At the Whim of Engineers

The names have been changed to protect the innocent.
 
The dawn light trickled through the cracks in the vertical blinds, projecting its long, dim fingers onto the apartment-issue mold-gray shag carpeting, over the rakishly-placed serape given to me by my sister, past last week’s laundry, and into my firmly-sealed left eye, triggering some deeply-rooted primal reaction that told me it was probably morning.  Either that, or a derailed train was bearing down on my bedroom window.  I rolled over, attempting to resolve the red glowing pictograms on the clock radio into some semblance of a time.

6:59.

The next three seconds were something of a blur, but somehow I managed in that short period to bolt out of bed, get dressed, and make it into the bathroom without severely injuring myself.

"S***!"  Famous last words.  "Must’ve overslept."  Our generation was the first to embrace digital technology, but we have never really trusted it.  Thus, not that it mattered one iota at this point, I felt compelled to spend 5 seconds diagnosing the apparent failure in the clock radio.  Sure enough, it was meticulously ticking away the microseconds until the time at which I had instructed it to go off:  six o’clock ... PM.

"Damn!  Sonofab****."  Running late makes one prone to bouts of sudden-onset Tourette's.

By this time, my brain was locked in the computations of a desperate man:  "Flight leaves at 8:15.  Thirty minutes to the airport.  Fifteen minutes to park.  Another ten to the terminal.  Five to check in.  Flight leaves at 8:15.  Maybe I can make the airport in 25 minutes if traffic’s light..."  No matter how I spun the numbers, the answer always came up "no effing way."

Five minutes later, I was in the car, fully dressed with teeth brushed, hair looking like something my cat would hiss at, and my laptop neatly packed away in an innocuous-looking suitbag. There was a thick fog hanging over North Houston this morning, not that I noticed it much at this point.

7:07.

I spent the first five minutes of the drive trying to think of anything vital I might have left behind, as if I could have actually gone back for it if I had.  The Tomball Parkway was moving smoothly for that time of morning.  "Maybe.  Just maybe."

7:20.

I turned onto the Beltway.  Since I was in such a hurry, I opted to splurge and pay the extra buck to get on the new toll lanes.  Traffic was moving swiftly.  35 MPH... 40... 45... 50... 35... 25...  It was then that I remembered the construction.

"Cripes!"  Now being fully awake, I could more easily censor myself as I slammed on the brakes to avoid rear-ending a slate-gray late model bubble-bodied thunderbird ... driving a Honda.

Some brilliant Texas A&M Civil Engineering graduate had apparently slipped a decimal place.  At least, that’s the only logical explanation I could see for closing two out of three lanes during morning drive time.  An analogy came to mind regarding Heinz Ketchup in an Anchorage Burger King with a busted radiator.

7:30.

"Carry On, My Wayward Son" started playing on the radio.

7:35.

"Cold As Ice."  Oh well, at least they were spinning some decent music.

7:37.  Commercial break.

"Crap."  Not only was the prospect of me having a fudgesickle’s chance in Hades of making the flight growing slim, but I really hated that commercial.

7:40.  Traffic began to move.

In Houston, the speed limit is really an average, so if you spend twenty minutes going 10 MPH, you are entitled to spend twenty minutes going 110 MPH to make up for it.  And I nearly did.  You don't stop to think about such things when you're late for the airport.  You do, however, become keenly aware of the precise shape and texture of each of the numerals on the digital clock in your dashboard.

7:45.

"Continental, please."

"To your left.  Row 6."  Who was he kidding?  Sometimes, I think the Illustrious Gatekeepers of the Park & Fly do that on purpose just to give the guys in the tower something to laugh about over lunch.  Section 6A.  Nada.  6B.  Zilch.  6C.  Bupkiss.  6D.  "A spot!"  I exclaimed as I was already three car lengths past it.  Apparently the guy behind me was a bit more observant, however.

"Bastard."  Censoring myself only goes so far, you see.

6E.  Calling it a "spot" is probably a stretch.  For your average Yugo owner, it would have been Shangri La, mind you, but squeezing my ‘95 midnight forest green pseudo-Japanese sedan into it took a bit of doing.  By the time I had secured the vehicle and popped the trunk, the bus was already waiting for me.  Miracle of miracles.

"Continental, please."  And away we go!

7:55.  Or rather, "away we go, after picking up five other passengers from the opposite corners of the lot, each with more luggage than an average Macy’s in December."  It's worth noting that I had considered parking closer to the airport, but being fresh out of college, this was only the second business trip I had ever taken and only the fourth time I had ever flown in my life.  And when you're late for class, you park in a lot that you know will have some empty spots, then you run.

The driver had KQUE playing at top volume - something by Tommy Dorsey, I think.  "And rounding out the hour, that was Tommy Dorsey."  Thought so.  "You're listening to KQUE, 102.9 FM.  The time is 7:59."  No effing way.  Next up was something by Diana Ross.  The young couple at the back of the bus started singing along.  "It’s 8:05 and time to check the traffic."  Crap.  I glanced desperately at my non-existent watch.

I looked out the window just in time to see the bus swerve to avoid careening into a car that’d been brilliant enough to pull halfway into the white zone.  That’s exactly what would top off the morning:  a head-on between a blind, Lexus-driving out-of-towner and a shuttle bus with no seatbelts.  But at least we were at the terminal.  Finally.

Fifteen seconds later, I was herding my carry-on and my entirely-too-overpacked Samsonite throw-it-over-a-cliff luggage through the revolving door into the concourse.  I happened to catch a glimpse of the large, friendly digital clock on the wall, its seven-segment LEDs mocking me with every crimson photon they shed.

8:12.  8:12.  8:12.  HA HA HA HA!!!!

Not being one to be easily disheartened by a collection of Radio Shack hardware in a slate-gray glossy Taiwanese box, I headed straight for the big board ... and I do mean big.  Two minutes later, I’d found my flight.

Continental Flight 1500:  Orlando.  DELAYED.  Departure:  8:35.

Dance of joy.  You know, it had really never occurred to me at any time during this whole escapade to call the airport and book myself on a later flight.  Deep down, I guess I somehow knew that the flight was going to be delayed.  Yeah, that’s it.

I rushed up to the checkout counter to see if my eyes had deceived me.

"Yes sir, we show that flight leaving at approximately 8:35.  By the way, has anyone unknown to you approached you with any items to carry on board the plane?"  Has anyone ever answered "yes" to that question?

I breezed through check-in and security.  I started running down the Continental terminal.  Running.  Must...  Find...  Gate...  C-20...  "Gates C-14 to C-22 that way," pointed the sign.  Another sign.  "Gates C-16 to C-22 that way."  Seriously?  "Gates C-18 to C-22 that way," pointed a third.  "Gates C-21 to C-22 this way."  Apparently some other Aggie Engineer was poking fun at my expense.

8:25.  Gate C-20.  Finally.

8:26.  "Announcing Continental Flight 1500 non-stop service to Orlando.  At this time, we will begin boarding of first class passengers, passengers requiring special assistance, One Pass Gold frequent flyer members displaying a current card, ex-presidents of Lithuania, persons carrying pet hedgehogs in their pockets, and Wayne Newton."

I was home free.  I might actually make it to the one o’clock meeting with time to spare.

8:30.  "At this time, we will begin general boarding of passengers too cheap to fly first class."  That would be me.

8:35.  We taxied away from the gate and down the tarmac toward the runway.  It looked like we’d be taking off west-to-east.  Makes sense.

8:45.  "Ummm...  Ladies and gentlemen, from the cockpit, this is your captain, Don Johnson."  And his co-pilot, Phillip Michael Thomas.  "Intercontinental Airport currently has all but one ILS system down for repair, so all airline traffic is being directed onto one runway on account of the fog.  This is why we were so late getting in.  Anyway, it looks like there’s about fourteen tails in front of us, so it may be ten or fifteen more minutes.  We apologize for the delay."  Somewhere up in College Station, they're having a good chuckle over all of this.

9:00.  Takeoff.  The flight was a bit turbulent but otherwise uneventful.  The cloud cover was thick all across the Gulf coast, so there wasn’t very much interesting in the way of scenery.  Consequently, introvert that I am, I passed the time munching on dry Crispy Wheaties and Raisins and reading a sci-fi novel about a genetically-engineered monkey and an interstellar ark.

12:00 (Eastern Time.)  A perfect landing (or, at least, good enough to walk away from.)

But now my brain was locked in the computations of desperation once again.  "Fifteen minutes to pick up the rental car.  Five minutes to pick up the bags.  Fifteen minutes to the hotel.  Five minutes to check in.  Meeting’s at 1 PM...   OK, maybe ten minutes to the hotel if I hoof it..."  Maybe.  Just maybe.  (It had also never occurred to me, inexperienced traveler that I was, that I didn't have to actually check into the hotel before going to the meeting.)

12:05.  After a short monorail ride from the terminal to the concourse, I headed for baggage claim. The luggage was there waiting for me when I arrived.  Miracle of miracles.

12:10.  The queue at the Avis desk.

12:20.  The queue at the Avis desk.

12:25.  "Can I help you, sir?"

"Yes.  I have a reservation.  Here’s the confirmation number."

"I don’t need that, sir."

"What’s the name?"

"Eh?"

"Your name, sir."

"Alderman."

"Your last name, sir."

"Alderman."  It’s in the dictionary.  I swear.

"How’s that spelled?"

"A-L-D-E..."

"I’ve got it, sir."  Charming.  Maybe she’s free for lunch.

"Do you have a confirmation number?"  Face.  Palm.

"I need to see your ID and credit card, sir."

I handed them over.

"Is this your current address, sir?"

"Yes."  Actually, it wasn’t, but knowing full well that she would never know the difference, I engaged in a bit of enlightened self-interest.

"OK, sir.  I have you down for an intermediate for four days.  Would you like to purchase liability insurance with that?"

It took a good five minutes for her to explain to me exactly why I needed insurance on a vehicle I didn’t own.  Inexperienced traveler, yada yada yada.  I sprung for the $8/day extra just to shut her up.

12:35.  "Number A-167, out the door behind the Budget counter, sir."  She cast me a suspicious glance as I walked out.  I must remember to ask for her phone number.

A-166...  A-167.  White Pontiac Grand Am.  Nice.

12:37.  Ready for departure.  Momentary panic.  Where did I put the directions to the hotel? Fortunately, I remembered where they were.  They were resting comfortably atop a 4-foot oak desk on the Northeast wall of my living room, 1500 miles west of my current location.

"Crap."  I remembered that it was the Orlando Marriott on International Drive, so I dug up the handy Avis map o’ the city and searched.  And searched.

12:40.  Found International Drive.  It was only ten miles and two toll plazas up the Beeline Expressway.  Maybe.  Just maybe.  I took a right on International Drive, heading North toward the Convention Center.  I passed two Embassy Suites, a plethora of Days Inns.  No Marriott.  I was getting close to Sand Lake Road and didn’t see any Marriott-looking buildings anywhere around, so I turned around.

1:05.  This time, I drove south from the Beeline.  And drove...

1:20.  On the horizon!  Could it be?  The Marriott!  Everyone at the meeting knew I was flying in that morning, so hopefully they could forgive a half hour’s tardiness.  Maybe they’d be a bit late from lunch, so it would all be moot.  I pulled the Grand Am into the guest parking lot and lugged my luggage up the hill to the front desk.  As luck would have it, the next available check-in clerk was on an exchange program from Moscow.

"Velcome to Mahrrriott ‘otel Orrlondo.  Voot you lak me to keel moos und squirrrel?"

"I have a confirmation number."

"I don’ need thaht, seerr.  Vhat is yourr nem?"  Anyone notice kind of an echo in here?

"Alderman."

"Yourr lest nem?"

"Alderman.  A-L-D-E..."

"I ‘ave eet, seerr.  You ‘ave ID?"

I handed over my driver’s license.

"Ees thees yourr currrent addrress?"

"Yes."  Oh, what a tangled web...

"I don’ show you rregesteerred ‘erre.  Do you ‘ave zhe cohnfeerrmehtion noombeerr?"  I wanted to scream.  I really did.

Falling prey once again to digital distrust, I started thinking of every possible way that the computer could have crowbarred my reservation.  I even double-checked the wall behind the check-in desk to assure myself that this was indeed the Marriott.  I mean, how many Marriotts can there be on International Drive in Orlando, Florida?

Exactly two, as it turned out.

"Ahhh.  Seerr, you arre rregeesterred aht zhe Orrlondo Mahrrriott.  Zhees ees zhe Orrlondo Mahrrriott Vorrld Ceenter."  Well, I’m glad we got that straightened out.  "You vahnt zhe Mahrrriott aht zhe coorner oof Sahnd Lek und Eenterrnahtional Drrahv."

"I see."  Seeing as I’d been within a block of it not thirty minutes prior, I was at this point contemplating a graceful half-gainer off of the lovely atrium skywalk.  Instead, I settled for looking really, really pissed.

1:35.  After hauling the bags back down the hill and re-loading the Grand Am, I realized that Natasha had failed to return my driver’s license.

1:40.  On the road again.  I learned to appreciate the Grand Am’s 8-cylinder engine as I power-shifted my way up International Drive.

2:00.  I arrived at the real Orlando Marriott, a group of low, very discrete and entirely un-Marriott-looking buildings tucked away at the corner of Sand Lake and International Drive.  Check-in went smoothly.

2:10.  I arrived at the room, threw the suitcases into a pile, and tried to locate the meeting rooms on the lovely site map given to me by the desk clerk.  Ah...  There it is, just past the lagoon, down the other side of building 16, across the East pool, through the loading docks, left at the light...  By watching the little TV screens they had posted every so many feet along the hallway, I was able to ascertain in which room the meeting was being held.  Hebiscus.  Wouldn’t you know it?  The very last doorway.

I entered tentatively, expecting the meeting to be underway.  Fortunately, everyone was milling about on break, so I tried to blend in inconspicuously.  "Ah!  Glad you could join us!"  So much for inconspicuous.  By 2:30, they had reconvened.  As with most corporate meetings, the first hour was exposition, so I hadn’t missed anything vital.  I dug out the laptop and started taking notes.

It was only then that I noticed that my shirt was on inside-out.