Getting to the Class Reunion

I am attending a high school reunion of several classes this weekend in the little southwest Georgia town of Cuthbert. I shopped online and found the cheapest airfare I could. Traveling involved my driving to Houston and flying to Atlanta where I would connect with a flight to Albany, and, after a brief layover in Atlanta, should land in Albany around 5:15 in the afternoon. My sister, Marsha, would meet me in Albany and drive me the 47 miles to the “old family home” in Cuthbert, where she and her husband, Buddy, live. I will sleep in my old room, which should bring back tons of memories.

I said goodbye to Carol Ann and left Nacogdoches Thursday morning at some time between 8:00 and 8:30AM. My flight from Houston to Atlanta was set for 12:03PM so I had plenty of time to drive the two hours and fifteen minutes to IAH (Bush). The traffic was relatively light and the weather beautiful and I pulled into the FastPark lot around 10:30AM and parked in the sheltered section. The FastPark bus picked me up and took me to Terminal A for my Delta flight. I tipped the driver, walked inside the terminal and headed for the Delta counter. I looked down at the boarding pass I had printed the night before and stopped dead still. The boarding pass showed Houston-Hobby for the airport, not IAH! I WAS IN THE WRONG AIRPORT!! IAH is on the north side of Houston and Hobby is on the south side. It had never occurred to me when making the airline reservation that it may not be from IAH. Panicking, I waited impatiently in line, hoping for some miracle. Finally, I was at the counter, telling the agent how stupid I was and asking if they had a flight to Atlanta out of IAH that I might take.

Her reply was, "Not at that price." She told me that Houston-Hobby was 45 minutes away and I MIGHT be able to make it. I looked at my watch. It was 11:03AM. One hour until my flight time.

I hurried back out of the terminal to catch the bus back to the parking lot. After the second bus came and went I learned that the FastPark buses used the other side of the terminal. I ran back through the terminal and out the other side just as a FastPark bus was pulling up. I jumped in and hurriedly told the driver my story and asked her to please hurry to the parking lot. During the ride I entered Houston-Hobby into the GPS app on my iPhone. I believe it said the trip was 23 miles and should take 45 minutes (had to drive through the heart of Houston on US-59 to I-45 South).

The bus driver got me back to my truck without stopping for anyone else and I tore out of the parking lot, actually burning rubber! I was driving in and out of traffic at 80 to 90 mph, praying I wouldn't get stopped by the cops. I shot down the off ramp at the Houston-Hobby exit and turned left at the light, following signs to an off-site parking lot. After two miles without seeing anything that looked like a parking lot or an airport I pulled into a fast food restaurant, parked at the front door, left the motor running, ran inside, and announced in a loud voice to everyone inside, "I'm late for a flight and I don't know where to park! Where is a parking lot?" Everyone, employees and customers alike, stopped what they were doing and stared at me.

Finally, a man pointed in the direction from which I had come and said, "The airport is that way."

I yelled a thank you, ran out, jumped into the truck, left more rubber, and headed back the way I had come. A couple of blocks beyond the intersection where I had made the left turn I saw a Spot Parking sign, wheeled in, and slammed on brakes at the ticket dispensing machine. I pressed the button and it spit out a ticket, time-stamped 11:33AM. Thirty minutes earlier I had been talking to a Delta agent in Terminal A at IAH.

A parking attendant was standing a few feet away and I said, "I have a 12:03 flight. Will I make it?"

She answered, "Sheltered or not?"

I said, "Huh?"

"You want sheltered parking or not?" she said.

"Sheltered!" I yelled.

"Row nine to your right." she replied.

I didn’t bother to ask again if she thought I would make it. I raced off, found a parking spot, jumped out with my bag, and ran to the waiting bus. I threw my bag in and told the gray-haired driver to please hurry, I was late for my flight.

"Don't worry," he said. "I'll get you there!" and off we lumbered like a herd of turtles. Several minutes later he pulled up to the terminal and as I was grabbing my bag he said, "You are flying Southwest, aren't you?"

"No, Delta!"

"Oh, that's on the other side."

"Of the airport?" I said.

"No. Of the terminal," he said as he put the bus in gear to drive me the last one hundred yards. He stopped, I shoved some money in his hand in thanks, and ran into the building. I had no idea where I was going. I stopped a TSA agent and asked him where to go for a Delta flight.

"That line," he said pointing to the security line. I jogged over and joined the line. When it was my turn, I dumped my pockets into a tray, tossed my bag onto the conveyor, and stood in the metal detector. An agent waved me through, I grabbed my stuff, and looked around for the monitors. I found my flight displayed and ran off towards the gate. When I was about two gates away I caught up with two flight attendants walking in the same direction. I slowed down and casually asked, "Are y'all going to Atlanta?" Why I said that, I have no idea.

"Yes," they answered. I slowed down. I knew the plane wasn't leaving without them.

A crowd was standing around the counter at the gate. It appeared that I had made it with time to spare. I looked at the board and the flight time posted was 12:44PM. The flight time had been changed without my knowledge. The racing had not been necessary after all.

I boarded the flight when my time came and we arrived at Atlanta-Hartsfield without further incident. It was approximately 3:30PM and I set my watch ahead one hour to Eastern Standard Time. I had about 45 minutes to catch my connecting flight to Albany. I found the Arrival/Departure monitors and saw that the flight to Albany was out of gate 24, Terminal D. I was in Terminal C at a gate number in the 30’s. I jogged down the length of the terminal and rode the escalator down to the train. It arrived within seconds and I boarded for the short ride to Terminal D. Exiting at D, I rode the escalator up to the main level and found the monitors. Destinations were in alphabetical order and I found Albany right off the bat. Gate 24 it still said. I had about 20 minutes remaining. I rushed to Gate 24 and found the area deserted and noticed that 5:55PM was posted as the departure time. Had the 4:15PM flight been delayed? I ran back to the monitors and found another Albany flight that was leaving from Gate 28 at 4:15PM. I trotted back down the concourse and could see 28 at the end. As I caught up with two flight attendants walking in the same direction and I asked them (why, I have no idea) if they were going to Atlanta.

“Yes,” they said. So I slowed down, knowing the plane would not leave without them. Once again the departure time for my flight had been delayed by about half an hour so I had made it with time to spare. We finally began boarding, but because it was a small regional jet, I had to check my carry on bag at the door. I found my seat and collapsed. The plane was relatively small and boarding was quick. Once everyone was seated, the flight attendant recited the safety instructions and we waited. And waited. No one knew what was keeping us from pulling away from the gate. The pilot then made a PA announcement.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the further delay. We are waiting on our First Officer. She was here a little while ago but I don’t know where she is now.”

We didn’t have a copilot! Had she run out to the bathroom or to get one last drink?

Two young men were seated behind me and had been talking and laughing and failed to here all of the pilot’s announcement. One asked, “What did he say?”

I answered, “He said they didn’t have a copilot and wanted to know if anyone else knew how to fly an airplane.” Then I asked, “Do you know how to fly one?”

NO!” he exclaimed. “WE DON’T HAVE A COPILOT!” Then I let him in on the joke as he was about to get up and leave the airplane.

At last the copilot arrived and since she exhibited no signs of intoxication I remained seated. At last we were in the air and on the way to Albany. We landed, I grabbed my bag, and walked into the terminal to find my sister patiently waiting for me. Home at last.

"Who's on First?"

Needing to stop for gas on the way down to Houston the other day, I pulled off of US-59 into a Valero convenience store/gas station in Shepherd. I drove up to the first pump in a row of six and got out to pump the gas while Carol Ann went into the store to use the rest room. I got out my credit card and swiped it before looking at the pump’s LCD display. When I looked at the pump’s LCD display I couldn’t read it. It looked like the display had suffered a “brown out” because the entire display was brown and unreadable. I had already swiped my card so I went ahead and keyed in my zip code (the first thing they all ask for after swiping your card) and pressed “Enter.” I saw no change in the display and the pump did not come on so I pressed the “Cancel” button, got back in the car, and moved it from pump number one to pump number four. As I was getting out of the car at pump number four, a large pickup truck pulled up to pump number three. I briefly noticed an old white haired rancher in jeans, denim shirt, and cowboy hat getting out of the truck.

I quickly forgot about the guy because as I approached pump number four I could see that its display was unreadable also. Frustrated, I threw my arms up and said to no one in particular, “Shit!” rather loudly. When I looked back at the pump I saw that it was on. “Thank you God!” Although, it was more than likely the clerk in the store, rather than God, who probably saw me having a tantrum and turned the pump on for me. Apparently they are accustomed to turning on the pumps for people since the pump displays are unreadable. I turned back towards the store, waved at where I thought the clerk (or God?) might be, and mouthed, “Thank you!”

I filled the car’s tank, a little over eleven gallons (it’s a small car), and then headed inside to pay for the gas. Two employees were behind the store’s counter. Both seemed to be of Pakistani or Indian roots. A woman was at the register and a man was standing around doing nothing. I walked up, laid my card on the counter, and said, “Pump number four.”

The woman looked up and asked, “How much do you want?”

“I’ve already pumped the gas, just need to pay for it.” I said.

About this time the old rancher walked in and interrupted by saying rather loudly, “Forty dollars on number three,” before turning around and going back out to the pump.

The woman turned back to me and again asked how much gas I wanted. Once again I told her that I had already pumped the gas. “I got seventeen dollars and twenty-one cents worth of gas on pump number four.” She looked confused so I quickly added, “I never swiped my card. I though you turned on the pump.”

“No,” she said. “I didn’t turn on the pump.”

I thought to myself, “You don’t suppose that……..no, I don’t think so!” and addressed the woman. “I tried pump number one first but couldn’t read the screen so I moved to pump number four but I couldn’t read the screen on it either. If you didn’t turn it on, it must have been on when I pulled up because I pumped the gas without ever swiping my card.”

She then pressed some keys and a little printer on the counter popped out a receipt, which she pushed over to me along with a pen. The receipt showed the correct amount, $17.21, but it also showed that a $40 credit had been applied and I was due a refund of $22.79. “But you haven’t even swiped my card. And what’s this forty dollars?” I said.

About that time the old rancher came back inside and interrupted us again. “You still haven’t turned on pump number three!” he grumbled.

“You said pump number four,” she said.

“No, I didn’t. I said forty dollars on pump number three,” he said.

“You told me pump number four,” she said.

“No, I was on pump number four after moving from pump number one and he was on pump number three." I said.

“You never turned on pump number three,” he said.

I felt like I was the straight man to Abbott and Costello's "Who's on First?" I said, “It looks like you paid for my gas with the forty dollars you haven’t yet paid and I’m getting the change from what you didn’t pay.”

“No,” he said. “I’m not paying that. I haven’t gotten any gas yet!”

By this time the male employee had come over and was listening in. He looked at the receipt and smiled like he had just come up with a great idea. Looking at me and pointing at the old rancher he said, “You can just pay him for your gas!”

Why was I not surprised that he would set himself up like that? I couldn't resist it and answered, “I don’t believe he accepts credit cards.”

“No, I don’t,” said the old rancher.

The man behind the counter shrugged and went back to doing nothing while the woman was still trying to get me to take the pen and sign the receipt. 

My credit card still had not been scanned so I wasn't sure who she was charging it to. I certainly wasn't going to sign it. I suggested she cancel it and we could start over. The woman looked at the man and he looked at her. Both looked like they weren’t sure what to do so I said, “Tell the owner this kind of thing wouldn’t happen if he would get the pump screens fixed.”

“Yes, there must be a problem with them,” the woman said. “For some reason I always have to turn the pumps on for people.” Then she took the receipt back and asked once again, “How much gas did you say you got and which pump was it on?”

“Seventeen dollars and twenty-one cents on pump number four,” I said. She tapped on her keyboard and then asked me to swipe my card. I did and a new receipt popped out of the printer. She pushed it over to me with a pen and I looked at it very carefully. It appeared to be correct so I signed it.

“You still haven’t turned on pump number three!” the old rancher said as I was walking out. I wonder if he ever got his gas and managed to pay for it.

Carol Ann was waiting for me in the car. We got back on the highway and I tried to explain what had just happened. You can’t make this kind of shit up!

Don't Mess With Me When I'm Hungry!

I’m in Houston at the Double Tree by Hilton at Greenway Plaza for a weekend photography workshop. Classes began at 8:00 AM and we didn’t break for lunch until 1:00 PM, but we had until 2:30 before class resumed. Plenty of time to grab a bite and relax. Only one of the two hotel restaurants was open, but I beat the crowd there and my food and drink order was taken immediately.

I opened the book that I have been reading on my iPhone’s Kindle app and began reading. My drink order arrived very fast and I sipped on the Coke as I read, not paying much attention to what was going on around me. After a while I looked up and realized the restaurant was almost full. I read some more and when I looked up again, noticed that most people around me were eating. I began watching for my waiter so I could ask him to check on my order but I didn't see him. Finally, at 2:05, after I had been in the restaurant for an hour, I got up and walked over to a door through which I had seen the wait staff using. A sign on the door read, “Kitchen Personnel Only” so I pushed it open and walked into the kitchen. I glanced around, but didn’t see my waiter here, either. No one asked if they could help me so I left the kitchen, gathered my belongings from the table, and walked out of the restaurant. I would go to the Starbuck’s in the hotel lobby and grab a muffin and coffee before returning to the class room at 2:30. Starbuck’s sliding glass doors were closed but I pushed them open and walked in. “We’re closed!” someone shouted.

I looked at my watch, although I knew perfectly well what time it was, and said, “It’s only 2 o’clock!” Then I noticed the sign on the door. On weekends they closed at 2:00 PM. I couldn’t believe it. I’m normally a very easy going person. I hate confrontation and I almost never complain to anyone about anything. However, I was now angry, trembling, and hungry! I walked over to the hotel desk clerk and bravely and boldly announced, “I have a complaint!”

I told her I was not one to complain, that I was normally a very easy going person, however, I was very upset with the service in their restaurant. She asked what was wrong with it and I told her that I was one of the first in the restaurant for lunch, other people were served ahead of me, and I didn’t see my waiter for an hour so I got up and left. I told her I went to Starbuck’s only to learn they closed at 2:00 PM and I thought that was absolutely insane! The front desk manager apparently overheard my comments and came over to see if he could help. I told him that the service in his restaurant was terrible and I also found it hard to believe that Starbuck’s would close at 2 o’clock.” He asked if he could help and I said something to the effect, “Not unless you have something to eat!” 

There was a small niche next to the front desk where one could purchase snacks. He led me over to it and asked me to please take anything I wanted. I was somewhat surprised, not expecting anything like this, but I picked up a Granola bar and a Twix. Why those two, I don’t know. I felt that I had to take something, but I didn’t want to appear greedy. He asked if I liked wine, to which I applied in the affirmative, wondering if he was about to offer me a glass, which he did not. He asked for my room number and told me not to worry, he would make it right. I thanked him and left for the class room with my two candy bars.

When our class was out at 6:00 PM I headed back to the room, tired and hungry. I walked into the room and there was my wife, drinking wine and enjoying a platter of cheese, crackers, and strawberries! She was kind enough to share with me and I must admit that it was quite good. Of course, by this time, a day old PB&J would have been good. A hand written note of apology had accompanied the gift. It was signed by both the Front Desk Manager and the Food and Beverages Manager. I have to say that I appreciated their efforts to appease me.

After enjoying the wine and food, I decided to take a hot soak in the tub. We only have showers at home and it has been a long time since I was able to enjoy a good hot tub soak. However, I soon discovered that the hotel tub was smaller than any tub I have ever soaked in before! Most tubs in which I have soaked were large enough for the water to cover my body almost entirely once I laid down in it. This tub was so small that it covered only a very small portion of my stomach! Now I have something else to complain about. Maybe I’ll get another free bottle of wine and something good to eat!