I needed to take a family-emergency trip to Florida, and all the ordinary Internet cheap-airfare searches came up blank because it's Spring Break time for some of the college set. So I tried priceline.com, that "name your own price" service advertised on television by Capt. Kirk's alter-ego, William Shatner.
Priceline works like this: You say where you want to leave from, where you want to go to, and how much you're willing to pay. You find out an hour later whether an airline has accepted your offer, in which case your credit card is charged. But if at first you don't succeed, try, try again, making minor modifications to your travel plans. Just be careful about setting your departure day as a day on which you're scheduled to work, "just to see what happens." You might get it.
Priceline asks you what level of inconvenience you're willing to accept in order to get tickets at your desired price. You can agree to make up to two connections, endure long layovers, fly on something other than a jet (Read: Treetop Express Airlines. Fasten your seatbelts.), depart and arrive at "non-peak" times (Read: Before God gets up in the morning, and after He is sawing logs.).
So I'm thinking: Isn't it inconvenient enough to be sealed in a pressurized steel tube, stuffed into a chair that's amply sized for Ally McBeal but not the rest of us, given enough leg room to ensure the cessation of blood flow to my feet, and anticipate for the entire flight having to hear the formerly gruff flight attendant say cheerily, "Thank you. Buh-bye. Thank you. Buh-bye. Buh-bye now. Buh-bye"?
So, $300 poorer (my $250 offer plus taxes and "airport fees"), I board a Boeing 737 jet. I find the gods have smiled upon me doubly: I'm seated in the first row, ensuring my 6-foot-2 frame quick relief from its contortions at flight's end. And I'm seated between two average-sized women, a vast improvement over my usual fate, which involves two amply-proportioned men who use up the armrests with something other than their arms.
Earlier while waiting to board I'd heard the inevitable, "The flight is oversold and we're looking for volunteers whose travel plans are flexible." My heart always gives a little jump at times like these because I secretly suspect that were there to be no volunteers, they'd first kick off the plane those who'd paid the least for their tickets. Meaning me.
But of course I got on the plane, and it's only after we were all seated uncomfortably that they began dangling carrots before us. They needed two people to debark, and they started the bidding at $350 worth of airline travel.
Warning: Don't try this on an airplane. Being the sociable fellow I am, I turned to the woman on my right and happily announced, "That's more than I paid for my ticket!"
She not-so-happily replied, "I paid $450 for mine." Talk about getting off on the wrong foot.
A few minutes later, after our scheduled departure time had passed, the offer rose to $500. Visions of a European Vacation (minus Chevy Chase, but with that lovely German girl in the lederhosen Rusty has the good fortune to meet) danced in my head. But I sat still.
Seven hundred and fifty dollars. I fidgeted mightily for a moment before two men behind me arose and seized the day.
Two grateful people with inflexible travel plans take the now-vacant seats. Then I get to observe the flight attendant trying to close the bulkhead hatch. Under normal circumstances, I imagine, this would involve pulling firmly down on a long metal bar until a satisfactory click is achieved. In this instance, though, a full minute of struggle produces no results, so the attendant grasps the bar with both arms, stoops down, and actually hangs from the bar, pulling down with her entire weight. The click, mercifully, finally comes.
I turn to the woman on my right. "This isn't exactly encouraging."
"No, it really is not."
We've had our tiny plastic glass of ice cubes, with a little soda to get them wet. Also our hermetically sealed package of four wheat 'n' cheddar crackers (marked "Sample Only, Not for Resale"), adorably tiny Three Musketeers "candy bite" (it's too small to be a bar, not even "Fun Size"), a fruit-filled cereal bar and a moist towelette. So a flight attendant stands at the front of the airplane and announces via the intercom, "We've got some boxes of cookies available for one dollar. Proceeds benefit the American Heart Association."
This "offer" is coming just after Girl Scout cookie season. "Didn't we pay enough for this flight already?" I ask the woman on my right.
"Hmmph," she says, shaking her head. Inside, she's thinking: "Yeah, some more than others."
Later the flight attendant resumes her cookie-sale announcing place, but this time clutches a plastic bag stuffed full of something. I quickly learn via the intercom that it's free samples of Thermasilk ("Heat is good!") shampoo and conditioner. I take one, on the theory that you never know when you'll need hair-care products designed to work better with a blow dryer.
Never one to keep things to myself, I turn to the woman on my right: "Talk about a captive audience for advertising."
"Hmmph," she says.
The captain (of the plane, not the Starship Enterprise) gets on the horn and says all the turbulence that's been tossing us about has forced a slow down, and that plus the time we spent on the ground trying to bribe two people off the plane means we'll arrive at our destination a half-hour late. This doesn't bode well for the woman on my right, who has a connection to catch.
Cheerily, I turn to her and say, "You want to hear my best horror story about being late for a connection?"
"No, probably not," says she, "but go ahead."
So I do. St. Louis airport. Thirty minutes late getting in because of weather. Connecting flight, last one of the night, literally one mile away in another terminal. Have to work the next day. Not exactly in shape. Heavily laden with Florida oranges. Sprinting, running, jogging, walking, near-crawling. Still not there. Wonderful companion outpaces me, arrives at gate to find door shut, jetway retracted from plane and bulkhead hatch closed. Can see pilots preparing to taxi away. Jumps up and down and pounds on window until they see her. Several minutes later, jetway operator pokes head out of door and says, "Can I help you with something?" I arrive several minutes later, and the jetway is extended, hatch opened, just for us. Hot glares of other passengers not felt on our sweaty, flushed skin.
"But that's St. Louis. I'm sure things will be much better for you."
Of course, things are a lot better for me -- sort of. I've got a three-hour layover in Orlando, courtesy of Capt. Kirk and all the other good folks at priceline.com. That plus a roller-coaster ride on a propeller-driven aircraft to my final destination, ending with a nine-point landing (three points, BOUNCE!, three points, bounce, three points), leads me to believe that the bad karma earned from gloating -- however unintentionally -- about snagging a cheap ticket catches up with you faster than you might expect.
This piece is adapted from an article that originally ran March 19, 2000, on Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
