David Flies Too Close to the Sun

For Fall Break, I decided to come back to the beautiful land that is South Carolina to see my brother one last time before he got shipped off to Afghanistan. My flight left at 11:00 AM with a connection in Hotlanta. For lesser men, this would have been an easy task. For those brave few who thrive on pure adrenaline and good fortune, however, it was an opportunity for greatness.

My day begins at 3 in the AM, when I leave (/get kicked out of) Bazik and Gianluca's room and go back to mine. I haven't packed, but this fact presents no trouble: I merely empty my hamper into my suitcase, and there I am. And pretty much every piece of clothing I own was in that hamper, so it was a good deal. Having packed, I needed to hit up the interwebs before packing away my laptop, so that keeps me up until around 6:30, when I decide it would be a good time to sleep. Setting my alarm to 7:15, I calmly pass the night until...

9:02 (which reads 9:10 on my 8-minute-ahead alarm clock), when I wake up a whole two hours after I meant to, an entire hour after I was supposed to leave AU altogether, and realize that my schedule may require altering. I still have to shower because my hair's looking ridiculous, so I calmly stroll out of my room around 9:15. By 9:30, I'm in the Tenleytown Metro Station, where I hop on the train.

FUNNY STORY: WRONG TRAIN. For some reason, I thought the fact that the Shady Grove train was coming in 1 minute was a sign from God that I should make my flight on time, so I hopped on, only to realize in Friendship Heights that there was a slim chance that train could take me to Chinatown. So I depart from this train, and have to wait 6 entire minutes in the Friendship Heights Station for the Glenmont-bound train. This takes until 9:40.

I then embark upon the correct train, waiting another 6 minutes in Chinatown for my Yellow Line train, hop on it, cross the Potomac, and hit up Reagan. Time: 10:18 AM. That's right, I have 42 minutes to dick around in the airport. Unfortunately, I cannot find the check-in place for a good 5 minutes or so. Upon finding it, I notice that actual human beings only serve the high and mighty first-class passengers. The lowly coach passengers must flock around the self-check-in machines, pressing buttons, punching them, and otherwise failing to get them to operate correctly. I get in line for this debacle. A few minutes later, I am promptly informed that I am not in line, and the line that has formed behind me is actually a figment of my imagination. As we switch lines, everyone (who have suddenly become real, actual human beings, not only existing on this earth, but taking up precious space between me and that damned self-check-in machine) remembers that the Army sergeant going to Afghanistan next week was in front of them; on the other hand, the person directly in front of that selfsame Army sergeant - yours truly - goes completely unnoticed, and is relegated to the back of this new line composed of actual, physical entities. I become miffed. This goes unnoticed as well.

Regardless, aided by the Lord our God, my particular combination of poking and punching the self-check-in machine seems to get it to work, and I get my boarding pass. It is 10:31.

I now enter the line to go through security (for a second time, actually, as I entered it once when I was lost and looking for the check-in area). It's a long ass line. I overhear someone tell a girl who was worried about making her flight that it would only take 10 minutes. There seems to be a good chance I'll make my flight after all.

I get through security, completely terrorism-free mind you, and proceed to my gate which is near the end of the terminal. Around three-quarters of the way there, I realize that I have left my bookbag at the security checkpoint. Who does that?
I sprint back to security, take my bookbag, and run back to my gate. The plane has not left; however, my odyssey is not over. One fool trying to finagle his way onto MY PLANE has struck up an intense conversation with the only woman who had the power to let me onto that plane. Somehow I get around him without punching him in the face, as I was near to doing. The woman lets me onto the plane.

10:55 AM, I waltz onto Delta Flight 1961 (Kennedy's inauguration year; divine sign, I know, right?) like I own the damned thing, boss that I am, and take my fucking seat. At 11:00, the flight promptly taxis onto the runway.

Some people would've been content with just having survived one close call at the airport. Some people would have sat back in their blue cushioned chairs (slightly upsetting the old woman behind them, though not enough to make her actually say anything), quietly thanked the divine providence that allowed them onto the plane despite their irresponsible actions, and learned something akin to a lesson from the experience, dayeinuing like a Passover seder. Not David Wile. NEVER David Wile. Upon the flight landing in the ATL at 12:54 PM, I needed to catch a 1:37 flight to C-town. GOOD NEWS: The flight has been delayed, and 1:42 is the new 1:37. I figure I have time for lunch.

I go to the Burger King, literally not 10 yards from my gate, order my TenderGrill Meal no mayo, and pop a squat in the eating area, which is actually closer to my gate than the Burger King. The only thing closer to my gate is another gate, and that doesn't count. I plop myself down, savor every bite of my TenderGrill and fries, drink my drank all up, and enjoy the music that's playing, which consists of a nice mix of Michael Jackson and '90s pop songs. Immersed in the fact that I still remembered every word of Fastball's "The Way," despite the fact that I hadn't heard it since 1999, I quickly lose track of time. I figure I have nothing to worry about, because the PA guys gave some missing parties heading to Mobile about 5 last-calls; they'll obviously tear down the airport looking for me if I don't get to the gate on time.

At 1:37 PM, I get to the gate, having finished my meal and figuring I might as well hop on this plane that's been waiting on me. Well, surprise, sur-fucking-prise. Guess what plane isn't boarding DESPITE THE FACT THAT I CAN FUCKING SEE IT THROUGH THE WINDOW? Mine. My plane. That one.

In summation: The plane that I had LESS THAN TWO HOURS to get to from my bed to the gate, I get on. The plane that's boarding 20 feet from where I've been sitting for the past half-hour, that's the one I miss. How, you ask?

Well, obviously, after making the first plane, I misinterpreted God's divine motives. Misunderstanding one act of kindness for a general support of my impunctuality, I allowed myself to become so intent on boarding planes as lately as possible that I never really had a chance to make my second plane. And as I always say, once the inevitability of the mistake becomes apparent, it also becomes easier to accept. Don't be so hard on yourself, Icarus.


And yes, the title's a pun. This blog has layers.