Picture This Life

As the US Air flight I was on began it’s descent home into Kansas City, I placed my well-worn leather bag back under the seat in front of me just like I’ve done dozens of times before. I looked out the window at the twinkling, midnight yellow lights of the city below and, like I always do, chased away the fleeting thought that the landing is the most dangerous part of the flight.

My reflection was interrupted by the hovering flight attendant, whose high-pitched voice barely reached my ears over the whine of the engine.

Marleen: Sir, your bag must be completely under your seat.

I smile back at her and gently kick my bag.

Me: (nodding) Far enough?

Marleen: No sir. It must be completely under. You’ll have to turn it.

I furrow my brow.

Marleen: It’s for your safety.

The bag is nearly a square. But I turn it, and give it another shove with my foot.

Me: (annoyed and a little snarky) There we go. I should be safe now.

Marleen: Yes sir. Plenty safe.

In the event of a fiery crash, at least my leather bag with the latest copy of Field & Stream magazine in it won’t bump me in the shin.

Whew.