Snowbound!

While after the changes wrought by nine eleven, I had grown to hate some airports, I loved to fly, and that was one of the best perks of the somewhat unconventional way I supported myself. I had always had trouble holding down a conventional job, probably a combination of stubbornness and being a smart ass. Whatever the reason, over the years I had found I could create a decent lifestyle for myself without actually holding down a job. Perhaps it was a personality disorder, but I would gladly work seventy or eighty hours per week for myself just to keep from having to work forty hours per week for someone else. So one January morning as I sat in the boarding lounge of United Airlines at LaGuardia, I reflected back on the path that had brought me to this point.

It started twenty five years ago. I was a twenty-eight year old man who had just suffered through a divorce from a woman who seemed to think the marriage vows of fidelity and exclusivity, while requirements for most people, were somehow optional for her. At first, I had a real tough go of it financially. The job I had could barely cover the rent and utilities for a little dump of an apartment, my child support and enough left over to feed myself. I couldn't afford to go out to the bars and try to meet anyone, so I pretty much stayed at home in the evenings. One evening, out of boredom more than anything else, I wrote a letter to the editor of the magazine I had picked up in a client's waiting room. They had published an article on customer service that I thought was completely worthless, so I wrote chastising them for publishing such drivel. I even made a couple of specific suggestions about how the article could have been better. I actually got a response to my letter thanking me for writing to them, and they even asked me to call the editor. Since the magazine was in New York and I lived in Washington state, the next morning at seven pacific time, which should be ten on the east coast, I dialed the number. The net result of the conversation was that I was invited to submit an article that incorporated my suggestions, and I was promised that if it met their needs, they would pay me three hundred dollars for the right to publish the article in their magazine.

It didn't take long for me to bang something out on my trusty typewriter. Before I mailed it, I offered my neighbor Sandy Grant, a middle school English teacher, a home cooked spaghetti dinner if she would correct my grammar and spelling. So I did have a tiny bit invested in the story when I mailed it to the magazine. Three days later, the article was in the mail, and ten days after that, I got a contract in the mail for me to sign agreeing to give them what they called first publication rights to the article, and to take their money as compensation for those rights. Of course, I showed that to Sandy and told her that if it was really legit and I really got the money, I would take her out for a real dinner to celebrate. Sandy pointed out that when you read the entire contract, it covered any subsequent articles I might submit to the same magazine over the next year.

According to what she read, if I should submit additional articles and should they choose to publish them, we didn't need to sign additional contracts, they were covered by the same contract. So I immediately banged out two more articles, Sandy did her magic with them and off they went. One was taken as it was, the second was sent back with specific suggestions for writing an article with similar information but from a different point of view. Didn't make a lot of sense to me, but Sandy did some tweaking, then showed me where I had to create some new material. It actually took us ten or twelve hours of work to get the new article to a point where it pleased both of us. It took about sixty days to fit the ten or twelve hours in around our real jobs. That article turned out to be quite a bit longer than the first two, and the check they sent me for it was for eight hundred dollars.

In the meantime, I had also submitted a fourth article that was accepted at the original rate, so by the end of the year, I had a sideline job. I was a freelance writer and had earned seventeen hundred dollars doing that. That was wonderful, but it was the tip of the iceberg. About a month after the first article was published, I got a call from the section editor. Seems that the executive director of one of the professional organizations in that industry, which happened to be public accounting, wanted my phone number. The magazine wanted my approval before they gave it to her.

Of course, I told them it was fine to give out my number, but I really didn't think much about it. Then one of the watershed events in my life happened. At six the next morning, my phone rang. I answered by picking up and mumbling "hello, Dave Preston."

A woman's voice said, "Are you the Dave Preston who wrote the article in how to handle difficult customers in Today's Accounting magazine?"

"Guilty," I replied. "to be calling me this early, you must have really liked it or really hated it. I hope it was the former."

"Oh, my God. I never thought to check. Where do you live?"

"Seattle area. So which is it, love it or hate it?"

"Mr. Preston, I did really like it but I am so sorry to have called you so early. What would be a better time for me to call you back?"

"My alarm is going to go off in ten minutes anyway, and I don't think I will be able to go back to sleep, so how about you tell me who you are and let's talk now?"

"Well," she said, "I'm Pamela Hill and I'm the executive director of a professional organizations of women CPA's. And I did like your article. Would you be available to speak at our national convention the third week of May next year? We are meeting in San Francisco and we have fifteen hundred dollars budgeted for each session speaker. And of course, we will provide airfare and ground transportation to and from the convention hotel, a room and all your meals. Does that fit your speaker fees and are you available that week?"

I was twenty nine years old, I can remember many things back when I was three or four, but for the first time I could remember, I was speechless. Dumbfounded. "Da, let, da, hold on while I get to my desk and check my schedule. Can you wait two or three minutes?"

"No problem. The conference dates are May 21 to 24. We like it when speakers can actually stay around the conference and network with our members, but we know that is not always possible. We would have some flexibility on whether you spoke on the twenty second or twenty third."

I walked around my apartment for a couple of minutes, took a deep breath and picked up the phone. "Mrs. Hill, I have checked. Those dates are clear. Do you have a standard agreement you use, or do I need to send you one of mine?"

"I've got a copy of what we used for one of the other speakers. Would that be okay?"

"Sure," I replied. "Do you need me to give you my address or do you have it?"

I gave her my mailing address and told her I would get the contract right back to her, and I sat back in almost stunned silence. I have my phobias, but speaking in public is not one of them. I spoke competitively for my FFA chapter in high school, I was on the debate team in college, and I was president of my Toastmasters Club. I was too shy to ask a woman to dance with me in a bar, but I could stand up in front of three or twenty three or twenty three hundred and speak. And here someone was wanting to pay me for doing that. I didn't understand it at the time, but my life had changed forever.

I learned that there were hundreds of professional journals and trade magazines that were always in the market for good content, and two people who had heard me speak at that first conference got me booked with organization and corporate meetings for the next year. And within three years, I was able to make a living as a writer, speaker and consultant. Don't get me wrong, I'm not famous, I'm not even well known outside of some specific industry groups, but I manage to make enough money that I live a nice lifestyle and have a nice nest egg set aside. And here I am, headed home back to SeaTac after speaking at five conferences in the last two weeks.

My mind was brought back to the present when they started boarding the plane. I had used frequent flyer points to upgrade to first class, so I was in the first group to board. When I fly coach, I prefer an aisle seat, but in first class I usually request a window seat. I got settled in and asked for a Scotch and water. Soon a very friendly older lady, likely in her late sixties, perhaps even in her early or even mid-seventies, took the aisle seat. As the rest of the passengers began to board, she started talking to me. When flying, unless I am really tired or I have to work on something I need as soon as I get off the plane, I am open to talking with my seatmates. She said her name was Cheryl, and soon we were engaged in one of those mindless conversations. Okay, you got me. She had a dazzling smile and I don't care if she was old, she really was cute. And stacked. And dressed to show that fact off, not what I would have expected from someone her age. When she started flirting with me, I flirted back. After all, we were seatmates until we got to O'Hare, where she connected for LAX and I headed for SEA/TAC.

At least, that was what our tickets showed. However, about ninety minutes out of LaGuardia, there was a loud noise from just outside the aircraft, and when I looked out from my window, I could see black smoke coming out of one of the engines. Then the standard issue airline voice came over the intercom. "Ladies and gentlemen," the voice began, "this is your captain speaking. Most of you probably heard the loud noise that came from one of our engines, and some of you saw the black smoke that was coming out of it. Now, this bird will fly all day on the two engines we have left, but United has this strange policy about being very careful with our passengers, and just to be on the safe side, we are going to get this craft on the ground. The closest airport where they can handle us in in Cleveland. So once we land in Cleveland, we will make a quick assessment of whether or not we can make a quick fix on this aircraft, or if we need to find other ways for you to get to your destination. The computer says that just a little over half of you do not have connections out of Chicago, so that probably means that you will need to let anyone who is planning to pick you up at the airport know that there is going to be a delay in your getting home."

"We apologize if our safety concerns create any inconvenience for you, and I assure you that United will do everything in its power to ensure your safe and prompt arrival at your destination. We will be landing in Cleveland in about thirty five minutes, so our flight attendants will be picking up cans and napkins and other trash, we will keep notify you when we begin our decent into the airport. Your cooperation would be greatly appreciated."

A flight attendant came by and talked to both Cheryl and me. The next flight to Los Angles left Cleveland at 9:30 this evening, the next Seattle connection was a red-eye that left Cleveland at 11:40. Both of them were fully booked, so we had been put on standby for the flights. And, since we were being delayed because of equipment problems, if United could not get us on those fights, they did have rooms reserved for us at a hotel just off the airport. While the coach class passengers did not get the individual attention that those in the first class cabin did, the flight attendants were working quickly. There was a Chicago flight leaving about twenty minutes after we were projected to land, and every remaining spot on that flight was being held for those passengers where Chicago was their ultimate destination.

We landed in Cleveland and they shut down the engines immediately. We were towed to an empty gate and allowed to get off the plane. United had a fill crew of gate assistants helping passengers make adjustments to their travel plans, and things were being handled in what I thought was a very professional manner. It was just after noon, and they were handing out vouchers for lunch at any airport restaurant and answering questions very nicely. Of course, not all passengers were happy with the situation, and funny thing was, as the people who were able to get re-booked left the area, the majority of those remaining in the gate area were those unfortunate passengers where there was no easy solution.

Then, I began to sense a change in the urgency the people in the gate were working under. I was actually pretty philosophical about my situation. No one was meeting me at SeaTac, my car was in remote parking. My major objective for the next week was to take my seven and ten year old grandkids to The Old Spaghetti Factory in Seattle. Of course, if my daughter and son-in-law wanted to come along, that would be fine. But I could easily just go with the flow. Then I began to pick up on some undertones in the conversations being had between the airline personnel, hearing bad words like weather and snow. So I wandered down to a bar on that concourse where they had several televisions on. Sure enough, it seemed that something bad weather wise was on the way. The different weather forecasters couldn't agree on what it was, some called it an Alberta Clipper, others a Polar Vortex. Whatever it was, earlier predictions had been it would reach Cleveland in the early morning hours tomorrow. Now, it seemed that it could arrive as early as seven this evening.

Well, I wasn't going to be driving anywhere, so I sat down at what seemed to be the only seat in the bar, a small little two-top in the very back. Just as I was ordering a Scotch and water, a voice behind me said "Dave, you have room for another stranded passenger at your table?" I looked around, saw Cheryl standing there, and pointed toward the empty chair.

We talked for a few minutes and then she said "it looks like we might just be needing those rooms United promised us earlier." I agreed, and we decided that we better go back to the gate and get our room vouchers before all hell broke loose if the airport were to be shut down by weather.

The crew at the gate were getting rather harried by the time we got back, and when we walked up with smiles on our face and calmly talked about what the flight attendants on the plane had told us about rooms, they were almost glad to confirm our bookings at a hotel just outside the airport proper. Then they gave us dinner vouchers, again for any airport restaurant. But, we wandered back to the concourse bar where we had been drinking earlier. We were where we could hear any gate announcements but still sip on an adult beverage, and I suppose we had a couple. We stayed on the concourse, hoping against hope that that whatever was coming might hold off until midnight and we both might still get out of the airport that night. When at about seven thirty it began to snow, and snow heavily, we both realized that we were probably fighting a losing battle. So we had another drink.

Apparently, three drinks was the magic number to help Cheryl get rid of all her inhibitions. She began to explain the dilemma of older women with a libido. "It seems so unfair," she bemoaned, "that all the guys my age who can get it up are chasing after the cute under thirty blondes with perky tits. I'm blonde, I've been told I'm cute, and I have perky tits, so why don't they look at me?"

We were at a table in the back of the bar, and Cheryl was facing me, with her back to the rest of the world. And damned if she didn't flash her tits at me. Pulled up her sweater and there they were. She was braless, and how ever old she was, she was right. She did have perky tits. I'm not the most experienced veteran of the war between the sexes, but the average forty-year-old woman's tits sagged more that hers. I will admit it; I was getting just a little bit turned on. Well, a lot turned on if you just count the part of me below my belt. But, before I could begin to deal with that, I heard my name mentioned on the intercom. "United Passenger Dave Preston please come to gate 27. Dave Preston, please see the attendant at the podium."

"If they need you, they are going to need me pretty quickly," Cheryl said as she stood up, "so I'll just walk down with you." With that we walked down the concourse, and we could see that the snow was falling even heavier than it had been previously.

I identified myself to the attendant, and they asked to see my ticket. Then the young lady turned to me and said "the aircraft for your flight to SeaTac had been diverted to Pittsburgh, because our runways are close to falling below FAA minimums. So here is your hotel voucher. Please stay in the boarding area, we should have a shuttle bus ready to go in about 45 minutes. We know this is a real disruption to your plans, and we appreciate your positive attitude through all of this."

"Do you know anything about my LAX flight yet?" Cheryl asked.

"Why don't you give me your boarding pass, just in case. We are still hopeful that your equipment, which is inbound from Boston, is close enough to make it in before the runways are closed to arrivals. If we can get it on the ground, we can turn it around and get it back in the air. Minimums for takeoff are different from minimums for landing."

However, less that fifteen minutes later, the gate attendant was back and handed Cheryl her boarding pass and a hotel voucher. "Well, we missed that guess. It must be getting really bad out there, your incoming flight has been diverted to Louisville. Usually our winter diversions get sent to Pittsburgh or Columbus. So anyway, we are trying to book both of you on flights that will leave here around noon tomorrow. Have a nice dinner at the hotel. The voucher I gave you is good for your dinner tonight and breakfast tomorrow morning at the hotel. Good luck to both of you. And again, we should have a shuttle ready in half an hour or so."

I looked at Cheryl and said, "guess I will need to phone some people in Seattle to make sure they are not expecting me until tomorrow or even the next day. Shouldn't cause any problems, but I do want to let them know that I'm okay." I left to find the nearest open payphone, and had to go down the concourse two gates to find one. I made my calls and as I came back to our gate, I saw Cheryl talking to a young couple. The woman was crying and the man was trying to console her.

Cheryl saw me and walked over to me. "Okay, Mr. professional speaker high mileage traveler, just how tough are you?"

"How tough am I? Cheryl, I don't follow you. What are you talking about?"

"You tough enough to sleep while an old woman who hardly ever snores is in the other bed in your room?"

"Cheryl, speak English. What is going on?"

"That couple are from a small town about fifty miles from Cleveland. They got married this afternoon, and were headed to New Orleans for their honeymoon. Their wedding limo brought them to the airport and dropped them off. The limo left before they figured out that all flights were being cancelled, and there is no one they can call to run over and pick them up. And since they are local passengers, United does not pay for a room for them. Even worse, there are now no rooms at all available in the immediate area of the airport. So if you will let me crash on the other bed in your room, I will give them mine. It would be a shame for such a lovely couple have to spend their wedding night sleeping in an airport boarding lounge. So you tough enough to suck it up and put up with me."

"God, Cheryl, I remember when my second wife and I were on our honeymoon in Tahoe, the one show that she wanted to see was sold out and a convention had priority for any ticket turnbacks. Then four ladies from Lodi, California stepped up and offered her the extra tickets they had because at the last minute two of their friends had been unable to make the trip. For the next sixteen years that simple act of kindness from strangers was her favorite memory of our honeymoon. Sure I'm tough enough to put up with you."