You Know You're GOING To Montana When...

You know you're going to Montana when on the last leg of your flight you are literally the only person boarding the plane. 

"Well, it's just you," said the chipper flight attendant. 

I looked around at the empty collection of brown plastic chairs straight out of 1970. 

"Wait, you mean it's literally just me on this flight?"  I asked, nervous at the idea of being the sole passenger  on an airplane whose frame  looked  small enough to flatten my already deflating mohawk.

"Oh, heavens no," she responded.  "There are several passengers still on the plane from the first leg that just came in from Seattle. 

After thirteen hours of travel, the last leg of my trip, from Great Falls to Helena, was to be a 20-minute jaunt, rumbling over the uneven mountains of Montana.  It took all the energy I could muster just to get myself down the walkway, across the tarmac, and into the cabin without passing out on my third flight of the day. 

Upon entering, under harsh fluorescent lighting,  I stumbled past a collection of men wearing cowboy hats as round as car wheels, and planted myself in a red leather seat in the last row.  Solace, in the form of "Tales of the City", rested in my hands; a brief diversion to focus my attention at the end of a draining day. 

"You from around here," said a voice that belonged to a pair of blue eyes peering over a seat two rows in front of me. 

"No," I responded, as I momentarily glanced up from my book.  "I'm from New York." 

Most passengers would take the combination of a head planted in a book, the late hour, and stifled answer as a clue to end the conversation there. 

"My girlfriend is from Ohio," he replied.  I was unsure of the connection. 

"Yeah, they're both really far away," I said.  "I'm so tired, it's two hours later to me." 

"My girlfriend is three years older than me."  The measurements, switched from time to age, were enough to prompt my dim brain to shut down. 

Looking down at my lap, I continued reading Maupin's tale of a group of strangers in 1970s San Francisco, and wished I could teleport myself into the pages, into a world where the dialogue wasn't invasive. 

"Our cousin introduced us," he said.  At the use of the word "our," sirens started screaming in my head, ripping me away from the page.  "But she's adopted.  That doesn't make us blood related does it?" 

I engaged all my powers of concentration, and attempted to avoid my natural instinct to run up and down the aisle like a wild banshee. 

"What do you do?"  he asked.  I was relieved at the change of subject.  Possible incest investigations had never been my strong suit. 

"I'm a writer," I said. 

"I want to be an Ichthyologist, that's the study of fish." 

Welcome to Montana. 

Comments

[jolene]

Too funny!! :) The details in your short story are spot on. It reminds me of one of David Sedaris' stories: http://www.newyorker.com/archive/2005/06/13/050613sh_shouts

[Larry]

"I'm a writer," I said.

"I want to be an Ichthyologist, that's the study of fish."

Mebbe you two can collaborate, like write a book on fish.

[A Little Tea or Something]

Brilliant, as is Larry's comment. I also see a David Sedaris connection.

Get some sleep.

[Joanna]

You are a writer, yes, an absolutely wonderful writer.

[Rob]

I'm still confused how it took you 13 hours to get from NYC to Montana...Isnt it only a three-four hour flight? Or is there more adventures to tell? lol

[Michelle]

Fantastic. It's nice to know that Montana is a little like West Virginia.

[demondoll]

I'm still not over "our cousin". I mean, golly.

[Miriam]

HA! Amazing...

[M]

Oh, Rob. If only life were as easy as your comment seems to suggest. There is no direct flight from New York to Montana, which means that no matter what, there is at least one layover. I had two yesterday (a four hour one in Minneapolis, and a brief one in Great Falls)...plus two three hour flights. All adding up to thirteen grand hours of flying. (Once you add in all the travel time getting to the airport, etc.)

Thanks for all the love on this post everyone! Glad to know that it made some sense even though I didn't get nearly enough sleep.

[Rob]

Ah, gotcha now. See, I'm spoiled by my LAX/John Wayne to Newark way of life. I forget other parts of the country dont have it so directly. But getting back to my first post, I was thinking the thirteen hours were going to involve planes, trains and automobiles or something fun like that or signs that said "will dance for ride"...