TheTraveler

A Monthly Special Feature from The Traveler at TouristTravel.com

The Connecting Passenger
By Tom Schueneman

This is the kind of story that really has no beginning or end, at least that I can describe, since I wasn’t there. But the part of it that I saw was an interesting, somewhat amusing, and very curious end to a flight across the country inside what I now call the “Torture Tube”. (I am saddened by this name, as I really love airplanes so much – just not riding in the back of one.)

In any case, it is the typical mild torture, albeit much alleviated due to our position in the exit row just over the wing; I could actually set up a cot between my seat and the one ahead of me, which would be a lot more comfortable than the seat I am in, built for a human of decidedly smaller proportions than mine.

With no window to guide me in my official position of emergency exit door keeper, I keep wondering, after our announced approach to SFO, when we would roll into the right turn the often denotes final approach; turning north up the bay toward the two runways running north-northwest. We were on the ground with me still waiting for the roll to the right. When I heard the wheels go down, I pondered why it might be that we would be landing straight ahead in the Pacific Ocean.

Of course, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing, and, unlike me, the pilots know enough to get the plane on the ground at SFO and rolled up to the gate like they’ve done a thousand times before.

The seat belt sign clicks off and the folks that aren’t already up and grabbing for their stuff proceed to do so in anticipation of the single file procession off the Torture Tube.

After a few seconds, the head attendant announces on the sound system that due to some tight connecting flights for some passengers, everyone should have a seat. A gate agent was coming on board to make another announcement. This seems odd as our arrival at SFO is actually 18 minutes ahead of schedule.

Both my inner voice and a disembodied female voice expresses surprise as everyone does, in fact, sit down as instructed.

Everyone is now sitting, slightly anxious and jittery - ready to get off the plane.

Across the aisle from us the attendant sits in her jump-seat facing in toward the back third of the plane. She picks up the phone in the bulkhead next to her, listens for a moment and says, “It’s like what we talked about?” Then put the phone back in its cradle.

A few more seconds pass and three big, burly, and fully armed SFO cops board the plane and head, resolute and determined, straight for the back. It appears they know exactly where they are headed. One of the three stays toward the front of the plane, blocking any possible escape route for, well, everyone on the plane.

As the two cops pass by us, I notice one of them has his nightstick drawn.

They stop at a man sitting about six or seven rows behind us. Since there is nothing else to do but watch, I do, as do most of us. Jayne is intensely curious, but I think her natural predilection to do nothing to attract too much attention kicks in; she keeps her nose in her book and requests that I keep her informed.

The cops speak in low tones to the man. I think they determine his identity and that is about all there is. The jig is apparently up.

They then talk briefly to a woman across the aisle from the man they are about to detain and escort off the plane. It looks like they check her ID – I think I hear one of the cops ask for her passport – after which they hand it back to the woman and focus their attention once again upon the man, saying simply, “Okay, let’s go”

They do not handcuff the man, but he has nowhere to run. You’re trapped. A definite drawback in making your getaway in a jetliner.

The man stares passively, straight ahead, as he walks by. He has on a casual pastel-colored shirt unbuttoned over a plain t-shirt, with khaki pants. He looks as if he is coming home from vacation.

The two cops follow behind, the one pulling his nightstick back out just as he passes by our row.

And they are gone.

There is an awkward silence and motionlessness: What now? What just happened?

Then the attendant comes back on the public address system: “Okay folks, that was our connecting passenger”. And with a relieved, nervous laugh from all but one of the passengers (now gone), we collect our things and leave the airplane.

The fun of this story is wondering what the little scene we had just witnessed was all about.

I haven’t a clue, but it’s fun to guess.

Suggestions are welcome.

Postlude:

We return home and begin unpacking only to find a note from the TSA in not just one, but both of our bags announcing that they have been “physically inspected”.

Coincidence?

Toms Schueneman appears as his alter ego The Traveler every month in his monthly newsletter.

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