Great start, dumbass
A tired cliche states that every journey begins with a single step. I guess that means that my journey officially began this morning at 5:15 am as I stepped out of my front door and headed to the airport. By that measure, it took me no less than 20 minutes to royally fuck up the trip.
I shuffled into the Calgary airport my mind racing with airport anxiety, yet still a little spaced from the lack of sleep. Whatever cobwebs remained in my head disappeared in an adrenaline tidal wave as I approached the Horizon check-in counter and was met with an empty desk and a screen that read FLIGHT CLOSED. For the first 90 seconds, I tried to convince myself that the flight had probably been canceled. Though, the stark reality was that at 5:35 am, it was passed the 1 hour minimum buffer zone for my 6:30am flight.
I tried to plead with airport personnel to let me through. “But I have no baggage to check. I can run right in.” Unfortunately, airport “policy” was not on my side that day. Fuck, I hate bureaucracy. I thought of running out of the airport, car-jacking a taxi, and doing my best recreation of HST barreling through fences and onto the runway to drop his lawyer off at the plane’s door in Fear and Loathing. Although, knowing my luck, I would probably be shot 8 times before I reached the runway only to have a Boeing 747 front tire land on the roof.
Next I thought I could convince the computer terminal machine to pump out a printed piece of paper that would allow me to not get fired my first day on the job. FLIGHT CLOSED. Even the machines were against me. So now, it’s 5:45 am and I was proper-fucked without a flight to Portland. I called the Horizon customer service line and listened to a recording stating that the offices were not open for another 15 minutes.
Thus began the longest 15 minutes in recent memory. I sat there simultaneously furious with myself, furious with stupid regulations, and playing out every conceivable disaster scenario in my head. I pictured Jeff meeting me at the airport a day after I was supposed to arrive, greeting me with a knee shattering leg kick, and then ground n’ pounding me with one fist for every dollar of the company’s money I wasted.
As soon as my cell phone switched to 6:00am, I pushed the redial button and a Horizon rep answered on the first ring. I explained my predicament, and the rep said the best he could do was a flight arriving at 4:40pm. “That’s not going to cut it,” I said. “I have to be there before 1pm.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Griffin. That’s the only option available at this time.”
“Fuck,” I closed the phone, and paced toward a ticket counter. Half way there I had an idea. I was supposed to stop over in Seattle before catching the last leg to Portland, maybe if I can get my ass in Seattle, I can pick up where I left off. I dialed the number again. This time a lady answer, she gave it her best “let me see if that’s possible,” but I could tell form her pessimistic tone she was only humoring the panic in my voice. “No, I’m sorry. You can’t take the second flight. “Although,” she said, “there is a flight from Vancouver to Portland that arrives at 1:20 pm. It would cost $100 to transfer your booking. Are you able to get to Vancouver?”
“I don’t know, but there’s no other alternative at this point. Book the flight, and I’ll worry about getting there.” I read off my credit card information, prayed that it would go through, and then set off to find a flight to Vancouver. Half an hour later, I was another $275 poorer, shaking from stress, depleted of energy, but scheduled to arrive in Portland at 1:20 pm, right on time.
The flights were uneventful, aside from the intense feeling of dread, loathing and regret every time I thought about my bank account. The only bright spot was explaining my intended business in the States to the tattooed customs agent with the Brooklyn accent. “And what movie are you screening?”
“It’s called I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell.”
“What do you mean beer in hell? What’s this beer in hell?”
“The movie, it’s based of a popular book. Aimed at the college market primarily.”
“Who’s beer?”
“What?”
“Have a good flight sir.”
It was hard to have a good flight when you’re ramming your head against the fold down tray. Actually, it wasn’t that bad. It’s sad to say, but I’m getting used to being an idiot, and creating massive clusterfucks from stupid mistakes. No time to dwell on the negative, we’ve got a movie to screen in less than 24 hours, and there’s more work to be done than people to do it.