Thank you, Bob Rae, for Stealing my Plane Seat

My flight from sweltering Regina to Toronto had been delayed by an hour. By the time we landed and taxied up to the loading ramp in Pearson, I had twelve minutes to make my connecting flight to St. John’s. 

Hurrying past deplaning passengers, I paced across the terminal to gaze up at the list of departures only to discover that Air Canada 696 to St. John’s was delayed, as well, by two hours. 

A moment to catch my breath and slap together a new plan. While my mind was running over the wealth of extraordinary shopping opportunities available to me in the surreal limbo of the terminal, what seemed to be a miracle was announced over the PA system: 

“This is a final boarding call for Air Canada 122 to St. John’s. Gate 132. Final call.”

What an astonishing stroke of good fortune! If I jogged haphazardly, knocking old ladies aside, and punting a rat-sized yapper toward the specialty chocolate shop, I might be able to escape this fortress of glass earlier than anticipated. 

Making it to the gate, I eyed the pale blue plane still parked at the end of the ramp, willing and able to take me on and whisk me home to the loving coolness of St. John’s.

I approached the desk, where three agents seemed caught up in a fit of spastic typing and frenetic energy expulsion that seemed to centre around getting in each other’s ways.  

One of them, a stout, blonde-haired woman, shot a look up at me, extended her hand and agitatedly called out: “Name.”

I stated my name and handed her my boarding pass. “I’m on the St. John’s flight that was delayed two hours.”

“No,” said the woman at once, her voice clipped by some regressive military accent, vaguely Russian or Eastern European. “Too late.”

“No seats.”

“No, no seats.” She waved me away.

Frowning in dissatisfaction as my easy-fix plan evaporated, I noticed a figure hurrying down the wide corridor, pulling along a carryon.

“Name,” called out the woman, thrusting out her hand again as though to offer help to the drowning.    

“Bob Rae,” said the pink-faced hobbit of a man. No matter how many times I saw the esteemed gentleman I could not help but think he was wearing his daddy’s suit and glasses, everything a touch too big for him. 

“I’m on the delayed St. John’s flight.”

I stood there, wondering how this interesting new scenario might play out in our great socialist country.

“No,“ snapped the militant attendant. “Too late.” Her eyes caught on another nearing man in need of salvation and her arm shot out, “Name.”

The man gave his name. He was one of the sanctioned, the blessed, belonging to that flight, and, so was promptly permitted the long trek down the loading ramp.

My eyes returned to Bob Rae to hear him utter: “I am Super Elite.” He spoke the words nervously, his pink face glistening with sweat.

I glanced around the waiting area. Not a single person in any of the seats. I stepped back and sat to watch what I suspected would be an intriguing show.

At that point, as though from out of no where,  a woman with long, dirty-blonde hair and dressed  in full dark-blue Air Canada uniform, jacket and skirt (the others were in pale blue minion shirts) stepped over to a podium featuring a single computer and commenced typing.

Meanwhile, Bob Rae diminutively trailed after her. He fidgeted and glanced back at the other attendants. He said nothing. The high-ranking Air Canada attendant said nothing. A compelling scene of silent collusion. 

The woman’s fingers clicked the keyboard, while her eyes searched the screen. Newly invigorated, she strode back to the other attendants where she spoke in low tones. Bob Rae desperately straggled after her. He took out his wallet and snapped down a glinting card on the faux marble counter top. He held his thumb on it. His gaze steady on the card, then checking the faces of the attendants.

“I am Super Elite,” he said again, this time with more worry in his voice, as no one seemed to be paying him any attention. He poked his glasses up on his slippery nose and roughly coughed to clear his throat, as though in an attempt to deepen his voice.

The woman in the blue whispered in conspiratorial tones to one of the others, her eyes taking a furtive, almost threatening, peak at me. She then went back to her podium of exclusivity while Bob Rae faithfully waggled along.

The sound of a boarding pass being printed brought me to my feet.

I paced toward the desk. “I was here before that man,” I complained to the harried attendant.  

Bob Rae avoided my look of indignation. He was too busy being led down the loading ramp by the woman in the blue suit.

“I thought you said there were no seats.”

“Yes, but that man is Super Elite. I don’t know who he is.”

“He’s Bob Rae.”

The woman from Bavaria, Estonia, Transylvania shrugged.  “You have to leave me alone to do my work. “ I noticed that the other attendants were gone, as the flight was soon to depart.

“I’m not stopping you from doing your work. Who was that woman in the blue suit? What’s her name?”

“You can ask her when she comes back. Now, I have to do my work.” 

“What’s your name?”

“Leave me alone. Or I will call security.” She picked up a phone and held it ominously to her ear.

“I am not stopping you from doing your work.” Regardless, with visions of probing searches by burly, latex-gloved security guards, I backed away and sat.

I imagined Bob Rae snapping that glinting card down on the countertop. Super Elite. A status he had attained by flying around the country on tax payer’s money. A status attained by representing stranded people like me. 

“It was Bob Rae,” I said again, glancing around for the arrival of security personnel. “He used to be the premier of this province.”

“I don’t know,” replied the woman, busily clicking keys. “But he’s Super Elite.” She finished up her business and made a CB call to the plane, giving it the green light to depart.

As the plane taxied away from the ramp, I imagined Bob Rae settling in my seat, making affable comments to the other passengers, smiling at the attendants who delivered him his glass of champagne. The fallen king of socialism on his flying throne. 

All alone in the gate area, I wandered off to the food market, ordered a slice of pizza and picked up a bottle of beer. At the cashier, I snapped down my credit card with newly-learned Bob Rae bravado, but no one seemed to care. “I am Super Elite,” I said, and the cashier laughed. I sat down and ate, biding my time like a commoner.  

An earlier version of this article was published in The Globe & Mail 

© 2025 ungorgeous.com