There I sat, waiting for the captain to turn off the “fasten your seatbelt” signs and signal it was clear to move about the cabin. Minutes passed. Nothing. More minutes. Nothing. More than the fear for my life was the fear that my chance encounter would be bungled by nature, which for some reason obviously had it in for me. By now, a half hour had passed, my mouth parched from licking my lips, my back sore from shifting my hips in the ultra-hard plastic seats we were forced to sit in.

“Flight attendants, prepare your cabin for our final decent.”

Noooooooooooo!!! The plane, like my hopes, was headed for the ground. Seconds turned into hours and minutes, years, as I slowly counted down, watching the plane grow closer and closer to the ground and my hopes for a chance encounter fade faster than April for taxes or black noses on Jacksons. We landed.

“Welcome to Los Angeles. Our local time is 11:14 a.m. Thank you for flying Transcontinental Airlines, where we promise to get you there on time and in one piece.”

My goal was to get to the front of the plane in a matter of seconds, but my obstacles were at least 200 passengers of all shapes, sizes, and ages who themselves were eager to deplane. Grabbing my rolling bag like a football, lowering my head like a helmet, I was like Walter Payton weaving my way through the aisle. Passing parents, high stepping over children, and yes, sadly enough, even knocking down a few elderly along the way. It was a low moment. But they had insurance and over time their broken bones would heal.

Finally, I reached the front, but no Quinton. Reaching the gate, still no Quinton. Now standing on chairs, I hovered over the heads of passengers hurrying and scurrying, but no Quinton. He was fast. Obviously headed toward the baggage claim area where he would be greeted by assistants, drivers, and the demands of a hectic schedule that for sure wouldn’t have room for me. If he reached the baggage claim area, my trip would be in vain. My mission was clear: reach Quinton before he reached the baggage claim. I had only one hope—the motorized passenger cart, normally reserved for the elderly or the handicapped, was calling my name.

Sneaking past passengers, throwing my bag in the back, hopping in the front seat, and turning the key,vrrrrroooooooooom! I had lift-off. With my lead-lined foot, I pressed pedal to metal, hair flying in the wind, barreling down the concourse like Speed Racer.

Down the walkway past gate 25 I sped, knocking over gifts. Past gate 24 and the perfume counter I sped, inhaling whiffs. Gate 23, 22, and 21, passengers flagging and waving, wanting a lift.

“Sorry!”