The sight was breathtakingly sad. A middle-aged woman wearing a bright red blazer scurried across the tarmac to her waiting NetJets Cessna Encore. I sat on a bench just outside the entrance to our FBO, transfixed, wondering why she was hurrying. I had seen her before.
A few minutes earlier I had watched as she maneuvered a BMW 750Li to the front door of the elegantly appointed building, complete with its attractive ladies behind the counter, fresh baked cookies and Starbucks coffee brewing machine. On the tarmac, I had seen a thin, fit looking, gray-haired man swinging his newspaper, still in its delivery bag, around in an idle way. He radiated impatience. As this woman of a certain age and a certain weight scuttled to her jet, I walked into the linemen’s office and said to nobody in particular, “I thought the whole idea of having a private jet at your disposal was that you never had to rush to a plane.”
