Iâ€™m sitting in a chair in an airport. Waiting on yet another flight. Taking a drag on a cigarette, trying to read the States-Item. Hard to concentrate since itâ€™s been such a long day.
The best routing at the best price the travel agency could give me home to Minneapolis is a Braniff hop via a torturous route: Shreveport, Fort Smith, Tulsa, Kansas City, and Omaha. At least itâ€™s a pretty comfortable jet, not one of the old prop jobs, which is why I went for it. If you have to hop around the midwest, might as well do it in style. Itâ€™s a brand new British type, a BAC 1-11. The one sitting on the tarmac, my ride home, is painted a kind of weird tan that the airline refers to as â€œochre,â€ but it glows like an orange fireball in the early evening steamy Louisiana sun.
The intercom in the boarding area crackles to life. â€˜Mr. Donnelly, Mr. Sean Donnelly, please see the Braniff ticket agent at gate 12,â€™ a disembodied voice pronounces.