Adventures at the airport

Saturday morning my wife says to me that “We need to pick my Dad up from the airport tonight.”

“What?” I replied, lost in my daydreams of how I was going to scam some time during the day, to play video games.

“You remember, my Dad was down in Florida this week, and they (her Dad and step mom) are flying back tonight”. I had been wondering why it was so quiet around the house this week, and now, like ripping open Mighty Karnak’s envelope, I had the answer.

Now, in this situation, when my wife uses the word “we”, which, to most of us, would indicate something along the lines of “You and I” or “You and I and a group of people”, she mean the singular we, that is, “You”, being “Me” and definitely not her. See, in this situation, “We” means that there is something that she doesn’t want to do, doesn’t want to be involved with, and that a team of Clydesdales couldn’t drag her ass to do, and that I, being oh-so-lucky to be married to her these past 20 years, am going to have the pleasure of doing in her absence.

I get this “we” thing a lot. Like “We need to go clean up the dog poop in the yard” or “We need to call your mom and ask her what POS gift she wants for whatever holiday is upon us” or “We need to go right up stairs right now and talk with “Your” son about his attitude”. Sometimes, just for fun, I’ll reply “Fine, let me know when “we” are ready to go upstairs to correct this miscreant’s attitude, because until such time, “I’ll” be sitting my ass here on this couch watching TV until “we” are ready.” I don’t pull this out too much, as I do like having my front teeth to eat with.

In any event, I didn’t have to worry about what to do with myself this Saturday evening, since I’d be spending it within the lovely confines of the Greater Rochester International Airport. Since the only international flights that actually fly out of Rochester are to Toronto, I’ve always wondered why it gets to call itself “international”. I mean isn’t that like flying to your backyard? Like, WTF, isn’t Orlando farther away than Toronto? Shouldn’t it be renamed the Greater Rochester Intra-State Airport? Or is that Inter-state? Whatever, you get my point.

So, let’s spin forward to the middle of the afternoon, when my wife and daughters are out shopping, uh, make that “stimulating the economy”, and I’m in the basement, making the universe safe for human exploitation, killing hordes of alien scum with my trusty Xbox 360 controller. During these times of bliss, I have a firm belief, that everyone in the world receives a text message to call my house. And, since, after 20 years of marriage, I’ve managed to piss off everyone in the whole family, most of these calls are for my wife. Various friends, family members, institutions for higher learning, scam artists, social organizations, etc. etc. all seem to want to get a hold of my wife, generally, when: a) she’s out of the house, and b) I’m busy. (I’m using “I’m busy” as a euphemism for a range of activities that I’d rather not talk about here in public, and you probably don’t want to hear anything more about. If you do, drop me a line, as you may be my kind of girl).

Long story short, when the phone rings, I hate answering it. Look, do you really think Alexander would have gotten so far if he’d had to stop every 20 minutes to answer the phone? No, I didn’t think so. And Napoleon wasn’t reaching in his jacket to see the latest text message that he got either. All I’m saying is all of the great leaders never had to answer phone, so when I’m up to my neck in steaming alien entrails, why should I have to?

Anyway…so there I am, “occupied”, and the phone rings. Without thinking, I answer it, with trying to maintain my all-out onslaught on those bastard, terra-hogging aliens, when, much to my surprise, I find myself talking with my aforementioned father in law. He babbles on for a while (I’m in the zone, body parts are flying all over, and I’m thinking that I’m going to have to pump up my chest for all of the medals they are going to give me) and then asks about the weather. I blithely reply that it’s raining lightly and they shouldn’t have any problems at all with their flight. Feeling slightly reassured, he thanks me for the update, and rings off.

In the long, long list of “things” that I’m woefully inadequate at, we should, at this point, add weather forecasting. We should also add a significant lack of proper regard of, and care for, people who have sever travel anxiety, especially with regards to flying in airplanes. You know, like old people that hate flying anyways, let along during storms. But, hey, we can’t all be perfect, right? C’est la vi, right?

The anointed hour arrives, and I hop into the car to take off to the airport. The first thing I noticed, with my keen powers of observation, is that it’s really, really raining hard. Like, the kind of rain you get during the summer tropical heat. And then, lo and behold, to my great surprise, lighting starts ripping across the sky. And not just one or two bolts, but flashing like the paparazzi around some young starlet. The closer I’m getting to the airport, the heavier and heavier it’s raining, I’m driving through partially submerged streets, and the lightning is like a crashing all over the place. And, just to make the whole situation a lot more fun, the wind starts howling. I’m following behind a truck that is spraying water up from the flooded road like a ship at sea, and I started laughing to myself over how utterly and completely WRONG I was with my little pep talk to my father in law. Someday, we’ll all be able to laugh at ourselves over this, right?

Eventually, I make it to the airport, park in the short term parking lot, and in the pouring rain, make my way into the terminal. Just before I reach there, my phone starts ringing. Hopping puddles, dodging taxi’s and irate travelers, I see that it’s my father-in-law, and answer the phone. The following is, as far as I can remember, and exact copy of the conversation:

“Hello?” I answered

“Michael, it’s Dick” my father in law stated. See, his name is Richard, which is what I call him. Everybody else calls him Dick. I do, at times, but usually not around him, or my wife. Of course, somebody like me, with as twisted a sense of humor that I have, would end up with a Father-In-Law named Dick. He’ll even laugh about it, telling people “He only calls me Dick when he’s pissed at me”. It’s such a thin veneer that I have.

“Hey Richard, I’m just about to enter the terminal, where are you”

“Don’t bother coming in, just circle around and we’ll find you”

“Yea, but I’m already in the terminal. Where are you?”

“Don’t come in. We’re down here at the baggage carousel, waiting for our bags. We just got in, you know.”

“yea, I know, that’s why I’m here. Which baggage carousel are you near?”

“How am I supposed to know that? Listen, don’t bother coming in, we’ll just get out bags and meet you out at the curb.”

“Look, Richard, I’m already in the building. Why don’t you tell me where you are, and I’ll come to you”.

“Don’t bother coming to me, just meet us outside.”

“But if I don’t know where you are, how am I supposed to know which curb to pull up to? Look, I’m standing in front of carousel #2, which one are your bags arriving at?”

“How am I supposed to know that? Look, let me walk outside..”

“Dick, look up at the ceiling, there are signs that tell you which carousel your bags are at.”

“Signs? I don’t see any signs. I see some sheriffs, some taxi’s, a lot of people waiting…”

“Dick, did you walk outside?”

“Yea, why?”

“I told you I was inside. Which door did you walk out?” By this time, I’m in the middle of the building, spinning around like a top, trying to see him. My father in law used to be tall, and is still over 6’ 1”, with white hair. He’s usually easy to see.

“How am I supposed to know which door I walked out? Where are you, I don’t see you”

“DICK! I told you, I’m inside the building. Do you see the yellow caution tape in the middle of the building?”

“No, how am I supposed to see that, I’m outside.”

I walked out the middle entrance doors, to see him standing there, cell phone glued to his head, staring out in the parking lot for me. If I wasn’t so pissed, I would have fallen over laughing. Because of the storm, I had to yell his name three times before he heard me. He turned around and said “Oh, there you are. Hey, let’s go get the bags.”

Classic.