Wrong Airport

Last Friday, reader-turned-girlfriend Jessica flew in from Atlanta to spend the weekend.   No, she’s not super keen on President’s Day; she does love herself some  Rutherford B. Hayes, however.

I would like to formally announce that is my first semicolon ever used on this website.  It makes me happy to show off.

We had a show last Friday night and Jessica was coming in the same evening.  If you’re in a band there’s this crappy thing you have to do called “load-in.”  Clubs will book three to four acts for the night, and because of all the equipment, they ask you to show up hours ahead of curtain.  This means I end up sitting around a bar at eight o’clock playing with my phone nursing a second Sprite.

This night it worked out well because I had to go pick up Jessica from the airport precisely the time our band would be loading in our equipment.  I would be getting out of some serious lifting.  Let the other band member haul the bass cab!  Suckers!

I arrived at O’Hare, the big Chicago airport, just as her plane was landing.  O’Hare has five terminals and I believe is the busiest or second busiest airport in the country.  Jessica was flying Delta, so I headed to terminal two.  We’re talking and she mentions she’s outside waiting.  I don’t see her.  Oh well, I’ll make another pass.  It’s about five minutes per pass.

I end up making three passes before shouting into the phone, “You are NOT outside at the Delta station!  Go ask somebody where the f**k you are!”

Then, as if right out cue, as a perfect response to getting yelled at she says calmly, “You’re at Midway, right?”

Holy dick farts.

Not only am I at the wrong airport, I’m a good hour away.  And we’re scheduled to go on stage in an hour.  And I just yelled at an amazing woman who really likes me and has just spent several hundred dollars to fly here.

I unleash about seventeen f-words directed at the ceiling of my sedan all while she is on the phone.  I am attempting to show her what I do to myself when I make a mistake.  If I can’t scream at myself for screwing up, I certainly can’t yell at someone else when they do.  The goose and the gander thing.  Plus, I want her to feel less attacked as she can hear how I treat myself.

Then I composed myself and went into apology mode.  I spent a good five minutes telling her I was so incredibly sorry, that I never checked the airport, and that I would make it up to her.

I also told her to take the subway.  This is an hour-long ride.

Thankfully our gig was exactly one hundred feet from her subway stop.  I met her outside, apologized again, took her bags to the car and bought her a drink.

Well, I used one of the free drink coupons they had given me.  That counts, right?