white courtesy telephone, please

I am currently watching Hank pace the floors of Melanie's apartment as he listens to the muzak (Tears for Fears?) coming over the cell phone. He's on hold with USAir's Baggage Claim, waiting to see what the status of our missing luggage is. This is the last of a series of misadventures that began early yesterday morning when we both awoke with a start at the sound of our friend Raj knocking on our back door, ready to take us to the airport while we were both still asleep. Raj was so patient as we rushed around and bumped into each other getting the luggage in the car and putting the garbage out, finally turning off the lights and locking the doors.

When we arrived at the airport, we were late, but not that late, but it also turns out that the July 4 weekend is a very popular day of travel, and we were not the only ones who set their alarms for 5pm instead of 5am. The lines inside the airport were amazingly long, and everyone had that "I'm about to panic" look on their faces; or, if not that one, the "Can you believe this?" incredulity that sometimes invites conversation or at least a little smile from fellow travellers. We stood in one line outside, only to discover that the line we needed to be in was inside and so, by the time we got to the check-in counter, our plane was already in the air. We were bumped to the next flight on Continental, but our transfer in Philadelphia put us on a different airline, the notorious US Airways, and this also meant that, once in Philly, we had to go to baggage claim and re-check and re-connect with our flight.

This is where the day got really long. As a result of our first missed flight, we also missed our connecting flight. We stood in a couple of different USAir lines, all of which ended at counters that were remarkably understaffed. These lines were impossibly slow since so many travellers, or so it seemed to me, were missing flights and being put on stand-by. But crowds are full of fascinating bodies, and so I was never really bored, because the pageantry of humanity is endlessly entertaining. I started counting the number of women who buy into that Hollywood-inspired pornographic femininity (women with tan colored skin, tan-colored hair, blue contact lenses, very expensive-looking bits of clothes covering silicone breasts and anorexic-looking waists, and a cellphone glued to their ears on which they have loud, public conversations about how much xanax they should take and when). I wondered alound if they were all going to be okay. Another thing to do was to "ding!" audibly, like a bell, to signal to Hank that a gay stereotype was walking past us, but then I got confused about the difference between these men and sophisticated looking Europeans. Hank wondered when the baggy-style of basketball shorts would finally become uncool and men would return to wearing those 1970s style gym shorts that end high up on the thigh and come together under the crotch.

We were finally put on stand-by on three different flights: 5.30pm, 8pm, and 10pm, all headed from Philly to Boston. Our baggage got a special hot pink tag to signal "stand-by" and the theory was that luggage workers would know when to toss them on and when to send them to the next flight.

Stand-by: Waiting for stand-by was a nail-biting experience. You assume they just call your name and in you go, but actually (at least yesterday) it is an intense rollercoaster ride of anguish and hope. After everyone boards, Hank and I, along with the ten other stand-bys jockying for position, would stand really close to the worker who called the names for boarding. As the Final Call is put out over the intercom, we would all sort of nervously look at each other, shifting our weight from foot to foot, feeling the tension, not wanting to speak since it might jinx our chances. A couple of us stretched. If a late arrival showed up and joyfully proclaimed that she couldn't believe she made the flight, we'd shoot her a dirty look, since she just cut the number of open seats down; and when an entire family of six showed up, I swear I saw one stand-by spit on the father's back. We had Melanie's number on the cell, and Hank's finger hovered in anticipation over the Send button, so that we could instantly contact her with the news that we were indeed boarding. Even though we couldn't (and shouldn't) get our hopes up, it was hard not to imagine the ecstatic "yes!" we would yell in triumph as we pushed past the others to claim our tickets. Unfortunately for Hank and I, we did not make the cut for the 5.30pm flight to Boston, and that really took the wind out of our sails. The next flight was at 8pm, which meant that we had to go to another terminal and kill time.

Hank took a nap. I found pizza and fruit, plus a Swatch watch store, at which I had an amusing conversation with the saleswoman, who laughed at all of my jokes about temporality. She sold me a nifty-looking $45 dollar blue and brown man's watch, which I really, in fact, needed. At this point, I found out that guests at Melanie's going-away party were beginning to arrive, including many people I haven't seen in quite some time: my oldest friend Stephen (who I met in Mrs. Klopstein's kindergarten class and have known ever since), my old roommate Gretchen Lembach and her partner Dan, Gretchen's sister Ingrid, Sylvia Boyle, and Kassie (who is Melanie's oldest friend and whom I met when I visited Melanie years ago in San Francisco). So, when it came time to jockey for position for the 8pm flight, I felt it necessary to beam a line of control directly into the brain of the woman who was giving the stand-bys out. (We were informed that there is no hierarchy to the stand-by list, it is random every time it comes out, and so there is no "Well, you've been on stand-by the longest, so . . . ".) But the waiting, once more, was excrutiating. The flight was scheduled for take-off at 8pm, but hadn't even started boarding until 8.30. Another hour dragged past. The stand-by crew was growing impatient, taking huge audible sighs. One or two actually left. At 9.35, my mind-control trick worked. Our last names came over the loud-speaker and we jumped for joy. Unfortunately, I decided to temporarily put a half-empty bottle of water in the bag that carries my laptop and, when I went to safely store it in the overhead, I forgot about it, and so now my laptop has a wet battery and only works plugged in (but at least it is not totally fried -- I imagined it was and had an honest-to-goodness psychic break in the cab ride from the airport. But at this point, could you blame me?).

When we arrived in Boston, our luggage was missing, which is where I began this post and just about where I want to end it. We didn't get into Boston until about 10.45pm, and got into Melanie's apartment around 11:30pm. Offically, a several hour trip turned into one that last over sixteen hours. But it was good to be in fresh air and I was looking forward to beer. Her party was nearly over, but I did see some of the faces of the people I mentioned above, who stuck around to hug me.