Her husband is sitting across the aisle from us and when I switch, he holds her hand through the whole flight — letting go long enough to let people pass. All in all, she does just fine.

I, however, have some issues. I’ve been seeing priests everywhere, all day long. Either there is a convention somewhere or I should be more worried about this flight.

I’m wrong on all counts. Like the rest of America, this food was assembled in a Thai sweatshop — cheap, fast, and ready to be overpriced. Everything is fried to the point of petrification, impossible to cut with the terrorist-safe plastic ware and too hot to eat with your fingers. The steamed “spring” vegetables have the taste and consistency of artificial Styrofoam greenery from a hobby shop. Only the beer is cold . . . but I have to order it three times before it arrives.

And, I’m sorry, but when did Mariah Carey record at Sun Records? I only ask because she was on heavy rotation during the overhead muzak. As were those other Missisippi Delta classics, Celine Dion and Fergie.

Awful. I escape, grateful for once to be getting on a plane.

My connection is through Detroit and then Memphis (and perhaps Anchorage for all I know). I’m taking the long way ’round to get to Los Angeles with no time for anything more than a mad dash to catch my connecting flights.

The woman sitting next to me in the lounge sustains a sotto voce, one sided conversation with her teen son, undaunted by his apparent and utter lack of interest in everything she is telling him. I can’t say I blame him. He’s got a fine future ahead of him, enduring the same through what I imagine will be a succession of wives undistinguishable from each other by anything other than their waist size — a infinite regression of demanding Russian nesting dolls enjoying their own disappointment too much to think of his.

No idea how my mood got so sour, so early in the day. I usually love to travel alone, keeping my eye peeled for incognito gods on the move.

But this is only Grand Rapids. There are no gods here.

But I’ve got high hopes for Memphis.

I call a client from the car. She’s from Iowa and laughs when I tell her where I’m going. “I’ve read some of the stuff on your website. Doesn’t seem like they’d be up for it in Orange City,” she says with a hollow chuckle.

Then, a quick stop to drop off some keys and make sure Vincent will get his crunchies while I’m gone. I still make it to the airport with plenty of time to sit around wondering why I always insist on showing up for flights two hours early.

Security runs my bag through three times. I see a group of people huddled around the monitor, discussing something of concern. One of them makes a stabbing motion, shaking her head. I rack my brains, wondering if I somehow forgot that I was carrying a Bowie knife.

It’s my fountain pen, I realize. They’re worried about my fountain pen.

“Well, it is mightier than the sword,” Keeley remarks.

I’m rehearsing my defense, ready to have a debate with Security (hey, I’m early), when the send my bag through without any further problems. Only slightly disappointed, I continue on to the waiting area to read Paul Auster’s ‘The Red Notebook’ and worry about Sam and Julia.

Not even the gaggle of Alpha females who show up at the last minute, getting their mojo all over everything, can distract me.

Eventually, we hit the sky.

With the exception of the very, very old god that’s on the same plane, the flight is uneventful. I write for a bit, trying to figure out in the novel I’m working on just when exactly the sweet little fox should show her teeth. Once I get things far enough along, I set it aside.

The old god looked very tired and he had a ring on that was topped by a flat disk of dull gold about three inches in diameter, studded with five different colored stones. I make a mental note to include him in the next novel I write.