The art of missing a flight
The bus was thirty minutes late and this set the tone for the rest of my commute. While waiting I had to decide what to do once I got to Manhattan. Should I stick with my original plan of taking the ‘A’ to Howard Beach and then the Air Train to JFK? Or should I attempt to get a taxi? I decided on the former which was good because as it turned out, there was a taxi strike in NYC. I tried to settle the panic in my head as I waited for the ‘A’ at Times Square.
When you’re running as late as I was, even the most express of express trains seem to move at a snail’s pace. Normally this commute to JFK is a pleasant albeit long one. Not today. As the train eventually pulled into Howard Beach, I didn’t bother looking at the time because I knew it would bring me nothing but sorrow. The rarely heard from positive voice in my head occasionally tried to entertain me with thoughts of making my flight as I ran to catch the Air Train. But soon reality began to kick in.
As the futuristic little automated train faithfully made its rounds finally getting me to Terminal 3, I noticed a man with a full cart of all sorts of boxes. I should have told him that pulling it over the gap while leaving the train would be best, but for some reason I kept my mouth shut. Sure enough, as he tried to push the cart, the wheels got caught and all the boxes came tumbling down, blocking the exit. He moved them out of the way quick enough and if I wasn’t in my panicked state, I would have helped. But off I ran.
Dripping sweat on the ticket kiosk, I got a message saying to go to the counter. It was then I realized the time. 12:51. And my flight? 12:50. Dripping more sweat, the kind attendant at the kiosk service desk told me there was room on the next flight at 1:50. All I had to do was pick up a courtesy phone and I’d be connected to Re-Booking. The phone was pretty beat up and the sound sucked and my eyes were blinded by the continuing sweat flow. Combined with a baby squealing and her angry mother pounding on the nearby payphone, it was a wonder I was able to book anything.
As bad as all that was I knew it could have been so much worse. I’ve heard the horror stories. Just a few minutes and $50 later, I had a new ticket and I was off to the food court to get in a snack and relax. There was a lost little pigeon pecking morsels from the food court floor. I pregnant woman who had just flown in from Dublin on her way to Chicago found this out of place scene to be quite amusing. We joked about whether there were pigeons assigned to each terminal keeping the floors clean. She quipped, “I’ve heard of cheap labor, but this is ridiculous.”
Still picking bits of the paper napkins from my face that I used to blot myself earlier, I was now on an all but empty plane. This was good for me because now I had two seats to myself. Hell, I could have stretched across the entire center row if I wanted. There’s the usual weirdness such as a guy who keeps bellowing like Chewbacca and a dude who looks like he could be either the singer for Smash Mouth or one of the actors from Prison Break. Wait, are they the same guy? No. Separated at birth? Maybe.
We were finally in the air after about twenty or thirty minutes of sitting on the tarmac. Delays like that make me nervous. Like, are they looking for something? Has the pilot not gotten back from the bar yet? Did an engine fall off? But I guess if you’re reading this, there was no reason to worry. In the meantime I get to sit back and think of the great time I’m gonna have at The Other Sound. I’m staying with Jacque Carder who is one of the organizers along with my friend Kim Ware. First order of business when I land according to Jacque will be blues and barbecue. Psyched!
