960 miles.

so I am sitting here in a cheap leather chair outlooking the tarmac under gate B60 at denver international airport. its 5:42pm mountain time right now.. at approximately 6:10pm mountain time, I will walk the jetway into my bombardier canadair crj-700 aircraft, climb into seat 1A, and start my journey home. I know the chick who's working the customer service counter, so I have a guaranteed seat in first class. seeing all these familiar faces on the ramp and tarmac as I look out of my fishbowl window takes me back... not only in time, but in persona... I was a completely different person a year ago when I knew the person behind these faces. this guy robert uecker is the gate lead... when I worked here, he was so into his job, he would take the lead position even when it wasn't assigned to him. over the years, mr. uecker was cursed with the habit of frequent methamphetamine abuse, rotting all his teeth, severely discoloring his hair to the shade of grey, and making his face uncontrollably cringe into a comical position everytime the slightest occupational predicament arises. he was an asshole. he'd throw anybody under the bus to please management. as I look at him now, I see him wearing the same colored vest and making the same money that he would be had he not been the company snitch. I'm sitting in my first class seat right now and its not much more lavish than coach, although twice the price. I can't even see why rich white folk and businessmen pay for this seat, except as a crude form of status and snobbiness. I feel terrible sitting in this seat, I've realized. because although I'm indifferent to coach or first class, I see the faces of fellow passengers in coach looking at this section of the airplane with longing and inferiority, as ridiculous as it sounds. my stewardess is a 40 something woman who must have missed out on he twenties, judging by the way her hair is longingly being emulated to that of playboy bunny idiots, along with her colored contacts, and her customized uniform. contrary to popular popular belief, flight attendants make almost no money at all. 14.75 an hour... and that's only for the time they're actually in the air. they get stranded a lot in random cities too with no means of support. after this, I land in monterey, hurry to a tiny, severely outdated propeller plane, and make the terribly bouncy flight into san francisco. from there, I rush to bart and take it all the way to concord where my friend paul is waiting for me.



so long.