"Ready to fly again?" Dad asked as I clambered into his car.
"I'm about as ready as I'll ever be..." I nervously trailed off.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll do just fine. Just let me lead ya through, and we'll make it to the farm with no issues."
"I appreciate your confidence, Dad..." I sighed, rubbing my clammy hands together, feeling his disappointment wash over me.
It didn't take us long to arrive at the airport, which thankfully wasn't busy at all (at least, compared to how it usually is). True to his promise, Dad did lead me through the airport like a professional, all while rolling his eyes at my flying phobias. To his credit, he did listen to everything I had to say, but not without repeating them back to me in his usual mocking tone, "Oh yeah, we'll totally hit turbulence so severe the plane's wings will snap off and we'll all plummet to our deaths. Yeah, sure. That will absolutely happen."
When it came time to board the plane, Dad looked at me in the face with an ornery twinkle in his eye and declared, "Guess what I'm gonna have ya do? We're gonna sit as close to the front of the airplane as we can, and I'm gonna have ya take the window seat. If something terrible happens, I'll take the blame for it. But, if nothing bad happens, you have to help make dinner while we're at the farm. Deal?"
I may have pissed myself momentarily, but then gave a sharp nod and replied, "Deal! I think."
Dad stuck out his hand and I grabbed it to complete a firm handshake (I swear, my dad tried to yank my arm out of its socket), sealing the challenge.
Ten minutes later, just like he told me, we were seated in the fifth row on the 737 I've grown to fear. Dad took the middle seat, and I watched out the airplane window at the ground crew doing their jobs. Our plane wasn't full, but empty either. There were lots of people, but when the last person boarded, almost every row of seats had an open seat (or two). Meaning, Dad took the aisle seat, and I sat by the window, prepared to leap into the middle seat if shit got real.
While Dad closed his eyes and napped, I sat in my seat anxious as fuck, wide-eyed and twitchy. I watched as each passenger after me boarded the plane, where I admittedly sized them up in a way, picking out who might be the best helpers if the plane decided to disintegrate 30,000 feet above the world. The vast majority of the people who boarded the plane were wise, ancie- er I mean, senior citizens. The few younger families who boarded were all busy with children. Besides maybe three other people, it seemed like Dad and I were two of the most young, fit, and least burdened people on the plane.
Once the last person boarded the plane, the stewardess who welcomed everyone on board pushed the large plane door shut and locked it, sealing our fate. My anxiety spiked when the locking mechanism snapped shut, as I was now on that plane for good. Either I'd leave the plane in Minnesota, safe and sound, or I'd die a harrowing death along the way. I prayed incessantly for the former.
I glanced over at my dad for guidance. He was pretty much passed out, his earbuds blocking out any outside noises. So, I figured it was best to follow suit. Instead of straining my ears to hear every creak and rumble, I'd start my flight listening to "Darkness and the Light" by the band, Trampled by Turtles, watching as the plane was pushed away from the terminal, and the jets roared to life. Before the song ended, I was pushed back into my seat as the plane's wheels lifted off the ground, and the lights of Denver were soon as twinkly and numerous as the stars in the country night sky. The scariest part of the flight was over.
The rest of the flight seemed to go by in a blur. After spending some time watching out the plane window at the seemingly endless night, I got bored of that and buried my head in my phone, listening to my vast collection of songs and playing Brick Breaker. Almost miraculously, I spent most of the flight a lot calmer now that the anticipatory anxiety was out of the way, and I was deaf to whatever weird noises the plane may have been making. If I caught myself getting nervous, I would glance up at the flight attendant seated at the front of the plane. She was always quiet and calm, except when she laughed at someone's joke or stood up to make an announcement (which she always did with a gentle tone and calming smile). If the flight attendants were calm and collected, chances were, everything was going smoothly. I could let my guard down a little bit.
The plane touched the tarmac without issue in Minneapolis, and I wasted no time getting off the plane as soon as possible. While I was wearing a medical-grade N95 mask that made it impossible to pick up any outside smells, I still felt like I was breathing in every virus within a five mile radius of me. I needed to get out of that environment and into the open country air.
My dad, seemingly on autopilot, led us through the (eerily empty) Minneapolis airport, never stopping to find directions to our next destination: the car rental facility. Dad boasted about his elite status enabling us to pick out a luxury, fast vehicle for the trip. As we wandered through the parking lot packed full of brand new rental vehicles, he tried to make a convertible Corvette sound like the best ride to drive in a rural Minnesota blizzard. Of course, me being the voice of reason, I found the trucks and got us into a grey Toyota Tacoma crew cab (not before looking for an Xterra, in the off-chance the airport had one. Turns out, Xterras are very rare outside of Colorado).
"Aw, you're no fun!" Dad teased.
"Yeah well. I would like to make it to the farm and back in one piece." I smiled, "Plus, I love trucks, and this Taco's got heated seats."
Dad started the truck, revving its engine obnoxiously with a shit-eating grin stretched across his face.
"Oh my God," I thought to myself, "We're gonna fucking die."
