An Oakland-to-Seattle early evening flight.
“Crack!”
From the front rows.
“Crack!”
From the back.
“Crack!” “Crack!” “Crack!”
It was the day of the London terrorist op.
Who knew?
I was off to visit friends.
I had brought water. I had brought chapstick.
I was told both were carry-on no-nos, along with toothpaste and hair gel (as if …).
Get caught and it’s prison stripes and leg irons.
The chapstick went into a check-in bag near the toothpaste.
The water got dumped before the shoes-off checkpoint.
The water purchased post-checkpoint for gold and jewels also got dumped before boarding.
Shortly after takeoff - 3 1/2 hours late - the rat-a-tat sounds of lips chapping began.
The chapping turned to cracking.
People panicked.
“Crack!” “Crack!” “Crack!”
Where were the flight attendants with the drink carts?
Where was Samuel L. Jackson?
Probably in first class with tubs of ice water and lip balm.
The inhumanity.
“Pssst!”
It was my seatmate, lips soft and glowing around her many piercings.
“Pssst, I smuggled four chapsticks onboard,” she whispered. “Want one?”
“Yeff, pweeve,” I muttered.
We rounded up the surviving passengers and rushed first class.
“Charwff,” the raucous group said as we charged Jackson to get at his hostage.
He was taking the man to Seattle to testify in a chapstick-smuggling operation.
Attached to the man’s wrist was a case containing every kind of lip balm imaginable.
The survivors tore it open with their nails, tossed the caps into the air and applied the salve with choruses of “ooh” and “aah” and “ow.”
Ambulances were waiting at the airport to treat passengers whose lips didn’t make it.
Amazing how we forget to appreciate the simple things.
God bless chapstick.
And women with piercings.
