A Trip to Remember

In the winter of 1991, my boss at the time, Ray Boylston, instructed me to conduct an ergonomics assessment at a large Fruit-of-the-Loom (FotL) underwear manufacturing plant located between Russell Springs and Jamestown, Kentucky. To get there, I would fly into Bluegrass Airport in Lexington where I would pick up a rental car and drive south to a hotel in Jamestown. Everything sounded routine until Ray warned me that because of its proximity along the time zone border, by the time I return to the airport in Lexington, I won’t even know what time it is. As he described his own experience on his recent trip to Jamestown, I couldn’t imagine being so time-confused I wouldn’t even know the time, especially with a watch on my wrist and a flip phone on my belt. Bring it on, I thought to myself with the confidence of a chihuahua barking at a pit-bull from behind the safety of a chain link fence. But the time challenge would not be my only strange experience on this trip. 

At some point along the 90-mile drive to Jamestown, I crossed over the line from the eastern into the central time zone. No problem. Nothing I wasn’t expecting and nothing I hadn’t experienced on countless trips in the past. Things were going pretty much as planned by the time I checked into my hotel late that evening.  

To really appreciate this story, you should know that Jamestown, Kentucky is a small town with a population, at the time, under 1,800. Jamestown is so small; you have to step outside the city limits to turn around. But it’s Mayberryesque quaint and filled with very nice people-most of whom were FotL employees. 

Let’s Go to Church! 

The next morning, I got showered and dressed and had breakfast at a small cafe Ray had recommended. Now, this was right about the time consultants were transitioning from coats and ties to a more leisurely open collar and no-jacket look; much more sensible attire for walking through a manufacturing plant. But being one of the great holdouts with a disdain for change, I was wearing my best navy-blue blazer over a blue oxford shirt and perfectly coordinated necktie. As I stood in line waiting to pay for my breakfast, I felt a tapping on my left arm. I turned to see an old (80ish) man sitting on a bench behind me hitting my arm with his cane. He was missing so many teeth, he could eat corn on the cob through a picket fence. Through his three remaining teeth, and silver scruff, he asked, “Where ya preach’n t’day?” I wasn’t sure if he was interested in coming along to hear a good sermon or if he was just mocking my dapper GQ look. I entertained his mirth by saying if he wanted to, I would get up on a table and we could have church right there. He laughed. Again, I had trouble reading him. 

I got to the plant and began to work on the task I came to do. Up to this point, there was nothing unusual about this trip other than my brief encounter with a cane-wielding octogenarian. However, things were about to change.

 A Stranger in Town 

Around noon, the safety manager walked me to the company cafeteria and apologized for having to leave me on my own as he had some personal errands to run. He told me I was welcome to anything the cafeteria had to offer. I thought this was a bit unusual, but I understood why he was unable to join me for lunch. 

I went down the food line and made my lunch selections. Scanning the room for a seat, it suddenly dawned on me that I was the only man in the room. This plant employed 3,000 workers, most of whom were women who operated sewing machines. I was able to find a lone seat at a table near the cafeteria entrance. 

As I ate, I realized most eyes were on me. Women were craning their necks to look over or around other heads to get a glimpse of this over-dressed stranger. It was as if I had just washed ashore on the Island of Curious Women. It reminded me of the year I was stationed on a tiny island in the Pacific with its total male population. There were guys who would go to the airport every Thursday afternoon for the sole purpose of getting a glimpse of the flight attendants when they opened the plane door on the weekly commercial flight into this isolated military base. Were these women staring because I was a male face? A new face? A new male face? Or maybe they were just hoping to hear a good sermon. 

After I finished lunch, I got up to take my tray to the scullery and on my way, someone reached out and patted me on the butt. I began to get the feeling they didn’t get many male visitors to this facility. 

Pardon Me, Do You Have the Time? 

Returning to the airport in Lexington, I realized Ray was right. I had no idea what time it was. Checking my watch only narrowed it down to a two-hour window. It could be an hour ahead or behind. I couldn’t be sure and began to fear I may have missed my flight. But it turned out I was okay.  

Eventually, I boarded the plane and settled back to try to relax. I would fly to Atlanta where I would board a connecting flight into Raleigh-Durham (RDU). Little did I know the excitement wasn’t quite over with. I posted this final leg in a short post 10 years ago but decided it was worth repeating here.

Emergency! Emergency!  

As we touched down, the flight attendant made the usual intercom announcement welcoming passengers to Raleigh-Durham followed by the reminder to stay in our seats with seat belts fastened until the plane comes to a complete stop at the gate. So, we taxied to a point just short of the gate and stopped to wait for a gate agent to show up to drive the jet bridge. As we sat there, the flight attendant again reminded people to remain seated, only this time sounding more like a mom telling her two kids for the umpteenth time to stop fighting. Her terse comments seemed to be directed at one individual passenger. Apparently, someone decided her instructions did not apply to them.  

From my first-row seat, I had a good view of the flight attendant and the restroom door. I noticed she was clearly agitated and seemed to be growing more so by the second. Suddenly, a very slight, middle-aged man with deep furrows on his sunbaked skin came running past me in a big hurry. He was hunched over in the fig leaf position with both hands tightly clutching his crotch. I didn’t recognize the language, but his posture spoke volumes. The flight attendant began to apprise him of the FAA requirements when he blurted perhaps the only English he knew, “Pee-pee, pee-pee!” Realizing he was in dire straits and on the verge of an embarrassing accident, I believe she decided his emergency trumped FAA seating regulations. She all but pushed him into the restroom.  

I’m glad every trip did not include this much excitement, but it does give me something to write about.