th Avenue in Manhattan, with obsequious gofers hanging on every misshapen syllable he uttered out of that tiny sphincter of a mouth, he couldn’t see us, so he didn’t have the capacity to feel our pain.

Or, another plausible explanation: His psyche is so damaged he’ll never understand that all of this is his fault. That’s my theory, anyway.

What “regular” guy would put his people — his subjects, in his perverted pugilistic dreams — through these close to 365 days of hell? I don’t know about you, but the last time I went out with friends to eat inside a restaurant was March 13, 2020. The last time I grabbed the handle of a grocery cart without thinking about the germs that might be breeding there was a couple of days after that.

When we all go back to “normal” in this country — whatever that is — I really don’t know what that will look like. Do you?

I remember my underlying pang of terror when our governor announced on March 15, 2020 that the State of Virginia was going into lock down. I remember a couple of weeks later, when the State of North Carolina closed the bridges to its beaches. D.C. and New York soon demanded that visitors quarantine. Hawaii, where we’re headed today, still has the toughest of all restrictions — but also the lowest COVID-19 positivity rate and the lowest death toll of any state in these supposedly “United” States of America.

I remember feeling angry when I learned last summer that 147,000 Americans were dead from what some of my friends with a more liberal bent called the “Trump Virus”. And now more than half a million have perished. On the “former guy’s” watch. Yeah, I blame him, too.

I remember wondering what would happen if someone — Uncle Sam, if he exists; who knows? — told me I wouldn’t ever get to see my youngest, who lives with her husband on the Island of Oahu. He’s a Navy Man. But in the domino effect known as the reaction to the pandemic, deployments were delayed and then cancelled. Everyone in the U.S. Military seemed to be operating in a suspended state of disbelief. Thank you for your service, indeed. And even when you live in Paradise, the wondering can eat at a body’s soul.

I know — quite a few of you are reacting to this screed in the predictably way. The Kids live in Hawaii, for starters. But I don’t. And I know quite a few more of you can relate to the feeling of not seeing — much less hugging, hanging out with, having heated disputes with, even — a loved one for almost a year, because of a selfish fool who fancied him the “president”.

And yet the “former guy” told us everything would be fine. Cases would be down to zero soon, he said; he wanted butts in the pews for Easter Sunday services in April. The heat of the impending summer would bake this virus away. Unfortunately, the only thing that heated up during the Summer of 2020 were racial tensions — exacerbated, like the virus, by a clueless clown in the Oval Office who refused to believe reality.

Our nuclear family, of course, has weathered the scourge of COVID-19. Both my husband and I have our vaccine cards, stamped with proof of two jabs in the upper left deltoid, administered three weeks apart. Our youngest got her first shot last week; her sister was driving an hour away today for a rural vaccine clinic. But even we haven’t been totally immune. Two members of our extended family have perished at the hands of this insidious pandemic predator who calls himself “The Chosen One”; I’m still half holding my breath, dreading any news that someone else I know has been taken. My fear, however, is leavened with hope that Dr. Fauci is right — the more vaccines in arms, the less chance of us having another summer like the last one, where dark clouds reigned even on the sunniest of days.

I read last week that the “former guy” — he who eschewed mask-wearing and questioned the science of almost everything during his reign of terror — received his vaccine in private before leaving office in January. He and his spousal unit, nominally considered the First Lady, hid behind closed doors, I guess, because they didn’t want his “hard core supporters” to know that he was scared, too. Turns out the imbecile who played “Evita” on the Truman Balcony in October — after the fanfare of his return from “vanquishing” the virus himself — might just be a little afraid; a little like the rest of us. He might not want to admit it, but maybe the jackass is a tad bit human after all.

Not to make light of the very serious situation in which this country still remains, but air travel has never been so easy as it was today. The TSA checkpoint was organized, orderly and on point — lines of travelers divided by plexiglass barriers and TSA agents located behind layers and layers of acrylic shields. Everyone was masked-up — many sporting the newest in trendy double protection, with surgical masks underneath more fashionable face-wear. No one hollered about having to stand six feet apart or told agents in judgy tones that their decision not to wear a face covering centered around “my body, my choice”. And as far as I could tell, every person in the place over the age of two was wearing what one of my friends calls “face brassieres”, in a celebratory melange of colors, patterns, logos and statements.

Crowds at our “departure lounge”, as they say in airport lingo, were way down, as were those strolling along the corridors, wheeling various degrees of rolling baggage that resembled mine and scanning the place for their gates. The airport where we made our connection to Honolulu was a little more hectic, but nothing like the last time I wandered these corridors. And more noticeable, at least to me, was the number of airport stores — formerly featuring everything from luxury items to coffee, cola and chips — that were just plain closed. Shuttered because of the pandemic. Because of a greedy grifter who was always in it only for himself, and who would let all of us slide into pandemic oblivion rather than admit for a nanosecond that he might be wrong. I had a little time while I was waiting for the airport train to ponder how many people from just this one location have been out of work the past year. I’m still sad about my approximate calculations.

And I keep telling myself that I’m not going to talk about the “former guy” — nor think about him, nor God forbid, write about him — but I can’t help myself. Those on the right say I am afflicted with some kind of fabricated “derangement syndrome” because of my hatred for the man who thought he knew everything, but showed us he knew nothing. I say they’re the ones who have been deluded by a cult of personality — or maybe just a desperate need to believe in something, anything — that has sunk this country deep into the doldrums of despair.

Of course, I realize that I’m one of the lucky ones. My good fortune, compared to many others, knows no bounds. I’m safe. I’m well. My family continues to thrive. And I’m headed to Honolulu, for goodness sake. No, I’m not scraping by like many Americans. I don’t need a check from the American Recovery Act to jump start my life back to normal. In fact, I hope President Biden gets this critical piece of legislation through Congress so he can focus on getting America — and Americans — back on their feet again. No, I’m not a wealthy banker, just a teacher, living on a modest retirement to get by. And if, by chance, Uncle Sam sends me $1,400, I’ll gladly donate it so others can get a piece of the American Dream, too.

I guess I’m just gonna try to spend my vacation erasing the “former guy” from my conscience. And loving on my Baby Chica. You should try “canceling” him, too. I think we’ll all be a lot better off with that scumbag deleted from our cerebral hard drive.