His aunt worked for US Airways, so Johnny could fly for almost nothing if he agreed to travel on standby. And doing so on the Thursday of Labor Day weekend seemed a no-brainer; most of the weekend travel would surely be either after work on Thursday or all day Friday. Right? Sure. Johnny would be in New York City by morning, laughing at the pulsing throng of travelers shuffling toward the gate while he moseyed carelessly to a taxicab.

But Johnny’s gamble didn’t pay. The entire city of Los Angeles, it seemed, had cahooted – and was that even a word? Johnny figured it should be – to buy up every eastbound seat on US Airways, leaving standby passengers grounded. He’d been dropped off by his girlfriend early that morning, still glowing with satisfaction at his own cunning, and he staunchly refused to call and beg for her to whisk him away again. No, Johnny loved his girlfriend, a good, hardworking woman who wanted him even if her parents wanted a nice Jewish boy instead. In fact, Johnny moved to LA from New York just to be with her, after five years of cross-country flights and bicoastal longing. Oh, sure, he messed around when he was on the East Coast, chasing whatever skirts crossed his path and sowing the wild oats of a young, supremely confident wannabe-charmer whose biggest fear is a gold ring and monogrammed towels. But when his mid-thirties called, she looked less like warning sign and more like a homing beacon, so he packed up and headed West. Not to say he didn’t like getting laid by a variety of girls, but Johnny felt his heart flutter more with this woman than with any of the easy, admittedly cute, but invariably shallow chickies he bedded on wayward weekend nights.

So Johnny didn’t call his girlfriend. She needed to sleep, and he respected that, because Johnny grew up with three sisters and understood how to treat a lady. Johnny firmly believed this made him a good catch, that growing up in an estrogen pool taught him to swim with a finesse few other men had.

Pressing the US Airlines ticket agents for help, and getting none, Johnny blazed a well-worn path between gate and airport bar, chugging beers and watching the U.S. Open tennis tournament while keeping an ear on the loudspeaker. Flight after flight filled; his name sank further down passenger lists; his beer glass filled and drained and filled again. Johnny was a pretty good drinker, having connections at various NYC establishments who hooked him up with free bourbon-and-cokes, scotch-and-waters and any beer he craved. Johnny once had a good life, he did, in swanky Manhattan. But Johnny was in love now.

Johnny gulped the dregs of another amber pint and trudged to the gate for one final flight – an 11:35 p.m. jet to Charlotte, North Carolina, which would at least get him on the correct coast. He watched the pretty gate attendant, a blond named Gayle, etch his name beneath seven others and as many megawatts as he pumped into his blinding smile, she wasn’t conceding anything. No cheating, no pity points; and, judging by the dense crowd of probably passengers, no flight either. Still, Gayle smiled obliviously and handed Johnny’s I.D. card back to him. "Listen for your name!" she chirped.

He hated making the call to his mother. Johnny had a big family, see, and he didn’t like the distance from his parents – so he liked even less the prospect of calling her to say her baby son might not make it home in time for the oldest child’s birthday bash. Straightening his rumpled tie and brushing pizza crumbs off his navy-blue blazer and pleated-front khakis, Johnny swaggered to the payphone bay and delivered the news. "Ma," he said smoothly. "Ma, I’ll get there. But probably not tonight." Pause. "No, Ma, I’m not givin’ up! Chin up, gorgeous, I’ll get there. Love ya, Ma."

So after Johnny slammed down the phone, swatting it with irritation, he knew he needed to unwind. That airport smell, that airport décor, the click and clack of high heels and luggage wheels were starting to drive him completely insane. He spied a blonde girl sitting cross-legged on the airport floor, staring at the carpet and chewing vacantly on Chicken McNuggets. "Is that dinner?" he asked, settling into his now-familiar façade of false cheer. She smiled and rolled her eyes. "Such as it is," she chuckled. Johnny leaned against the metal railing and peered down at her. He saw her querying eyes. "I’ve been here so long trying to get a flight, that I think I actually drank myself sober," he joked poorly, but she had the good grace to laugh and show sympathy when he outlined his odyssey.

"Never take family for granted," he told her when he finished the tale. "See, you never know what’ll happen, or when you’ll see them. Never assume you have time." Johnny was pleased with this. He sounded wise, a walking book of life lessons who doled out oral gems to the needy and the young. So when the airline boarded the flight and his new pal left -- but not before offering apologies and fingers-crossed good wishes that he’d be on the plane -- Johnny just stood and watched the masses swarm, nodding knowingly, a half-smile creeping across his tired face. He didn't mind the idea that tonight's flight might not accommodate him, because in his weariness he found wisdom, became a sage for the seemingly naive. He felt proud of himself. Yes, Johnny thought, sometimes there’s no rest for the virtuous.

On paper, an all-night flight seemed like the most ingenious idea: sleep the whole way to my destination, and arrive early in the morning with the gift of an entire day in Doug’s company.

Yeah, so naturally it didn’t work out quite so idyllically.

My US Airways flight to Charlotte, North Carolina, had an estimated departure time of 11:35 p.m. on Thursday night, and arriving on-time proved easy enough. My roommate dropped me off at Los Angeles International Airport with half-an-hour to spare before boarding began, so I grabbed a quick and ultimately gross dinner of Chicken McNuggets and sat cross-legged on the floor near my gate. I loathe the act of getting from one place to the next, so I was anxious for the flight to board and take off. Sleep would save me from staring impatiently at my watch and the cruelly slow tango its big and small hands would commence.

Then this strange person started a conversation with me, and I couldn’t stop it. Generally, I prefer being left alone, because small-talk tires me on things like planes and trains and elevators, and other such places prone to a forced closeness that begets awkward prattle. But this guy was completely hilarious, unintentionally, blurting out personal tidbits and his daylong travel calamity with no prompting from me, and zigging between topics with little regard for narrative clarity. But he so clearly just needed to talk, to be in the presence of another person, that I let him ramble. He was 35, or so he said, and greeted word of my young age with something of a wry smile and a flash of inspiration in his brown eyes. He obviously enjoyed, with well-intentioned zeal, the been-there, done-that slant to his oratory, especially when he polished it off with, "Never take family for granted… See, you never know what’ll happen, or when you’ll see them. Never assume you have time."

And the thing is, though his presumptious mentor-student attitude might normally have rubbed me wrong, I didn’t mind his speech. He was pleasant and friendly, clearly without machinations, and completely entertaining; plus, he reminded me exactly why I was so desperate to see Doug -- and, in a week, my own parents.

My pal didn’t make it on the flight, I noticed later. But it’s amazing I was able to see anything through the veil of self-pity I wore. My seat was a middle seat, meaning my head lolled irritatingly from side to side, jerking me awake every five to ten minutes and basically preventing any helpful rest. The passengers on either side snored peacefully while I blinked hard at the air ducts and wished for a blow to the head.

But it’s all worth it, see, because I know I’ll be seeing Doug, and that first hug will make everything right again.

reading a book of short stories, called would you please be quiet, please?, by raymond carver watching the third crocodile dundee movie, where he goes to los angeles and despite having lived stateside for years, he still hasn’t figured out all the crazy things we do in this non-Australian nation of ours wishing that i had a window seat and something to lean against what it all means apparently, i should have gotten to the airport two hours early