Of all the words I want to hear from a pilot, those have to be the last ones. “What is it?”
“The plane is grounded.”
“Is it in trouble?” Yes, it’s a bad joke, but if I didn’t crack a joke, I was going to go off on this guy. And that won’t do anyone any good.
“Something like that. It’s the steps that collapse to let you on and off the plane. They’re broke.”
“Broke?”
“Yes, broke. They won’t retract.”
“How did you get down?”
“They weren’t broke then.”
“But they are now?”
“Yes. They’re broke now. We can’t take off.”
“Okay, let’s fix it!” I stand up and clap my hands. “I’m not handy per se, but I can help. How do we fix it and get this plane in the air and off to Nashville.”
His face turns more serious. “We don’t.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t think I heard you right. Did you say we don’t?”
“I’m sorry Mr. Gallagher. We don’t have the parts needed here since this is a private air strip. I know it seems silly, but it’s a deeper issue I’m seeing. It would take a day for me to get the part I need here.”
“I don’t have a day.”
His shoulders slump. “I’m so sorry. I wish?—”
I hold up my hand to him as I grab my duffle bag. “I know you are. And I’m not mad at you. I just need to get to a fucking plane. The love of my life is in labor with our son and?—”
“I understand,” he says, typing something into a phone. “Mr. Matthews, the owner of the plane, normally uses a car service that isn’t located too far from here. Let me call you a ride to the airport.”
I let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I’m sorry if I snapped.”
He finishes typing in his message. “Don’t apologize. Let’s get you back to Nashville.”
From his mouth to God’s ears.
7:45 p.m. CT /5:45 p.m. PT
“I’m sorry sir, I can’t help you.”
I shake my head at the ticket counter agent, who’s sporting a spectacular mustache, because I had to have heard him wrong. Yes, I know that when I searched on my phone on the drive over that I couldn’t find a flight, but I assumed that was a user operator error. Surely, he has to havesomething.
“You can’t help me? As in you’re going on break and I can move one window down?”
“No. As in, I can’t help you get you back to Nashville tonight.”
“Can someone help me get back to Nashville tonight?”
“No sir. No one can.”
I don’t want to scream, but it’s out of my lungs before I can swallow it back. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me! This is fucking LAX. A huge fucking airport. How are there no flights tonight to Nashville?”
“I’m sorry sir. There’s nothing direct for the rest of the night.”
