By the time you and the other sheeple wandered over here from security, slowed by your fascination with skylights and moving walkways, I was already in place. Right here, approximately four triangle-covered carpet squares from the gate counter. I earned my place, and I’m sure as hell not going to let you or anyone else get on this plane before me.
Am I flying first class, business plus, economy deluxe, or on Sky Platinum Gold Miles Rewards Points? Fuck no. I’m too smart to spend that much money. Today I’m in Group Three, but I’m always number one. (And don’t get me started on Southwest. Nobody tells me where to line up – I am the line.)
I got to Raleigh-Durham International an hour and a half before departure time. No TSA PreCheck, no problem; once I’m in Terminal 2, nobody can stop me. My baseless, masculine confidence carried me straight through security. I only showed the TSA official my driver’s license because I just got it renewed, and my new photo is baller as fuck.
Then it was onto the gate – right here, by the counter, where the bald spot on my head is catching the white sheen of the fluorescent lights above. It looks like a crown. This is my kingdom. I’m the baron of boarding, the overlord of overhead bins, the admiral of the aisle.
The final countdown begins – twenty minutes to boarding. I’ve never not boarded a plane first, but the anticipation of victory always gets a healthy sweat going on the back of my neck. I cross my arms and extend my left foot in front of my right. That slight bend in my left leg shows the blank-faced wildebeest around me that I’m ready for the hunt (so, in this metaphor, that makes me the lion, the undisputed alpha). I make sure my satchel is resting squarely on my butt so I can take a small step backward to bump any peasants loitering less than five carpet squares from the counter.
Ten minutes to boarding, women pushing their children in little baby chair-wagons circle me. Vultures. I’m unfazed by their shy smiles and the small humans they birthed. I adjust my boarding pass so “23C” and “Group 3″ are clearly visible. Your boy makes the rules, not the Man.
A few wise guys adopt my power stance, drawing disdain and condemnation from the other prey animals. I alone have earned their respect but, more importantly, their fear. My status is indisputable.
Five minutes to boarding – about half of the seated population is up and ambling around the carpet squares behind me. A few take a couple steps into the no man’s land in front of me.
Uh-uh. Nope.
One menacing glance and they’re back in their rightful place.
Then it begins. I uncross my arms, crack my knuckles, straighten out my left leg. At this time, we’d like to begin pre-boarding for all our special needs and active military passengers, as well as passengers traveling with young children.
I am undaunted. I am unhesitant. I am seat 23C, and I’m now making uninterrupted eye contact with “Theresa,” the gate agent. Eventually, she shatters, like the rest of these shells of human beings. Her eyes roll back into her head as I explain why I deserve to be admitted on the plane before the rest of my group; my fierce gaze, thirst for first place, and love of the chase were too much for her.
She of course lets me board, for I am the king. My power knows no bounds.