duct tape forever

My outbound flight to Washington National sat at the gate an unusually long time before taxiing to the holding area in preparation for take-off. After a good fifteen minutes of silence, the captain announced that we would be delayed a "few more minutes" due to an "equipment malfunction." He said there was a mechanic on the way to the plane and that the problem would likely be fixed shortly. There was a low buzz in the cabin as people conjectured which engine would fall off upon takeoff, or whether the toilet was actively dumping chemical waste into the small bathroom (and beyond) at the back of the plane. I silently decided that we'd likely sit there another half hour while our landing gear was jimmied, only to lose functionality at our destination. I resigned myself to ultimate disaster, as I often do on these flights, and began putting my mental house in order.

Then I noticed what was wrong, although I didn't make the connection to what the captain was talking about right away. One of the overhead storage bins two seats ahead of me and across the aisle was still open, although all the others were shut and locked tight. Just as I was staring at this, wondering why the flight attendants had left it that way, the captain announced that a mechanic had been sent to fix the "malfunctioning overhead bin" in the main cabin.

I thought -- ok, great, we're not losing an engine today. But then I immediately followed that thought with, WHERE IS THE DUCT TAPE. Geez...a whole plane load of people, 30 minutes late for take off, and not a shred of duct tape in sight!!

Just then a burly, big Irish mechanic boarded the plane. He had on a tool belt as big as Texas, complete with drills, measuring tapes, wrenches, a long trail of red and yellow caution tape, and lots of other unidentifiable hardware, all hanging cattywampus from his rather ample derriere. He was sweating profusely -- it was hot both inside and outside the cabin, and the humidity had to be equal to the temperature. Beads of sweat dripped down his red, round cheeks and onto his monogrammed workshirt as he wiggled the bin door up and down, tested the locking mechanism, all the while shaking his head and muttering under his breath. All eyes were on him. No one else spoke. Would the plane be turned around and sent back because NO ONE HAS ANY DUCT TAPE?, I thought.

It was as if our Irish mechanic heard my thoughts. As his left hand held the bin door closed, and his right hand groped around inside his enormous tool belt pocket, a sly smile crept across his big, red face. A barely perceptible titter rippled up and down the passenger rows as he tore off a long strip of silver DUCT TAPE, slapped it on the recalcitrant bin, and then turned to exit the plane. The titter turned to a few guffaws, the guffaws into full scale laughter, with some applauding his efforts. We were on our way.