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Up, up, and away

By RICK RYCKELEY
Contributing Writer

Even a workaholic like me has to take sometime off during the year for a vacation; to rub shoulders with the common folk, to be at one with nature, to find myself again. Yes, it’s very magnanimous (The Wife spelled that one) of me to take a weeklong vacation with The Wife so she can enjoy my company, unimpaired by all that silly work. I’m such a good husband.

Now you people out there in newspaper land, don’t despair. You won’t miss out. I’ll send my column to the editor this week by the wonders of e-mail.

A lot of preparation must be done before one can leave town for a week of rest and relaxation. First, you must cram two weeks of work into one, which is fine if you’re a workaholic like me, er, recovering workaholic. We got a friend to feed the big black dog in the backyard. We got a friend to feed the two kitty cats in the house. We got a friend to drive by and get the mail. We ran out of friends so we sent The Boy off to football camp for a week.

The Boy went on a team bus to South Georgia where it will be 95 degrees in the shade with 95 percent humidity. Up before dawn each day, he’ll be running, hitting pads, and doing drills in the first of three practices under the steamy Georgia sun. He’s gonna sweat a bunch. It’ll be a rough week.

In the morning The Wife and I will catch a plane to Provincetown, Mass., where the highs for the week are to be in the low 60s with zero humidity. Up before dawn each day, we’ll walk the cobblestone streets to the quaint coffee shop down from our cottage, shop at every art gallery we come to, eat hand-dipped ice cream with hot fudge in the afternoon. At the end of each day we’ll dine at one of the many five-star restaurants that overlook the bay and then have a nice relaxing walk on the beach back to our bungalow. We’re gonna have to wear coats in July. It’ll be a rough week but I think The Wife and I’ll make it.

We made it to the airport in plenty of time to catch our flight. Found out that there’re no lines anywhere in Hartsfield-Jackson-Davis-Bush airport at 4:30 in the morning. Nowhere except the main security check point, that is. I knew we were in for a treat when a huge man barely able to squeeze into his light gray, button-up shirt with coffee stains on the front picked up a bull horn. He had dark blue pants with a long gold chain attached to his belt that was straining against enormous pressure. Attached to the other end of the gold chain were about 50 keys, which by the way he was swing them could have been considered a deadly weapon. He announced, “Have your picture I.D. out and ready or you can’t pass. Be prepared to take your shoes off at a moment’s notice!” This security man had a ponytail.

Even at 4:30 in the morning there was a 30-minute wait before we made it to the ponytail with the bullhorn who had repeated his announcement eight times since our arrival. The man in front of me, after taking off his belt and shoes, walked through the metal detector arch. When, after the third try, he finally made it through, I mistakenly thought my turn was next and, in the spirit of expediency, walked up with shoes in hand ready to take my turn at the detector. Bad idea. I couldn’t have been more wrong.

The large security man puffed up, grabbed his bullhorn and announced to everyone standing impatiently in the ever growing, winding security line. “Stand back! You people wait your turn! Don't advance to the checkpoint till we wave you in!” All the time he was yelling his instructions, he puffed up larger and larger.

I stepped back and cringed. Not because of what he was saying. Not because the bullhorn was blasting in my ear. I thought one of his buttons was gonna fly off his shirt, hit me in the head and I’d fall down dead right there. Boy, now THAT would’ve backed up the line further than the way DOT recently “fixed” the GA. 400 exit. I wanted to throw one of my shoes at him. The Wife said no. This security man had issues.

After the ponytail finally waved me through the metal detector, he leaned over and told me that next time I was to make sure I waited till he waved for me before I approached the detector. I was just about tell him what he could do with his bullhorn, but The Wife reminded me that getting arrested by a large security man with a ponytail and thrown in jail was nowhere in our schedule for the day. So I listened to The Wife and for once kept quiet and got on the airplane (unlike the person we sat across from who didn’t have a nice caring wife like mine to poke him in the ribs to point out when it was a good idea to stop talking).

As our plane took off, I settled back for a short three-hour nap to recover from my ordeal with the ponytail. Or so I thought. The person seated behind us started to talk in a loud voice about everything. He talked about his health, his fight with his neighbor, the homeowners association, what the house next to his should look like, how his new neighbor was ruining the aesthetics of the golf community, and the lawsuit he’s gonna file to stop the builder. On and on and on, the man talked relentlessly for three hours. No nap for yours truly.

All I wanted to do was turn around and say, “Dude! Shut up! It’s nap time!” But The Wife, ever so mindful of how important good public relations are, with another poke to my ribs told me not to. I sure she was right. The talkative guy was probably head of security at Hartsfield-Jackson-Davis-Bush airport, and best buds with Mister Ponytail.

If you think getting to our vacation spot on the Cape was interesting, wait till you read what happened when we got there. But that’s another story for another time.