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?
