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I’m secretly patting myself on the back for flying on a budget because $9 tickets from San Francisco to Las Vegas are absolutely unheard of. I’ve spent more money on a BART ticket, and I smile to myself, wondering how many of the passengers on my flight got lucky with the same deal. The smug feeling instantly dissipated as soon as I rolled my duffel through the air walk.
Oh fuck. I am on a La Bamba plane.
A montage of my life’s images, Final Destnation, and scenes from Ritchie Valens’ autobiography flashed before my eyes as the anxiety sets into my bones. I take my seat in the very back of the plane (Row 20) and make a mental note of the exit, which is 10 steps away. I trade my window seat for the one in the aisle…You know, just in case.
