WHAT SHE WOULDN’T BELIEVE

By Glenn Short

It was a dark January day in Syracuse, NY, and snowing hard. Our plane was out on the strip, warming up the engines. The stewardess asked if we didn’t want to order drinks—a welcome offer but unusually early. Out the window the airport snowplow tried, somewhat futilely, to clear the tarmac. I then heard a slight noise, which I interpreted as the slamming shut of the cargo hatch.

The male passenger across the aisle asked the stewardess if the drink would be served on the next flight? "What next flight?" she inquired, "this plane goes directly to La Guardia, non-stop."

"That was a good plan," he replied, "but we’re not going anywhere on this plane. That snowplow out there just hit the end of our wing. See, the wing light is gone!"

I looked. He was right, but passengers were still entering the plane. In fact, four noisy salesman types, who had obviously been drinking, just then heard the announcement from the cockpit that everyone must return to the terminal because of the accident to the wing.

The salesmen looked at each other. One said loudly in a slurred voice, "Well, I’m gonna call my wife to tell her I’ll be late because . . . (he paused, thinking slowly) because a snowplow ran into my plane."

"But I know her, She ain’t gonna believe that for one minute. And it ain’t even snowin at home."

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© Glenn Short June 2004