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JohnT
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Capitalist
Mar 1999
time: 00:30
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 10-09-2003 16:38
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#1
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Just when you thought people couldn't get any dumber: Man Ships Himself via Air Cargo
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Got spare money?
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quote:
DALLAS (Sept. 10) - A homesick shipping clerk had himself shipped from New York to Dallas in an airline cargo crate, startling his parents - and a deliveryman - when he broke out of the box outside their home.
Charles D. McKinley, 25, was arrested and jailed on unrelated bad-check and traffic charges after his overnight odyssey. Federal officials are considering additional charges of stowing away on a plane.
``My husband asked him, `Man, what are you doing in this crate?' He said he was coming home,'' McKinley's mother told KDFW-TV in Dallas.
Federal officials want to know how the stowaway bypassed airport security.
In a rambling jailhouse interview, McKinley told KXAS-TV in Dallas that he made the trip because he was homesick and a friend thought he could save money by flying as cargo. McKinley said he took no food or water on the 15-hour journey, just a cell phone, which did not work.
``I'm sitting there thinking, `Oh God, I don't know why I'm doing this,''' he said. ``I'm sitting there thinking like any minute somebody will notice that there's somebody sitting inside this crate. ... No one did.''
Before setting out, McKinley filled out shipping instructions saying the crate held a computer and clothes. Authorities believe he had help from at least one co-worker at the warehouse where he works in New York when he loaded himself in the box.
The box was taken by truck from New York's Kennedy Airport to New Jersey. Then it was loaded onto a pressurized, heated cargo plane operated by Kitty Hawk Cargo. It flew from Newark, N.J., to Niagara Falls, N.Y., then to the carrier's hub in Fort Wayne, Ind., and on to Dallas, the FBI said.
On Saturday, Billy Ray Thomas, a driver for Pilot Air Freight, picked up the crate at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport and delivered it to McKinley's parents' home in suburban DeSoto.
When Thomas went to unload the 350-pound crate from his truck, he saw a pair of eyes and thought there was a body inside.
Then McKinley broke the box open and crawled out, said police Lt. Brian Windham.
McKinley's mother was stunned. The delivery driver called police.
DeSoto police said the crate measured 42 by 36 by 15 inches. McKinley stands 5-foot-8 and weighs 170 pounds, authorities said.
Authorities said they did not know whether McKinley had any toilet facilities. But the stowaway told the TV station that he got out of the crate during flights once or twice and walked around.
His box was carried in the pressurized, heated cabins, but could just as easily have been placed in the lower, unpressurized holds, said Richard G. Phillips, chief executive of Pilot Air Freight.
``He could easily have died,'' Phillips said.
The freight cost - billed to McKinley's employer - was $550. At that rate, ``he could have flown first-class,'' Phillips said.
Investigators from the federal Transportation Security Administration interviewed McKinley twice to learn how he got past security.
``We're not aware this has happened previously, so obviously it's something we are investigating aggressively,'' TSA spokeswoman Suzanne Luber said.
Air cargo receives less federal security attention than passenger planes, in part because of its sheer volume, and critics have suggested that terrorists could use cargo flights as weapons.
Other than the federal statute, District Attorney Bill Hill said he could not cite any law that McKinley broke.
``He violated the law of stupidity if nothing else,'' Hill said. |
$550! Did he not even compare prices??
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Ecthy
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Zhonghuŕ Rénmín Gňnghéguó
Mar 2000
time: 06:30
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sending yourself in a box cost more than flying? strange.
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CerberusIV
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I notice that, whilst it might have been cheaper to buy a proper ticket, this guy didn't actually pay anything - he billed the freight charge to his employer (ex-employer?).
I have heard a story that back in the early 1920's someone did work out that it was cheaper to post himself from England to Paris, France than pay for a passenger ticket and turned up for the flight with a stamp stuck on his forehead. Probably not true but the idea has been around for a long time.
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chegitz guevara
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Ft. Lauderdale, FL Communist Party of Apolyton
Jun 2000
time: 00:30
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THE GIFT
The Velvet Underground (Reed, Cale, Morrison, Tucker)
Waldo Jeffers had reached his limit. It was now Mid-August which
meant that he had been separated from Marsha for more than two
months. Two months, and all he had to show was three dog-eared
letters and two very expensive long-distance phone calls. True, when
school had ended and she'd returned to Wisconsin, and he to Locust,
Pennsylvania. She had sworn to maintain a certain fidelity, she
would date occasionally, but merely as amusement. She would
remain faithful.
But lately Waldo had begun to worry. He had trouble sleeping at
night and when he did, he had horrible dreams. He lay awake at
night, tossing and turning underneath his pleated quilt protector,
tears welling in his eyes. As he pictured Marsha, her sworn vows
overcome by liquor and the smooth soothing of some Neanderthal,
finally submitting to the final caresses of sexual oblivion. It was
more than the human mind could bear.
Visions of Marsha's faithlessness haunted him. Daytime fantasies
of sexual abandon permeated his thoughts. And the thing was
they wouldn't understand how she really was. He, Waldo, alone,
understood this. He had intuitively grasped every nook and cranny
of her psyche. He had made her smile, and she needed him, and
he wasn't there (Awwwww).
The idea came to him on the Thursday before the Mummers Parade
was scheduled to appear. He had just finished mowing and etching
the Edelsons lawn for a dollar fifty and had checked the mailbox to
see if there was at least a word from Marsha. There was nothing
more than a circular form the Amalgamated Aluminum Company
of America inquiring into his awing needs. At least they cared
enough to write.
It was a New York company. You could go anywhere in the mail.
Then it struck him, he didn't have enough money to go to Wisconsin
in the accepted fashion, true, but why not mail himself? It was
absurdly simple. He would ship himself parcel post special delivery.
The next day Waldo went to the supermarket to purchase the
necessary equipment. He bought masking tape, a staple gun and
a medium sized cardboard box, just right for a person of his built.
He judged that with a minimum of jostling he could ride quite
comfortably. A few air holes, some water, perhaps some midnight
snacks and it would probably be as good as going tourist.
By Friday afternoon, Waldo was set. He was packed and the post
office had agreed to pick him up at three o'clock. He'd marked the
package “Fragile”, and as he sat curled up inside, resting the foam
rubber cushioning he'd thoughtfully included, he tried to picture the
look of awe and happiness on Marsha's face as she opened the
door, saw the package, tipped the deliverer, and then opened it to
see her Waldo finally there in person. She would kiss him, then,
maybe they could see a movie. If he'd only thought of this before.
Suddenly rough hands gripped his package and he felt himself borne
up. He landed with a thud in a truck and then he was off.
Marsha Bronson had just finished setting her hair. It had been a very
rough weekend. She had to remember not to drink like that. Bill had
been nice about it though. After it was over he'd said that he still
respected her and, after all, it was certainly the way of nature, and
even though, no he didn't love her, he did feel an affection for her.
And, after all, they were grown adults. Oh, what Bill could teach
Waldo - but that seemed like years ago.
Sheila Klein, her very, very best friend walked in through the porch
screen door and into the kitchen. “Oh, it's absolutely maudlin
outside.”
“Ach, I know what you mean, I feel all icky!” Marsha tightened her
cotton robe with the silk outer edge.
Sheila ran her finger over some salt grains on the kitchen table, licked
her fingers and made a face. “I'm supposed to take these salt pills,”
but she wrinkled her nose, “They make me feel like throwing up.”
Marsha started to pat herself under the chin, an exercise she'd seen
on television. “G-d, don't even talk about that.” She got up from the
table and went to the sink where she picked up a bottle of pink and
blue vitamins. “Want one? Supposed to be better than steak.” And
attempted to touch her knees. “I don't think I'll ever touch a daiquiri
again.” She gave up and sat down, this time nearer the table that
supported the telephone. “Maybe he'll call.” she said to Sheila's
glance.
Sheila nibbled on a cuticle. “After last night, I thought maybe you'd be
through with him.” “I know what you mean, my G-d, he was like an
octopus. Hands all over the place.” She gestured, raising her arms
upwards in defense. “The thing is after a while, you get tired of fighting
with him, you know, and after all he didn't really do anything Friday
and Saturday so I kind of owed it to him, you know what I mean.” She
started to scratch. Sheila was giggling with her hand over her mouth.
“I'll tell you, I feel the same way, and even after a while,” here she
bend forward in a whisper, “wanted to,” and now she was laughing
very loudly.
It was at this point that Mr. Jameison of the Clarence Darrow Post
Office rang the door bell of the large colored stucco frame house.
When Marsha Bronson opened the door, he helped her carry the
package in. He had his yellow and green slips of paper signed and
left with a fifteen cent tip that Marsha had gotten out of her mothers
small beige pocket book in the den.
"What do you think it is?" Sheila asked. Marsha stood with her
arms folded behind her back. She stared at the brown cardboard
carton that sat in the middle of the living room: "I don't know."
Inside the package, Waldo quivered with excitement as he listened
to the muffled voices. Sheila ran her fingernail over the masking
tape that ran down the center of the carton. “Why don't you look
at the return address and see who it is from?” Waldo felt his heart
beating. He could feel the vibrating footsteps. It would be soon.
Marsha walked around the carton and read the ink-scratched label.
“It's from Waldo.” “That schmuck!” said Sheila. Waldo trembled with
expectation. “You might as well open it,” said Sheila. Both of them
tried to flip the stable flap. “Ah,” said Marsha groaning. “He must
have nailed it shut.” They tagged at the flap again. “My God, you
need a power drill to get this thing opened.” They pulled again.
“You can't get a grip!” They both stood still, breathing heavily.
“Why don't you get the scissors,” said Sheila. Marsha ran into the
kitchen, but all she could find was a little sewing scissors. Then
she remembered that her father kept a collection of tools in the
basement. She ran downstairs and when she came back, she
had a large metal cutter in her hand. “This is the best I could find.”
She was out of breath. “Here, you do it. I'm gonna die.” She sank
into a large fluffy couch and exhaled noisily.
Sheila tried to make a slit between the masking tape and the end
of the cardboard, but the blade was too big and there was not
enough room. “G-ddamn this thing!” she said feeling very exasperated.
Then smiling “I got an idea.” “What?” said Marsha. “Just watch,”
said Sheila touching her finger to her head.
Inside the package, Waldo was transfixed with excitement that he
could hardly breathe. His skin felt prickly from the heat and he could
feel his heart beating in his throat. It would be soon.
Sheila stood upright and walked around to the other side of the
package. Then she sank down to her knees, grasped the cutter
by both hands, took a deep breath and plunged the long blade
through the middle of the package, through the middle of the masking
tape, through the card- board through the cushioning and (thud)
right through the center of Waldo Jeffers head, which split slightly
and caused little rhythmic arcs of red to pulsate gently in the morning
sun.
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