Day One: Part Two - The Last Day In Brooklyn

With this blog sorta centering on my journey to California, it's probably worthwhile to relay the day it started - the last day in Brooklyn. The day was pretty damned intense, so I'll split it into two parts, starting with the second.

After dropping off my printer and some poster frames at the Tiger Lily* shipping center, I was ready to lock up my apartment and say goodbye to New York. I dropped my keys in the mailbox, called a car service to Hewes and S 3rd, and high-tailed it to JFK.

When we arrived at the airport (my sister was with me to lend a hand, say goodbye), we saw a goddamn sea of travelers at the curbside check-in. I'd flown JetBlue scores of times with nothing but effortless, worry-free experiences. Seeing a crowd that could fill the Bowery Ballroom was like a kick in the gut. We were already late 'cause, like an idiot, I didn't think about the consequences of taking a cab at rush hour. Lucky for me, I printed my boarding pass that morning; the online drop-off queue was much shorter than the seething mass of bodies inside the building. Unlucky for me, my bags were heavier than sin and consequently "overweight." Yeah, I packed fucking cast iron skillets and a 16-piece dinette set.

When told to head inside, I gave up hope. There was about 20 minutes until my flight left and about 50 minutes of line to get through. I'd pretty much accepted my fate of missing the plane. My only option was to take the flight the next day, so I was gearing up for a Tom Hanks jaunt of wacky terminal antics. I was ready to sleep in rigid chairs, shave in the mens room, forge lifelong friendships with the janitorial staff. I couldn't find a monitor with the info, and I wanted to know when to set the alarm on my cellphone so I skipped to the front counters to ask when the first flight tomorrow would be.

ME
When's the next flight to Seattle?

HER
In about 10 minutes.

ME
No, I'm asking about tomorrow. I've already missed the flight today.

HER
No you haven't.

That beautiful, gracious woman saved the fucking day. (I tried to tip her, but she wouldn't have it.) I ran back to my sister and we hauled the bags to the front, ducking under velvet rope after velvet rope. With clock ticking, my sister stepped up, asking if she could handle the extra-weight charges, letting me run to the plane. I strapped my pack on, hugged my sister, and bolted for my flight. I ran like the wind, my legs responding without thought. After the security check point, I ran without shoes, without my belt. I just shoved them in my bag and went. I was leaping over luggage, swerving through crowds, slicing around toddlers. And I made it. I made my flight. Through the kindness of strangers and the aid of family, I made my fucking flight. Once on the plane, all I could do was grin a big dumb retarded smile. After racing through the terminal, barefoot, I was minutes away from racing west at a clip of about 435 mph, chasing the horizon with a 4-hour sunset lighting the way. Hell of a way to leave New York.


*Same name as a plush shark I bought on Orcas Island. True story. (No, she is not a tiger shark.)