Even with Huey kneading gentle biscuits into my thigh, I can't help but feel a little sad for the future I thought I'd have.
Dustin
Paidin-flightWiFiisa scam. They already have the infrastructure for it—case in point, you can watch the plane move on the map, you can watch movies, and you can browse their shopping guides. We, the passengers, are already paying hundreds of dollars to cram ourselves into the world's least comfortable seats for hours on end. The airlines nickel and dime us for luggage that's even a fraction of an inch bigger than their arbitrarily decided dimensions.
But theyhaveinternet connectivity on board. It's not very strong, but it exists, and they have the unfetteredaudacityto charge anywhere from eight bucks to forty (depending on airline and flight time) for the privilege of checking my email. And responding to emails. And stressing about all the other emails that came in while we were boarding and ascending.
Due to the amount of work traveling I'm forced—I mean, happy—to do, I opted for the monthly pass. So far, the only thing it's gotten me is a slightly less frustratinglog-in experience. Yet here I am, paying fifty dollars a month for the pleasure of squeezing myself into a middle seat and typing like mad as more and more messages flood in.
The man on my left grumbles as my elbow dares enter his space. I really am trying to stay confined, but my six-foot-three frame wasn't built for these seats. He flaps his newspaper and clears his throat, shooting me an annoyed glare. An actual newspaper. People still read those? Wild.
"Sorry," I grumble and shove my earbuds in. Maybe they'll puncture my eardrums, and I won't have to listen to the high-pitched whine of the engines or the weird recirculated air conditioning.
A notification from Pete, my boss, pops up in the corner of my screen. I'm apparently missing a meeting right now. Even though I declined the invitation and sent an email explaining my absence, he didn't read it. I quickly tap out a response and ask for the recording to review later.
And I always review the recording. My speech-to-text program takes detailed notes, which I then file in my drive. My whole life is in the cloud, really. Of course, they're perfectly separated between "Professional" and "Personal." No wires are ever crossed. Noboundariesare ever crossed. Well, besides the fact that my working hours have long stretched from a normal nine-to-five to about eight-to-nine. AM to PM, that is.
Just as I clear the last of the pile, another message pops up in my inbox and I stifle a yawn. It's a list of all the people I have meetings with tomorrow. Team leads, middle managers, directors—you know, the usual. First on the docket is Kelly Fallon and Brooke Dunne regarding the Front End Engineering org. That shouldn't take too long, even though our meeting is slated to last two hours. Then I'll meet with Jim Reyes for Support, Shireen Abbas for Product Management, and lastly—thank god—Liza Maher with Customer Education.
I don't think I'll have time for a real lunch, but when do I? My stomach growls angrily at the thought, and I realize I still haven't eaten anything today. Though, in my defense, I couldn't handle the idea of eating anything substantial when I woke up at three in the morning to catch this flight. None of the good restaurants were open at O'Hare before boarding.
Luckily, Atmosphere—the company I work for—has set me up with the corporate apartment in Chelsea, and I'm allotted $75 a day for food, not including business dinners. To tell the truth, I don't need the stipend. Every cent I earn is budgeted and accounted for before I receive it. With the help of coupons and bulk shopping, I've made significant headway on paying my mortgage off early and growing a healthy nest egg.
But I'm not one to turn down company money. $75 a day? Surely, I can grab a nice salad and some grilled chicken for less than that when we land at LaGuardia.
My back twinges as I try to readjust myself in the plane seat. I can't wait until we touch down on the tarmac—I need to unfold myself from this god-awful chair and stretch my legs. Eyeing the time, I consider closing my laptop a few minutes early. It's so tempting. I could claim connection issues, or catastrophic turbulence, or… something. Would anyone even notice? Pete, probably.
In the time it takes to decide on keeping my laptop open and active, the seatbelt lights flick back on, and the flight attendants instruct us—mostly me, everyone else is nose-deep in their phones or sleeping—to return our seat trays to their upright position. I pop a quick message in the management group DM letting them know I'm going to be offline until I'm settled in the apartment before slamming the lid shut and stowing it in my bag.
"Finally," the middle-aged woman to my right mutters. "That screen was giving me a headache."
I heave a sigh. "Me, too."
A bus and a subway ride later, I finally emerge onto the gray, frigid Manhattan street. January is a horrendous time to be in New York City, though my beloved Chicago isn't much better this time of year. After lugging my suitcase up the subway stairs, I re-orient myself and make a beeline for the luxury apartment building where Atmosphere keeps a studio.
Except I keep getting turned around. This is ridiculous. Manhattan is a grid; it should be impossible to get lost. You just count. I've got an MBA—I can absolutely count but for some reason, I keep getting farther and farther away from the building. The lack of sleep and food is starting to get to me. My head is pounding, and my temper is rising fast.
My phone rings loudly, which earns me a few glares from other irritated looking people on the street. I frown as I juggle my suitcase and backpack, trying to unzip my coat pocket. My sister Alicia—"Shit."
"Uncle Dusty?" My nephew Orion's squeaky voice sounds out. "Are you in New Nork City?"
"Hey, buddy," I sigh with a smile. New Nork. That's cute. "Yeah, I am. What's up? Where's your mommy?"
"Ummm," he mumbles. "She's in the bathroom. Can I take a message?"
"Very good, champ. I've taught you well. But Uncle Dusty's a little busy right now. Can I call you back in a bit?" I rub my aching temples and accidentally whackmyself in the stomach with my overstuffed backpack, which is currently hanging from one arm.
"No! I want a soup in ear!" Orion yells into the phone and I cringe. He's adorable, and I love my nephew, but he has the worst phone etiquette. It's to be expected of a four-year-old, I suppose.
"A what—oh, a souvenir? Sure, buddy." I scan the buildings lining the street and spy a tourist trap. Tee shirts with 'I heart NY' emblazoned across the chest hang in the windows.Perfect. "I'll get you one, I promise. I have to go now, okay buddy?"
Orion doesn't respond, but I can hear him laughing and yelling in the background. He must have put the phone down somewhere. I sigh again and hang up with a weary smile. Fine. I'll grab him a shirt or a keychain or something, andthenI'll get settled into the apartment. Shoving my phone back into my pocket, I swing my backpack back around and trudge toward the stupid shop.
As I yank open the door, tinny music blares from the speakers—it sounds like a garbled version of a pop song I've heard, but I can't place it. Butgod,it is loud.
"Welcome to New York! Have a cupcake! Only five dollars, and they're baked right here in the city!"
God, that was loud, too. A woman with green hair and matching eyes cheerily smiles at me, gesturing towards her table laden with baked goods. Her smile falters as she scansover me, squinting a little bit. She looks… oddly familiar. Maybe she used to work with me.
