I went to the check-in line, which was very long, and after fifteen minutes, I started to sweat. The security line was as long as at an outlet mall on Black Friday.
I showed my ticket to a Delta agent on the floor, and she further distressed me by saying, “You’re on the wrong line.”
No! How did you screw this one up?
“Oh, my God, I need to go through immigration and everything and I won’t make the plane in time,” I said to her.
“No,” she laughed—laughed! “You should be on the BusinessElite line.”
“The what?”
“Your ticket—it’s for business class.”
“It is?”
“You booked it and you don’t know?” she then said, eyeing me.
Terrorist / wanted killer / baby snatcher trying to board!
“Oh, the band—they booked it for me.”
“The what?”
“My husband, he’s in a rock band. The, um, The Pan. Have you heard of them?”
You are such a fool! The Pan Band? You should be arrested just for that.
The agent looked at me blankly. “No, I don’t think I have. It’s the line right over there,” she said, handing me back my ticket.
First class? Why Donald, I didn’t think you cared!
The line was short—that’s how the rich do it—and the woman at the counter quickly checked me in, surprised that I had no luggage to check. All I had was the terrible fake Vuitton carry-on and my red bag.
“My husband’s in a rock band. They forwarded my stuff to Istanbul.”
“Really? Wow! Do I know them?”
“Pan,” I replied—again!—which caused her also to immediately lose interest in my exotic life as the wife of a rock star.
“Just go to the Elite security check-in on the far left.”
That line was nearly empty, and I sailed through immigration in no time, thanks to the help of one of Delta’s Elite agents. Yes, when you’ve got a big-ticket ticket, you are treated like a rock star. Even if your husband is in the Pan Band.
I even had time to sit in the first-class lounge for a few minutes. It kept me out of sight of the cops patrolling the airport terminal.
I walked in, showed my ticket, ordered a big glass of Chianti, plopped down at an Internet carrel, and logged in as
[email protected].
Nothing.
Within fifteen minutes, they announced that the flight was boarding, and I proceeded to the gate, showed my ticket and passport, boarded without incident, settled into a big, luxurious seat, and took the glass of champagne the flight attendant offered. Bliss: No one was seated next to me and I was drinking champagne. Too bad my new friend had been brutally murdered and I was wanted for Murder One.
It wasn’t until the plane’s door had closed and the Jetway was beginning to roll back that I finally relaxed. Good luck with that. Abruptly the Jetway began rolling back into place and the airplane door in front of the Elite cabin opened. Six police officers and four men in suits boarded and immediately conferred with the captain.
Oh, God.
The captain’s voice came on the PA: “No problem folks.” Right. “Just a quick random check by these fine officers to make sure everyone’s passports are up to snuff. Can’t be too careful in these times.”
Horse crap!
The officers began looking up and down the rows, checking random (my ass) passports. When they approached my row, I voluntarily offered up my passport. They looked at the photo, looked at me, looked back at the photo.
“Miss, Za-lucky-Jay?”
“Yes,” I said, automatically touching my hair. “It’s terrible, right?” I asked, trying for some humor. Or something.
The officer didn’t acknowledge my remark at all and instead waved over a colleague who was busy checking the IDs of what looked like an honest-to-God rock-star couple two rows up: ugly guy with bad teeth, spectacular girlfriend.
The agent handed his colleague my passport when she arrived at my seat.
“Miss Zalucky-Jay?” she inquired.
“Yes,” I said again, touching my red spiked hair.
“May I ask why you’ve traveled to several countries in the Mideast?” Oh, no. Tell the truth that you’re a reporter, and you’re dead; lie and you’re dead.
I went for the lie. “Well, not for a looong time. My husband’s in a rock band. Played for the troops. I was the publicist. The Pan—ever heard of them?”
“Yes, I have,” she answered inexplicably. Then she conferred with the male officer. As they were doing that, the rock couple started complaining. Loudly. In rock-star Cockney.
“Bloody hell,” the man said, “I have to make a connection to Istanbul. This is bullshit!”
His companion, a platinum-blond, hard-body, rocker chick, started laughing. Very loudly.