Since time began, man has wanted to fly. In the old days, he looked at birds and made them Gods. He wondered what the view would be like from way up there. Man was envious. Centuries after his lust for flying began, he flew thanks to the Wright Brothers, Santos Dumont and many others. Now man can fly as far and as high as he wants. Yet, today flying is miserable.
The first thing I would ask a flight attendant, if given the opportunity, is: did you want enjoy the glory of what a flight attendant used to represent or did they not accept you as a guard at Riker’s Island? Flight attendants are like Nazi Prison Camp guardians. They do not talk, they do not smile. They grunt and glare and say three things: chicken or pasta, pull your seat up now, that needs to be turned off immediately. You are not allowed to talk back to a flight attendant, crack jokes or complain about anything. You will be arrested upon landing.
Flight attendants play their own little games, too. Their favorite one seems to be smash elbow. This is where they will drive the cart up and down the aisle as fast as possible, eyes closed, and count how many elbows they can smash into.
On International flights, in economy, there are two carts: one with drinks, one with food. The one with food has two flight attendants and goes first. Right behind it is the drink cart but with only one attendant. The food cart goes three times as fast: they have two people (basic math) and it is easier to throw a tray of food than a cup of liquid. Therefore, if you fly economy, you will always finish your chicken or pasta before you get your drink or $6.00 MD 20/20 tasting “International Flagship” wine.
Now, the next source of misery are stupid fliers. If you don’t have an elementary school education, you should not fly. There is a simple order to where seats are located on a plane. There are numbers and letters, 23A, 28G. When you get on a plane, there is a flight attendant to help guide you. She will ask everybody to show a boarding pass, which has a seat assignment. Then, you will be pointed in the right direction. This flight attendant located at the boarding door is a backup for cases of stupidity. At this point, even a monkey could find its seat. But, incredibly, some people still cannot. Extreme stupidity has no solution. If you have trouble finding your seat, you should not fly. If you sit down in the wrong seat, you should be escorted off the plane, no questions asked. Why? Because when you get asked whether you want chicken or pasta, your brain will explode. By then, we’ll be in mid flight and have to land due to the mess.
An elementary school education also comes in handy when asking for a drink. They have some sodas, juices, coffee, warm beer and two 7 Eleven wines (but no brown paper bags). You have the option to ask what they have. If, after the flight attendant tells you everything available, you ask for tea, you should never fly again.
The TSA does a decent job of screening for weapons, liquids and patting down old ladies. But, they need to search and seize Cuban and homemade food. This is a weapon of torture. In a plane, you are no better than sardines in a can. There is no air nor space and having to smell this vomit is on the level of waterboarding.
If you are male between the ages of 14 and 60, you need to man up. For the love of testosterone, don't bring a pillow on the plane. Yes, airlines have done away with this luxury. Of course, the seats are as comfortable as those at Fenway. But, what has happened to toughing it out? These men should have their pillows removed to help get them back on the path to being a man. It is fine for kids, women and senior citizens. Back in the day when we dreamed of flying, a man would sleep on rocks and under a tree but never brought his own hay to make a pillow.
We all know people who fly first class are rich. They made their millions by inheriting it, screwing someone or a few of them through hard work and luck. Yes, they will enjoy a certain luxury in the air for a few hours while having paid ten times the price of economy. Yet, when we economy fliers get off the plane, the first class cabin always looks as if a tornado came through there, with blankets, food, water bottles, newspapers strewn about as if it had been Armageddon. When the firsters board the plane, they will plow through us serfs while looking down on us. Then, we are made to walk through their waste when we get off. It says a lot about rich people.
Bait and switch is illegal. This is when you advertise one product, expound in its glory and amazingness, yet after purchasing it, the buyer realizes it is no better than a two day old turd. The government allows the airlines to bait and switch. Television commercials demonstrate happy fliers. They smile, they wave goodbye, hug hello, they sleep happily on the plane, the flight attendants smile, the person eats well and can’t seem to wait to fly again. It is as if the life got touched by the magic wand of nirvana.
The product is not like that. Open the American Airlines magazine and you will find a page with dry snot, tons of ripped pages, the crossword puzzle filled out and sticky substances on the cover. Your knees are stuck against the seat in front of you. It is then that the guy will decide to push his seat back right on top of your knees. Now, your eyes and his balding, dandruff filled head are two inches apart. You can’t eat, you can’t read, you can’t work and you can’t put your own seat back because the guy behind you is 6’7”. His knee is your armrest. The guy next to you is burping and taking ear wax out of his ear with his pointer finger and making little balls of wax. What an interesting dinner it will make: dandruff falling from above the tray and little yellow curry balls from the left. To your right and across the aisle is a little kid hate because he is oblivious to the hell and torture that surrounds you. Looking up, you notice one of the panels on the wall is held on to another panel with duct tape. There are still eight hours to go. Chicken or fucking pasta.
Car executives were smart. They flew in their own planes and got skewered by Congress when they went to DC. The second time around, they drove. It says a lot when someone would rather spend 12 hours in a car made by GM or Chrysler, instead of two hours in a plane. Over a hundred years ago we should have been careful what we had wished for.
Showing posts with label life lesson. Show all posts
Showing posts with label life lesson. Show all posts
Sunday, June 14, 2009
Monday, October 20, 2008
Coffee for Evelio
A day or two after moving to Miami, I was desperate for a haircut. Steve, my landlord, was the first person I got to know in Miami. Evelio, was the second. I ran into his barbershop by accident and came away with one important lesson.
Steve had suggested where to get a haircut. He told me of a great place, the best in Miami, that few people knew of. There was a terrific hair stylist with whom he could make an appointment for me. But, I mentally paused on the term hair stylist. A vision played out in my mind of a guy with a lisp, methodically stretching my hair out, cutting it with his clippers, all the while his pinky fingers sticking out. Steve told me the best thing about this place was that it was not far and would cost only $35.00. Calmly, I thanked Steve. I asked for the phone number, told him I’d set it up myself and that simply pointing me in the right direction was more than sufficient. I thanked him and went on my way to find a barber shop with a candy cane.
When I met Evelio the barber for the first time, I saw an old man who appeared to never have had a decent meal to eat in his life. He was softspoken and always seemed to smile. Evelio would wear the white barber flock, his name in cursive, that never had a rogue hair hanging out on it. Evelio's hair way gray and thinning, combed back in his attempt to hide the ongoing loss. It was unlikely, I thought, that he’d go for regular haircuts.
Like so many older Cubans, Evelio never lacked for things about which to complain. But, he had a unique way of conveying annoyance at everything he saw as wrong. Evelio would hesitate, look around before sheepishly admitting that something was bothering him. He would speak just above a whisper after moving closer to my ear, while the blades kept churning to cover up his words. Was it worry that still, fifty years later and in the United States, someone would be listening in that would turn him over to authorities?
Evelio feared the wrath of God and hurricanes too. The barbershop had crosses, rosaries and pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. He had a hand painted sign that said, in Spanish, “Paying bills maintains friendships.” Another one said, “CASH ONLY.” He had been cutting hair since he was a young man in Havana. Apparently, he worked at the best barber shop back then and was known throughout the city. Sometimes, as I’d listen to him harken back to his hair cutting all star days, I’d feel sad, as if the time and distance from home blurred realities. It does for all of us.
While waiting for my turn, I would observe this kind old man. For being over 70 he’d move with surprising energy and alacrity. But, he also needed someone to keep reminding him of where he had placed a guard, or oil, or talcum powder. That someone was himself. We all talk to ourselves once in a while and Evelio was no different.
For two years I would go to Evelio’s to get my haircut. His barber shop was located in a run down strip mall on the border of Little Havana. There was a dollar store, a liquor store and a coffee shop, from where I would bring coffee for all that were in there. Sometimes, there would be one or two seemingly homeless guys that would wait their turn outside to sweep Evelio’s floors for a buck or two. His shop was hidden in plain sight under a sign that said, simply, “Barber Shop.” And, it had a candy cane. Sometimes, when I would get bored, I would just go to sit and listen to all the old Cubans yell, scream and complain at Evelio’s. It was entertaining. Except Evelio. He’d whisper something in a person’s ear, but I could not hear him because of the clippers.
I realized one day that there were more friends and visitors at Evelio’s than actual customers. He admitted to me that business was not good. Evelio told me that no one wanted to get a quality haircut anymore, no scissors, shaves or men talk. He’d whisper to me about the new generation being corrupted with blowouts, fades, and things unbecoming nice young men. Then he’d jump back look at me and shrug his shoulders, as if accepting his fate.
One day, I told him that I would be moving to the other side of Miami. See, Miami is a geographically a very large city. The area of Kendall where I had bought a house would be 20 miles west of Evelio’s, as far west as civilization dared go before confronting alligators and other nefarious creatures. Evelio was happy for me as he was for any news that I brought him about my life in Miami. Evelio would shake my hand with both of his, wildly, and a genuine smile across his face.
That day, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would walk out of Evelio’s barbershop. Sure, I was moving but I figured that on my way to and from meetings in the future, I could always stop back at Evelio’s to get my haircut, listen to some stories, laugh a little or drink some jet fuel coffee.
In my new neighborhood, they opened a new Hair Cuttery, at a new mall, with a newly paved parking lot. It was so close, I could walk. It had new paint and a synthetic feel. Pictures of the Virgin Mary were replaced by magazine cut outs for some gel or shampoo. No candycane outside the door. Gripes about life and doctors and politicians and Castro and bills were replaced by music, hair dryers and the credit card machine puking out its receipts. My life had become more hectic and the convience offered by the Hair Cuttery was valuable, even though it cost $20.00.
On occasion, I would think of Evelio and how he was holding up. He was one that always told me to work hard, fight but to never lose my soul. Five or six years later, I happened to drive right past the strip mall where I would first go and get my haircut. Everything was boarded up and for how long, I didn’t know. I had to pull in front Evelio’s window, which was now covered with plywood as if awaiting the fury of a hurricane. Mine was the only car in the parking lot. No homeless. No coffee shop. No dollar store. No more coffee for Evelio. I knew he’d be proud of me for my hard work and how I had fought adversity over the past few years.
Alone in that parking lot, I felt a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe. In five years I had not found one hour to drive to Evelio’s to just say hello. Now, his fate that he had so matter of factly accepted that one day in a spirited matter, had befallen him and he was no where to be found.
Steve had suggested where to get a haircut. He told me of a great place, the best in Miami, that few people knew of. There was a terrific hair stylist with whom he could make an appointment for me. But, I mentally paused on the term hair stylist. A vision played out in my mind of a guy with a lisp, methodically stretching my hair out, cutting it with his clippers, all the while his pinky fingers sticking out. Steve told me the best thing about this place was that it was not far and would cost only $35.00. Calmly, I thanked Steve. I asked for the phone number, told him I’d set it up myself and that simply pointing me in the right direction was more than sufficient. I thanked him and went on my way to find a barber shop with a candy cane.
When I met Evelio the barber for the first time, I saw an old man who appeared to never have had a decent meal to eat in his life. He was softspoken and always seemed to smile. Evelio would wear the white barber flock, his name in cursive, that never had a rogue hair hanging out on it. Evelio's hair way gray and thinning, combed back in his attempt to hide the ongoing loss. It was unlikely, I thought, that he’d go for regular haircuts.
Like so many older Cubans, Evelio never lacked for things about which to complain. But, he had a unique way of conveying annoyance at everything he saw as wrong. Evelio would hesitate, look around before sheepishly admitting that something was bothering him. He would speak just above a whisper after moving closer to my ear, while the blades kept churning to cover up his words. Was it worry that still, fifty years later and in the United States, someone would be listening in that would turn him over to authorities?
Evelio feared the wrath of God and hurricanes too. The barbershop had crosses, rosaries and pictures of the Virgin Mary on the walls. He had a hand painted sign that said, in Spanish, “Paying bills maintains friendships.” Another one said, “CASH ONLY.” He had been cutting hair since he was a young man in Havana. Apparently, he worked at the best barber shop back then and was known throughout the city. Sometimes, as I’d listen to him harken back to his hair cutting all star days, I’d feel sad, as if the time and distance from home blurred realities. It does for all of us.
While waiting for my turn, I would observe this kind old man. For being over 70 he’d move with surprising energy and alacrity. But, he also needed someone to keep reminding him of where he had placed a guard, or oil, or talcum powder. That someone was himself. We all talk to ourselves once in a while and Evelio was no different.
For two years I would go to Evelio’s to get my haircut. His barber shop was located in a run down strip mall on the border of Little Havana. There was a dollar store, a liquor store and a coffee shop, from where I would bring coffee for all that were in there. Sometimes, there would be one or two seemingly homeless guys that would wait their turn outside to sweep Evelio’s floors for a buck or two. His shop was hidden in plain sight under a sign that said, simply, “Barber Shop.” And, it had a candy cane. Sometimes, when I would get bored, I would just go to sit and listen to all the old Cubans yell, scream and complain at Evelio’s. It was entertaining. Except Evelio. He’d whisper something in a person’s ear, but I could not hear him because of the clippers.
I realized one day that there were more friends and visitors at Evelio’s than actual customers. He admitted to me that business was not good. Evelio told me that no one wanted to get a quality haircut anymore, no scissors, shaves or men talk. He’d whisper to me about the new generation being corrupted with blowouts, fades, and things unbecoming nice young men. Then he’d jump back look at me and shrug his shoulders, as if accepting his fate.
One day, I told him that I would be moving to the other side of Miami. See, Miami is a geographically a very large city. The area of Kendall where I had bought a house would be 20 miles west of Evelio’s, as far west as civilization dared go before confronting alligators and other nefarious creatures. Evelio was happy for me as he was for any news that I brought him about my life in Miami. Evelio would shake my hand with both of his, wildly, and a genuine smile across his face.
That day, I didn’t know it would be the last time I would walk out of Evelio’s barbershop. Sure, I was moving but I figured that on my way to and from meetings in the future, I could always stop back at Evelio’s to get my haircut, listen to some stories, laugh a little or drink some jet fuel coffee.
In my new neighborhood, they opened a new Hair Cuttery, at a new mall, with a newly paved parking lot. It was so close, I could walk. It had new paint and a synthetic feel. Pictures of the Virgin Mary were replaced by magazine cut outs for some gel or shampoo. No candycane outside the door. Gripes about life and doctors and politicians and Castro and bills were replaced by music, hair dryers and the credit card machine puking out its receipts. My life had become more hectic and the convience offered by the Hair Cuttery was valuable, even though it cost $20.00.
On occasion, I would think of Evelio and how he was holding up. He was one that always told me to work hard, fight but to never lose my soul. Five or six years later, I happened to drive right past the strip mall where I would first go and get my haircut. Everything was boarded up and for how long, I didn’t know. I had to pull in front Evelio’s window, which was now covered with plywood as if awaiting the fury of a hurricane. Mine was the only car in the parking lot. No homeless. No coffee shop. No dollar store. No more coffee for Evelio. I knew he’d be proud of me for my hard work and how I had fought adversity over the past few years.
Alone in that parking lot, I felt a heaviness that made it difficult to breathe. In five years I had not found one hour to drive to Evelio’s to just say hello. Now, his fate that he had so matter of factly accepted that one day in a spirited matter, had befallen him and he was no where to be found.
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