SOMEWHERE IN THE SKIES ABOVE AMERICA -- Unless you're flying with friends or family, there's a pretty good chance that the person next to you is a total stranger.
They also may not be who they say they are.
In July, while on a Delta flight from Seattle to JFK to visit my son in New York City, I sat next to a fellow who said he was an architect from Renton.
First, I should clarify that I was in business class. Delta announced they had seats available and after spending a horrendous night at the Newark International Airport the week before, I decided to fork over the $150 to fly up front.
So why would I doubt that this chap was an architect? Well, first of all, he said he was from Renton. I have nothing against Renton, but I've never thought of it as an architectural hub nor a place where Frank Gehry wannabes would set up practice.
I also thought it was a bit strange that he wasn't availing himself of the complimentary cocktails on board. Isn't that why people fly close to the cockpit, so they can have free drinks, big seats, semi-real food and be close to the restrooms?
By the time we landed in Hartford, Connecticut (our plane was diverted there for four hours due to thunderstorms, oh joy) I was beginning to question this guy's identity. He was definitely not architect material (no cool Philip Johnson eyeglasses nor was he scribbling with a Montblanc pen in that characteristic architectural style of writing that I used to try and copy).
Being the inquisitive person that I am, I asked him where he was staying in NYC (he wasn't sure); what he was planning to do (he said his wife wanted to see Wicked); and what restaurants he was going to (again, clueless).
It just didn't add up.
During the flight, I noticed he had been chatting with a guy seated a few rows in front of him. He also seemed to be on a first-name basis with the flight attendants.
"Do you fly back east often?" I asked. Before he could answer, one of the attendants asked if he could get her some food from inside the terminal (passengers were allowed off, but I opted for the free gin & tonics instead).
When he returned, he sat down and said, "I have to tell you something."
He took out his wallet, flipped it open, and showed me his ID. There was his mug shot, along with the blazing words: Department of Homeland Security.
Yikes. I quickly polished off my cocktail.
It turns out that "my architect" is in fact a Federal Air Marshal, one of thousands who fly the unfriendly skies these days. And no, he doesn't always get to fly in business; it just depends on the loads.
Their mission, according to the TSA's website, is "securing America's civil aviation system from both criminal and terrorist acts."
Although he has never encountered any criminal or terrorist activity while on board, he did tell me about his colleague whose seatmate was bragging about all the dope he had stashed in his carry-on bag.
He was welcomed warmly by law enforcement officials when he got off the plane.
"So, are you packin' heat?" I asked the clean-cut air marshal.
He nodded and I ordered another drink.
Copyright © 2006 Sue Frause. All rights reserved.
