New Year Toast

We drink to your coffin. May it be built from the wood of a hundred year old oak tree that I shall plant tomorrow.

To Slay Boreas

The time is growing short as I prepare for an epic battle with the Devouring One. My mind is stilled as the New Year approaches setting in motion a legendary struggle between mortal man and the god of the cold north wind, Boreas. Providence as has aligned the stars so that I will battle the white abyss as the first sun of the New Year sets over my small hamlet. So it has been written.

For those that do not know, Boreas was the Greek god of the cold north wind and the bringer of winter. His name meant "North Wind" or "Devouring One". Greek legend described Boreas as very strong, with a violent temper to match. He was frequently depicted as a winged old man with shaggy hair and beard, holding a conch shell and wearing a billowing cloak. During my journey I am sure to stare into his cold fierce eyes challenging his rule. Do not underestimate his power and cruelty as he recently stole Christmas from a quarter million travelers in Denver last week alone. He has been conserving his energy for the time when he is the strongest at which time he will seek vengeance and retribution from anyone that stands in his way. The lands on which we will battle are already known and the mild calm is only a retreat from the fury to come.

In a hundred years my travels will never be aligned such as they are for January. Fate has written this clash in the calendar without reprieve or repentance. I shall only be home about six days in January. As if I was attempting to provoke Boreas by spitting in his face, I will visit the cities of Toronto, Minneapolis, Chicago, Rapid City, Cheyenne and Denver to face the brunt of the cold while Philadelphia and Baltimore wait with ice and sleet. The only shelter I will find is three days in San Antonio to recover my strength and will. No one can expect to walk the razor’s edge for so long without bleeding. I’m sure it will provide the next generation hours of entertainment as the tales of courage are told before a warm fireplace.

Most people consider my actions as a road warrior who has gone insane. Why tempt fate and hurl myself into the lair of the winter gods. Everyone knows that I no longer ski or enjoy winter sports. The sad truth is that this fools schedule is another fleeting attempt to gain fame and fortune. However if I should survive, I will be granted my reward in February when I travel to Australia for three weeks during the waning of the summer season. What can I say “Only fools rush in where wise men fear to tread.” I’ll see you on the white side.

In the dread circle hemmed by glaciers,
Pallid waste where no radiant fathomers,
Columbuses or Gamas, ever pass,
In realms of dingy gloom and deep crevasse
Seized from creation by nonentity,
Beyond ice floe and berg and ice-bound sea,
Deep in the fog that quenches every ray,
In stone waves and rock waters, far from day,
Amid the gloom, there, on the pole, stands black
Archangel Winter, darkness on his back
And trumpet at his lips; nor does he cast
One flash of eye, or blow one clarion-blast;
He never even dreams, being sheer snow;
The winged winds, captives of that age-old foe
Silence, are in his hand—birds in a snare;
His sightless eyes horribly watch the air;
Hoarfrost is in his bones and on his head,
And he is swathed in ever-petrified dread;
He terrifies the Vast, he seems so wild;
He is harsh, dismal, ice—that is, exiled;
The earth beneath his feet, in its dark cape,
Is dumb; he is the mute white stony shape
Set on that tomb in the eternal night;
Never does any motion, sound, or light
Brush the lone giant in that somber pall.
But when, on the timepieces that we call
Stars, the last day, endless and centerless,
Will sound, then the Lord's face will luminesce
And melt the spirit; his mouth will distend
Suddenly, in a savage, dreadful bend,
And the worlds—skiffs rudderless, rolling on—
Will hear the storm-blast of his clarion.

Archangel Winter
by Victor Hugo

To My Youth

thirty-five years ago

"Hold on to what is good even if it is a handful of earth.

Hold on to what you believe even if it is a tree which stands by itself.

Hold on to what you must do even if it is a long way from here.

Hold on to life even when it is easier letting go.

Hold on to my hand even when I have gone away from you."

Pueblo Blessing

Wisp of Smoke

The fragile nature of our existence is ever more present in my thoughts. Having first hand witnessed the impact of a brain trauma, my understanding of the world has been deeply altered. Our collective life experience is nothing more than a wisp of smoke from a cigarette hanging in the still air; it only exists and is recognizable if undisturbed. Even the smallest of gestures can scatter and dissipate life’s delicate balance. A slight draft will mix and blend the smoke distorting all previous arrangements. The collective total of our memory can be lost or altered in a blink of an eye, like the breeze that consumes the fragile smoke. This appreciation of the fragility of self awareness leads me to focus on the moment, since it all we really know as truth.
I’ve watch how the mind struggles to reconnect to old pathways of memory. In my wife’s case it was as if her mind had quite literally experienced an earthquake leaving some items undisturbed, while others were either slightly displaced or completely destroyed. There was little pattern to what remained and what didn’t. She was extremely fortunate to only experience relatively slight trauma compared to most, but the impact in many respects was devastating. Isolated areas of memory and brain function were altered, like a file cabinet that had a few files fall from the drawer scattering the contents. In her case the entire dictionary of words starting with the letter S was reorganized. Instead of soup it was now stew and spaghetti was now spareribs. Tentative mental relationships tangled in a hopeless knot.

Another area of impact was names of relatives and associates. Names were randomly associated with new individuals like picking names from a hat. Surprisingly the new connection was not superficial, but deeply rooted. For a few weeks Marcy was Patti and Linda was Marcy. On the other hand, her livelihood is finance and there was no altering of mental acuity for mathematics, as she quoted from memory interest rates and amortization schedules to the attending physicians. I have yet to look deeper into brain function to determine if there is a correlation with these cognitive skills and the area of damage. I suppose that this particular area of the brain represents a crossroad for associative memory.

The dark side of the experience was truly frightening as I peered into a window of losing one’s mind. Watching her lost unable to find the past was profoundly painful. The loss of self identity and personal perspective created a chasm that I could not bridge regardless of how hard I tried, like watching someone lost through a crystal ball, your calls and pleas go unheard. My explanations and reassurances never provided solace as she struggled with the vastness of darkness of what was now her life. I constructed simple models to illustrate the complex processes that were in motion. Consider that you have worked in an office for the past forty years and all the manuals and references you require are within your fingertips. Each time you require an answer you instinctually reached up and open the right book where the information was located. Today you arrive at work only to find your office of forty years has been moved to a new location. As you sit in your new office you are now surrounded by cartons full of books and manuals, but you do not know which box to look in to immediately find an answer. The prospect of taking all the years of knowledge and organizing them back on the shelves can be intimidating and demoralizing.

The single greatest fear is that many cartons of books were lost never to be returned. How do you get someone to accept that not being who they were or that they will forever be a degraded version of themselves is still a blessing? How can you not grieve the loss and fear the future? The first couple of weeks were easier because so much of the brain was still sleeping. Slowly as the higher intellect of self awareness awoke distinct comparisons of who she was and who she is were now possible facilitating a mental struggle about who she will be.

One aspect of recovery that took a while to understand was absolute denial of the severity of the event. She refused to accept that anything extraordinary occurred, always more intently focused on repairing the damage and fixing the gaps. She would continuously question why people would consider her lucky or blessed, because she did not feel lucky. It took me a long time to understand why this was not a miracle in her mind. Ultimately the event needed to be viewed from within her experience. One normal Friday she had what they call a “thunderclap” headache and in the course of a few hours was rushed into surgery. A few weeks later her mind awoke with little memory of the preceding weeks, but physically she was normal without any pain or after effects. She did not experience the near death emotional trauma that all around her experienced. It was our near death ordeal not hers, deeply traumatizing everyone but herself.

Not only did she deny the miracle, but she refused to associate herself with any information about the procedure, recovery or probable long term disabilities. A number of good website clearly explained how to cope with the memory loss and therapies for a strengthening mental acuity, but she was offended that I had implored to read about her condition. Finally I had to accept the fact that it was not a life altering event for her, which lead me to wonder if this experience was intended to change the lives of those who surround her, because it most certainly did?

In my case, a new understanding of the fragility of existence is not confined by the line between life and death, but rather with an ability to maintain self awareness as grounded in your life experiences. Once we lose memory of ourselves we become divorced from reality and no longer exist as we were, only to wander lost in a new existence. In the blink of an eye everything we know of ourselves can be swept away leaving only a faint trace of the past. Conscientious is a delicate system of electrical charges and stored chemical patterns that shows an amazing ability to heal, but it pales in comparison to the frail temporal balance of existence. I now envision the mind as a wisp of smoke sheltered from the wind. Our existence depends on the smoke remaining connected and visible as it swirls. As each curl of smoke representing a memory or experience, its easy to see how memories change and reinvent the past as the smoke blends with new memories. It’s just as easy to see how memories are lost as they are replaced with new.

“Dream as if you'll live forever, live as if you'll die today.”

James Dean (1931-1955)

The Small Print

Everyone inherently knows that a brain aneurysm is deadly, but what does it really mean? With the shock of the emergency behind you, we begin to read the small print to find some truly disconcerting facts that are only disclosed on an as needed basis. It’s the medical profession’s way breaking the news to you slowly. Little by little a clear picture emerges of the devastation of this type of brain injury.

The first surprise it that the brain surgery is easy part of the procedure. Opening the skull and clipping the aneurysm is low risk compared to the recovery period. How can that be I wondered? Apparently surviving a ruptured aneurysm means that you suffered an subarachnoid hemorrhage or in layman terms blood pooled in the fluid between your skull and your brain. This is a very dangerous condition since red and white blood cells can not survive in the cranial fluid and over a period of three to four days the blood cells will die. As the blood cells die and decompose they can be viewed as small sacks of toxic poisons that are released into the cranial fluid. The most critical point of recovery is four to seven days after the surgery as the toxins from decomposing blood cells reach their maximum concentration.

As these toxins build in the cranial fluid they irritate the veins carrying blood to the brain. The natural tendency of the veins is to spasm and contract. If any vein becomes excessively irritated it will spasm and completely close resulting in a loss of blood to large portions of the brain or what is called a stroke. Where the aneurysm is located, degree of bleeding and distribution of the blood inside the skull dictate your chance of survival. During the operation the surgeon will attempt to remove as much blood any possible from the injured area. While some anchoritic hemorrhages are defused deep into the recesses of the brain tissue where vascular spasms are more probably, my wife was fortunate that most of the hemorrhage was contained in the frontal lobe.

The difficult part of the recovery is the waiting knowing that each day the risk of death is on the rise until the fifth to seventh day. Each day you sit unable to help, knowing that tomorrow might be the end. Quietly you are surrounded by elaborate machines and wires staring at the numbers displayed on a computer monitor afraid to look away. You learn to read the graphs and understand the beeps and alarms. This graph is oxygen level, that graph is heart rate, that number is blood pressure. That tone is a sensor alarm, this beep means a patch has fallen off. Each movement changes the graphs as your heart jumps into your throat wondering if the erratic graphic is just a temporary disturbance or a new serious condition.

The nurses in ICU tell us take we need to watch for changes in brain function. I ask what that means, what am I looking for? A change in brain function is a sign that the patient has had a vascular spasm or a stroke. Symptoms include slurred speech, disorientation, emotional eruptions, prolonged sleep, or weakness in extremities. Besides sitting watching the monitor you observe and scrutinize the smallest of activity. Is she blinking her eyes excessively? Should she remember what day it is? Has she been sleeping too long? Your mind is hypersensitive every moment as time creeps second by second.

Slowly the person you know so well periodically emerges from the fog, but it doesn’t come without effort and loss. At first there is no memory of our pets that she has daily cared for over the past five years. There is no memory of a private joke that been told thousands of times over the past twenty years. There are moments when she stares at you and doesn’t remember that you’re her husband. She asks her mother where her mother is. While she sleeps at night and you are alone in the ICU room you begin to ask yourself difficult questions. What if she doesn’t make it back all the way? What if she can’t work and requires home care? What if she dies? Sleep doesn’t come easy at night in ICU especially since to check brain function aneurysm patients are awoken every fifteen to sixty minutes throughout the night.

You stare in amazement at the list of twenty four drugs printed in large black oversized type that hanging over her bed indicating the drugs that are being pumped into her. You are hypnotized by slow methodical drips of the rack of IV bags, but most of all you just wait. Then out of the blue, the person you know is back to normal for a few minutes. There is so much small print that we never knew.

Probably the most surreal moment is reading the surgeon’s report of the operation. In clinical precision he describes how her brain surges from the skull to relieve the pressure from the hemorrhage. How a massive blood clot that shows signs of drying is evacuated from beneath first fold of the frontal lobe. How the aneurysm is masked by a second massive blood clot deeper in the brain tissue. How the aneurysm was clipped and lanced to remove another blood clot. How the patient “tolerated the procedure”.

Finally the attending surgeon explains the small print to you in terms that you can understand while your breath is stolen. “Of the past one hundred patients that were diagnosed with a cranial aneurysm and subarachnoid hemorrhage ninety died and eight are institutionalized with severe neurological dysfunction. Only you and one other girl have survived to resume their lives.”

“The most astonishing thing about miracles is that they happen.”

G. K. Chesterton (1874 - 1936)

Blood of My Blood

When our heart flies Towards Heaven,
Time stands still.
It does not interfere

Walking through the parking garage the exhaust fans are whirling filling the concrete structure with a loud mechanical sound. I have just finished an eight hour seminar to a group of thirty people when my business associate, Dave who was carrying a large cardboard box with all our left over manuals and presentation material remarked that his cell phone was ringing. I said “You better answer that you never know when it is something important”. We walked another 50 feet toward the parking attendant when his cell phone rang for the second time. He removes the box for his shoulder gently placing it on the trunk of a parked car and answered the phone as I continued to move toward the attendant. As we approached the exhaust grill covering the fan he tapped me on the shoulder.

“It’s for you” he said as he handed me his cell phone. I laughed thinking it was a joke because there was only two people that knew I was with Dave, let alone what his cell phone number was? I placed my hand over my ear to deaden the sound as I raised the phone to my other ear. Straining to hear above the clatter, the words took my breath as my knees buckled slightly. “Your wife has had a brain aneurysm and is being rushed to into surgery. You need to get home!” The sound of the fan was so overwhelming that I was not sure I heard it right. Ducking around the corner of a cinder block wall I asked “Tell me that again.”

The voice over the phone repeated the words with a decidedly serious tone “Your wife has had a brain aneurysm and is being rushed to into surgery. You need to get home! You need to call your mother-in-law.” There was no mistake, I did understand the message. Instantly I reached my hand into my pocket retrieving my cell phone. It was turned off during my presentation and I had not remembered to turn it back on. I noticed it was exactly 5:07 pm on the cell phone screen when time stopped. Turning the phone back on the screen flickered for a moment then twelve messages appeared on the screen. I immediately closed the phone slipping it into my pocket without listening to the messages. Turning to Dave; I said “You need to get me to the airport.”

I frantically I stood waiting for the attendant to bring Dave’s car up from the basement. Without talking we paid the parking fee and jumped into the vehicle, pulling out into the cold driving rain on 44th Street and 6th Avenue in midtown New York City and directly into Friday evening rush hour traffic. Slowly we inched block by block, bumper to bumper as the windshield wipers beat like a metronome punctuating each frozen second as time stood paralyzed. In attempt to restore the world to normality while we waited wedged in a mass of honking horns, we talked about what route we should take to get to the Lincoln Tunnel in the least amount of time. Our conversation was a thin transparent veil that hid nothing but did distract me from thinking about what was happening. I glancing at my watch when it was 5:11 pm, I recall thinking “My god it has only been five minutes!”

“Dave, when we get to Newark Airport, drop me off at Continental Airlines, I know there is a direct flight at 6:30 pm”. He turned his head away from the traffic looking at me “You really do travel a lot, if you know when the next flight home is.” Nodding my head I admitted “Yeah it’s pretty sad, isn’t it?” At that moment Dave got a brilliant idea. “Look at that line of bus moving. They must be headed to the Lincoln Tunnel. Let’s follow them.” Executing a swift lane change and a halfhearted slowing at a red light, the car was inserted into the stream of buses heading out of town. Swiftly we rounded two blocks watching the Lincoln Tunnel signs pass over us with each turn. On the next right turn we could see the entrance to the tunnel as it consumed the long line of buses, but a large flashing yellow sign announced LINCOLN TUNNEL BUSES ONLY. With a touch of disappointment in my voice I said “Dave, we’re we had a problem were in the wrong lane, this entrance is for buses only.” Quickly surveying the snarled mass of traffic and blinking light glistening on the wet pavement, Dave made an executive decision “Hang on we’re going in. What are they going to do to me, give me a ticket? I’ve got Maryland plates, I can plead ignorance.”

I pulled my cell phone out and dialed my brother, who works for Continental. “Hey Karl I need to get on the next flight home. Check and see what you can do. We are heading into the tunnel. Call me back when you know something.” At that moment the world went dark and silent as we enter the mouth of the tunnel. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the darkness as red reflectors streamed by. Traffic flow began an even pace as bus exhaust crept into our vehicle. Panic was surrounding me as emotions surged like a rising wind of an approaching hurricane. I can not allow myself to think about the implications of what is occurring. My mind is denying the situation, as I concentrate only on the deplorable traffic conditions and the remote possibility of chasing the last flight home. I can do this. I am in charge I tell myself as feeling of hopelessness and despair starts my mind spinning.

A brilliant white flash mimicking a nuclear blast startles me exiting the tunnel as we emerge into daylight. I squint as the tangled blur of vehicles and tail lights overwhelm me. Upon exiting the tunnel my phone rings with my brother calling. “Sorry there was a storm here and all the lines are down. All I keep getting is that the computer can’t connect to the server. I wish I could help.” In a false assembly of macho strength I play it off. “Thanks Karl, No big deal, I’ll be at the airport in a couple of minutes.” My heart sinks as my ace in the hole rolls snake eyes. I feel that I’m being sucked out of my body and transported to a world where no one else exists, where the air is to thin to breathe. A wave of isolation saddens me as reality stalks my sanity like a hungry tiger. I attempt to soothe myself with an insincere mantra “It’s going to be alright.” Inhaling deeply I want my heart rate to slow.

The traffic is brutal as we inch along bumper to bumper. Each second sears my skin like drops of molten lead. I look at Dave and he is absolutely focused on the task at hand, darting one car length at a time to advance the vehicle at every partial opening in this mass of humming steel. I feel guilty that Dave was pulled into this nightmare for his anguish is evident gripping the steering wheel with sufficient ferocity that his knuckles are white. Destiny does not allow us to chose who we share these moments with. From an early age masculine culture breeds into us two primal principals, a guttural instinct to fight and an absolute rejection of failure as a possibility. Complex higher brain functions of intellect and reasoning is stripped away as baser reptilian brain functions dominate. Human civility melts away under the flood of adrenaline and endorphins that course through my veins. Fierce animal instincts emerge from being trapped in a steel cage on some remote asphalt jungle.

Focus on controlled breathing I tell myself as being caged in NJ turnpike traffic without any ability control my surrounding pushes me to the edge of reason. It is not hard to imagine crossing the thin line between sanity and madness. In fact madness seems to be a logical evolution. At that moment in time I am capable of just about anything as all ends seems to justify the means. I resist the urge to open the car door and take off running to the airport cursing everyone along the way. That decision is illogical, but there is a strong desire to take control of events. The feeling can only be described as “running down the center of the interstate naked with your hair on fire”.

To relieve his tension, Dave begins telling me a story. I smile and nod, but don’t hear a word he is saying. I decide to distract myself by listening to the twelve messages waiting on my voicemail. The first three messages are business related as I advance thought them. The first about my wife is from my mother-in-law. “Your wife isn’t feeling well and her friend Perri wants to take her to the emergency room. Call me as soon as you get this.” I then listen to two additional calls with increasing concern from my mother-in-law. “Hey, this is Perri, I’m really concerned about our girl, because she can’t remember your name or even her own last name. She’s extremely disoriented. Call me as soon as possible.”

I forward my phone to the next message and my heart stops a beat. It’s my wife calling “Hey, I wanted to let you know that Perri is worried about me and she is making me go to the hospital……..I don’t know why she is so worried………Something is going on with me and I don’t know……….Where are we going, Perri?........Why are we going there?........Anyway I’ll be home later call me then…….” The message goes silent as I press the number 9 to save the message. I am quiet for a moment as I realize that maybe the last time I will ever hear her voice. A cold chill grabs me as I fight back my emotions. I need to be there, somehow I can fix the situation, and somehow I can make it right.

The next two messages are from my office attempting to locate me. This was followed by one more message from my mother-in-law and two more from Perri. Each message is increasing in concern and severity of her condition. I immediately call Perri the strongest of the group, knowing I would get the truth without sugar coating. “Perri, sorry I didn’t get my messages sooner, but I had the damn phone turned off. What does the doctor say?”

Completely in charge and control Perri begins “She has had a CT scan and they found two brain aneurysms. There is a small one on the right side that is of no concern. However the one on left side of her brain has ruptured. It is located in the front temporal lobe and is slightly smaller than a golf ball. It’s in a bad place located at the intersection of two major veins going to the brain. They are contacting a neurosurgeon to come in evaluate the test results. They are running another MRI on her now. I’ll let you know what the results are. You need to get home, honey.”

“Perri, you know I’m trying. Tell her I’m on my way.” Another wave of helplessness washes over me as I hang up the phone. As the head of the clan, I have always been the hunter, provider, defender and protector. There is no problem I can’t solve and here I sit motionless in New York traffic impenitent. I look over at Dave, he is still talking. I have not heard a word he has said.

The closer we get to the airport the worst the traffic gets as time creeps like a slow motion replay. We have been stuck in traffic for an eternity as I look at my watch again, realizing it has only been 50 minutes. It’s 5:57 pm and I’m never going to make it through Newark airport security on Friday evening in sufficient time to make the flight. I rack my mind to recall the flight schedules. “Is there a later flight home on Friday?” I can’t remember as I rub my forehead hoping to relieve the tension building in my temples. Oh my god, I totally forgot I was headed to my mother’s home in central New Jersey for the weekend before I got the call. She is still expecting me for dinner.

Retrieving the phone from my pocket, I inhale trying to conceal my emotions. I can’t make her worry any more than she will. I need to be strong in control without conveying panic “Hey mom, how are you doing?” Her voice clearly is elated to hear from me “I’m doing just fine with my son coming in town. I’ve got dinner almost ready for you. I’ve cooked some pork chops, scalloped potatoes and red cabbage. The food will be ready whenever you show. How was your presentation?” I needed this simple conversation to continue, it was comforting to be normal for a second.

I don’t want her to carry this burden, not at this moment. In the past bad news is conveyed only after a resolution is known. My sincere desire would be to carry the weight until after the operation and call the next informing my mother what had happened. Telling her everything turned out fine, so don’t worry. I have no option; she is expecting me home for the weekend.

“The presentation went fine.” I paused to gain courage “I got to miss dinner…….”Before I could finish my sentence she interrupts me dismissing the guilt she though I was feeling “On I know, you need to have dinner with some of your business associates. I’ll just leave the back door open and you can sneak in whatever time your done. We’ll go down to the club tomorrow and have breakfast together in the morning.” I needed so much to hang on to this small piece of sanity, but the world was in chaos.

Slowly I begin “No, I wouldn’t trade one of your home cooked meals for a dinner with a bunch of stuffed shirts. I need to see if I can fly home; our little girl is headed into surgery with a brain aneurysm.”

A deadly silence fills the awkward void as a baseball to the stomach makes her involuntarily exhale her last breath of air. “Oh my god honey is she going to be alright?” timidly she asks with hope in her voice.

With surrender I reply “I don’t know. All I know is that she is in the best neurological hospital in Midwest. I’ll call you back if I can get on a plane.” Guilt overwhelms me for needing to burden my mother with such bleak news as she sits alone at home. I’m sorry I’m not in control of events. I can’t protect you like a son should.

She offers an idea “Did you talk to Karl about getting you on a plane?”

Stoically I answer “Yeah, the computer at the airport is down and he can’t get through.”

We conclude the painful discussion “Tell her we are all praying for her.”

Unable to maintain composure I close “I’ll tell her. Remember I’ll call you as soon as I know something new and for god’s sake to worry, she’ll be fine.” I close the cell phone before I could hear say goodbye. There will be no goodbyes today.

Anger sweeps over me in waves as the traffic has come to a standstill. “How the hell can anyone live in this god forsaken place? I would go nuts and kill someone just from frustration of trying to drive in this mess everyday.” Dave looks at me saying something in response to my rhetorical question but I never hear the words.

The rain has stopped with dark grey clouds parting exposing crystal blue sky where the setting sun is highlights cloud margins with golden white halos. Distracted by the surreal painted sky, I wonder to myself when did the rain stop. Dark blue grey hues of clouds mixed with powder blue, mustard and creamy white appears ominous. Staring at the sky for a long time fear begins to grab me. I can not decide if this stunning sky is a positive omen or not. The calm could be the eye of the hurricane, a gentle reprieve from destruction waiting on the horizon.

In the distance is the exit sign for the airport. I ask Dave to pull on to the shoulder so we can circumvent traffic. For the first time our vehicle picks up speed as tangled masses of steel is left behind. The access road to the terminals is open as we breeze past terminal A and B heading to terminal C. Dave pulls up to the skycap as I leap out of the car grabbing my luggage. A few simple words are spoken as I thank Dave for the ride, turning toward the ticket counter. Inside the terminal is a mass of travelers shuffling slowly in monstrous long sinuous lines. There is no time to stand in line. Glancing at the counter I see an open first class line at the far end of the counter.

Nervously I wait for the ticket agent to appear from the back room. “Please help me, I’ve been notified that my wife has been rushed to the hospital and I need to get on a flight home.” The polite lady with black hair immediately begins to search the computer. I interrupt her typing with “What about the 6:30 flight?”

Without looking at me she says “I’m sorry sir that flight has already pushed off the gate.” Glancing at my watch the time is now 6:35 pm. My shoulders slump as my forehead comes to rest on the counter.

“Our last flight is 8:30 pm but it is oversold.” she admits with a touch of disappointment in her voice. “Did you check the other airlines?”

“No I haven’t had a chance, but its Friday night. If you’re oversold everyone is oversold.” I mumble in resignation.

She is determined to solve this dilemma for me. “Well American has a 9:30 flight to Chicago but there is no connection…….No flights for United………US Air has an open seat to Pittsburg, but the second leg is oversold……….We could look at Delta to Atlanta to Dallas to Kansas City which would arrive in Kansas City at 7:20 tomorrow morning?"

Reaching for straws I ask “What about Midwest Air out of terminal A?”

As the optimism begins to melt from her face “Midwest stopped flying into Newark last month.”

“Shit, I should have gone to La Guardia instead of Newark.” La Guardia airport is basically a dump which has a terrible departure record because of a short runway and crowded airspace. While there are a lot less flights, travelers avoid La Guardia because the lack of public transportation, so flights into La Guardia cost half as much as Newark. Why didn’t I call Midwest and try the 7:30 pm direct to Kansas City? I know it is not typically full.

I’ve now got to get creative. I could rent a car and drive to Philadelphia. The thought of going back to the tarpits turns my stomach. How long a drive is it to Hartford? Three hours on either Interstate 95 or the Merritt Parkway on Friday night is a disaster. The door slams shut as she points at the screen “No flight from Philadelphia……No flights from La Guardia………No flights from Hartford.” The problem is that all the flights travel from the west coast to the east coast during the late afternoon to connect with the international flights that begin flying off the east coast in the evening.

I resign myself to working the best opportunity which is the 8:30 flight. “How many are on the standby list for the 8:30 pm flight?”

“Sir you would be number four.” she says. Hope is growing in the back of my mind as she finishes her thought “……but the flight is a regional jet which only seats 50……..and 44 have already checked in.”

Unable to contain my anger I lash out “When are you going to decide to fly real planes instead of these damn toy planes. A three hour flight in one of those cigar tubes is inhumane.”

“I’m sorry sir, but between Labor Day and Thanksgiving the flight has such a low capacity that we take the 737 off the route” She explains.

Did the airline ever think that the reason the flight is under utilized is because the public doesn’t want to be crammed into a torture cell for three hours. “Whatever……what is my best chance to get on the 8:30 pm flight.”

Responding in her best corporate customer service training which is devoid of any humanity “Your current return flight on Sunday is a restricted fare………your best opportunity is to buy a full fare one way ticket which would raise your priority on the standby list ahead of employees and non-revenue producing fares…………Then we could book you also on the first flight out in the morning at 7:00 am which has only one seat left.”

Knowing where this conversation is headed I ask “Okay, how much?”

In a sheepish timid voice she responds “It would be seven hundred and fifty four dollars.”

“Can I use my frequent flyer miles to buy the ticket?” I ask assuming I have two hours to waste which is about how long it will take to clear all the hurdles in order to try to use frequent flyer miles.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do that from the airport.” She says unable to make eye contact with me anymore. That’s right providing travelers the ability to access their frequent flyer miles at the airport would make it to easy and someone may actually cash a ticket.

Disgust for the entire airline industry boils over. I’m what the industry calls a whale. I travel over a hundred times a year. My combined staff probably travels two hundred times a year. I collectively spend somewhere around one hundred thousand dollars a year on company travel. I am considered the hope of the industry, but yet in my hour of need I am treated with no regard. I could understand ignorance, but my frequent flyer account number is attached to my record and anyone interested could see the value of my loyalty. No it is not ignorance; it is simply apathy, arrogance and greed. Do they really think that I don’t have options? Are they so secure in bankruptcy protection that they can act so cavalier to their future? Do they understand that by screwing me out of $500 in my hour of need they are jeopardizing a hundred thousand dollars a year for life? I feel violated as I have exhausted the boundaries of what the industry jokingly calls customer service.

I’m done with this conversation. I understand that the poor lady in front of me is genuinely trying to help me and she is only doing her job as best she can, but in my anger and disgust I can no longer separate her from the industry she represents.

With a dismissive tone I tell her “Just get me on the damn plane”, as I turn to answer my cell phone.

“This is Perri. Here’s the latest. The doctors tried to complete a coiling of the aneurysm and it is bleeding too great.” Coiling is a procedure where a small catheter is inserted in the femoral artery in the groin and is navigated into the brain where the aneurysm is located. At the aneurysm a thread like titanium wire is pushed or coiled into the weakened area. Slowly the aneurysm is filled with coiled wire so that if the aneurysm ruptures it can not bleed into the brain.

Perri continues “Apparently the bleeding won’t allow the thread to coil in the aneurysm and it is essentially being flushed into the fluid surrounding the brain. They have no other option than to go into the skull and surgically clip the bleeding aneurysm.”

A cold chill runs down my spine as I feel the cold hand of death standing next to me. The surrounding chaos of the airport shrinks away as I stand alone in the crowd only hearing a faint voice on the other end of the connection. No questions or inquiries can ease my sense of dread. I can not bear the thought of her being afraid and lost without me by her side to provide strength and comfort. Hoping for the best I ask “How is she doing?"

Providing some relief to my concerns “She is doing great just acting like it’s just another day at the park.” My heart starts beating again. “She is still very confused and keeps asking where you are.”

In oblivious distress I reply, “Perri, I’m doing everything humanly possible to get back.”

I breathe deeply attempting to steady to nerves. “The flight is oversold and I’m listed number four on the standby list, it’s not looking good. If I had wings I would fly myself.”

Perri continues “She is schedule for surgery at 7:30 pm and it should take about four hours. Call me as soon as you know if you have made the flight.” Glancing at my watch the time is now 6:50 pm about ninety minutes before the surgery accounting for the time change. How ironic that she will be rolled into the operating room at the same moment as my flight departs. I look up at the gate agent holding my ticket, grabbed it and head for security. The situation was understood, so pleasantries were not necessary. The mere thought of the gate agent muttering “good luck” or “hope you make the flight” seemed like the most insincere thing she could do. Fortunately she knew better maintaining an awkward silence, while forcing her lips into a hopeless crooked little smile.

Slowly I move toward the escalator. There is no reason to hurry because all I can do is kill time. I’m relieved to see a long line at security. A slow mindless shuffle blanketed on both sides by faceless strangers provides me time to digest the severity of the events to come. I can not make eye contact with anyone as my arms hang lifelessly dragging a small black computer bag as if it is a treasured family pet tethered to my side in a sign of unending loyalty. Security is crowded as people strain at the process of rushing onto the next destination. New Yorkers are already genetically predisposed towards rushing and straining but Friday evenings always dials it up a couple of notches.

Past security the airport is a madhouse with gangs of angry travelers marauding around the concourses looking for someone to scream at. The tension in the air means that it has not been a good day to travel for large groups of people. I realize that if I am locked up with the general prison population for ninety minute, there is going to be a riot. I need to place myself to isolation. I need a place to hide. The President’s Club is a place where I can sit alone in comfortable overstuffed chairs staring out the floor to ceiling glass windows at the black nothingness of the asphalt tarmac. Slipping past discreet frosted white glass doors into the executive club, there is a long line of disgruntled gold elite travelers using the private booking agent in the club. Most travelers don’t know that a world of privilege and comfort exists behind a velvet rope. The club is a small vestige of a long lost world of what air travel was like when someone valued you as a customer. It’s like the Disneyworld of air travel, a world of suspended disbelief, a world where sofas don’t have metal bars to prevent you from laying down, a world where you can plug your computer in to find powerful wireless service. Like Disneyworld the entry fee is prohibitive to most.

I quietly wander the floor until I see a black leather chair unoccupied facing the window in the corner of an entertainment nook. It feels good to sit as I stretch my legs slumping backwards so that my head rests on back of the chair. The room is crowded with travelers that should have been somewhere else a long time ago. Tension of the airport has even permeated this last circle of civility. Small audible snippets drift past as people grunt into small cell phones, “……….you wouldn’t believe it, they cancelled………..I was originally booked on……… Yeah my baggage ended up in……..I have no idea when we are going to………”

Wondering how much battery life there is on my cell phone, I notice that the time is only 7:15 pm. My god has time stopped altogether. This must be one version of hell; similar to the version my grandmother would warn me about. “It’s like standing in a cool refreshing mountain stream with a incredible burning thirst and each time bent over to sip from the cool stream the water would recede a fraction of a inch from your lips, never allowing you to quench the burning thirst.” In my version of hell I am burdened with an incredible desperate urgency to fly somewhere, but each time I look at my watch it’s the same time, never closer to departing. To put it a different way, it is like holding a raving mad rabid dog at arms length by the back of the neck. You understand the incredible urgency to disengage, but can do nothing except hold your arm still and level as the muscles burn for what seems like eternity. Once again I inhale deeply trying to loosen the tightening grip of anxiety surrounding my chest.

The battery on my phone is almost depleted. In the concourse it is nearly impossible to find an electrical outlet to plug anything in, but here behind the velvet rope I am surrounded by end tables designed as laptop docking stations. Reaching into my travel bag, I withdraw a small black phone charger. Leaning over to reach the table, I can’t believe it when my phone charger won’t fit the receptacle because of the brick like transformer at the end of the plug. The thought that I can lose contact with the real world during this crisis infuriates me. I need to conserve battery until I can find a real electrical outlet. I begin to become restless as the air in the President’s Club suffocates me. Deciding that its time to head to the gate I pass the long line of angry gold elite travelers which now stretches out the frosted glass door into the concourse. The mood of the crowd is continuing to descend deep into despair.

Arriving at the gate there is already another long line of irritable travelers. I wonder if I have covered every conceivable option which would increase my chances of getting aboard the last flight of the night. My best option is to communicate my dire situation to the gate agent in attempt to leverage human compassion. Standing in line behind me is a couple of overweight drunk Rutgers football fans that missed their earlier flight because they drank to much in the airport bar and forgot what time their plane departed. They have now been trying for the past six hours to locate a plane to Cincinnati to catch the football game the next morning. I overhear one of them say, “We can fly to Pittsburgh and drive three hours to Cincinnati. That will get us to the hotel at 3:30 am and the game doesn’t start until noon.”

Having exhausted every connection combination in the nation only a couple of hours ago I mention “There is a Pittsburgh flight on US Air that leaves terminal B in about 90 minutes.”

Showing a bit of relief the Rutgers fan replies in a thick New Jersey accent “Hey, thanks a lot. We’ll check this last flight to Cincinnati and if that does work, we can run over to terminal B. Thanks again.”

Having broken the ice with some useful information, we trade small talk about the unusual Rutgers season, when the conversation changed to what should have been a relatively innocent subject. “So, where are you going tonight?”

Never having been in the current situation before I am unsure on what to say, I stared blankly at the two drunks for what seems like a long time. Finally I decide that sharing would help me unload some of my baggage providing an opportunity for a total stranger to reassure me that everything was going to be fine. With reluctance and embarrassment I sheepishly in a quiet tone say “My wife has had a brain aneurysm and is going into surgery. I’m trying to get home tonight.”

From their reaction you would have thought that I just revealed myself as a child molester or pissed on the family bible. They both looked down at the floor and turned their backs on me without saying a word. Stunned I stood thinking what was that all about? It was like I had the black plague. I took me a few minutes before the angry surged coursing through my veins with a violent fever. As a volcano erupted I had a difficult time controlling myself and not kicking the crap out of these two drunken fools.

Who the hell are these two losers? Two fat slobs that can’t keep their face out of a beer mug long enough to catch a plane. How dare they judge me? Wining and crying about the bad day they are having. They can’t even imagine what a bad day is. My ears begin to burn as my blood pressure spikes. I tell myself that it was stupid to have divulged my crisis and I need to calm down. Getting arrested for beating the daylights out of two drunks is not going to help me.

Arriving at the front of the line I place my arms on the counter and lean toward the gate agent. In a quiet and controlled voice I repeat my story ending with a simple admission “I’m number four on the standby list and I just want to make sure that I have covered every possible option which would get me on that plane.”

The gate attendant is a robust black lady with thick features and dark ebony skin. Her uniform is misshapen as it stains to contain her. Her hair is a cross between an old fashion afro and a swept back wild nappy look. It has been a long trying day for her as she ignores anyone except the one person directly in front of her. While her movements are methodical an overwhelming sense of exhaustion punctuates each slow deliberate task. She acknowledges my request without lifting her eyes from the screen. It’s just another day at the coal mine. You can tell there are no stories she hasn’t heard and none that will allow her to bend rules.

Once again I lean forward speaking in a soft voice. “By the way the two guys behind me are really drunk and seem like they are headed for trouble if they get to Cincinnati. I question if they really should be traveling?”

The comment contains enough concern that she lifts her eyes from the computer screen and bends around my shoulders to take a good look at the two drunks who are now screaming at someone on their cell phones. She looks back at me and nods slightly “Thanks, I’ll look into it.”

As I walk away from the counter, she picks up the microphone and in an emotionless voice announces “If you are waiting on standby for the Cincinnati flight, that flight is full.”

Watching from the corner of my eye I notice the two fans slump in disbelief that they are going to miss the big game. They immediately start blaming each other as to who was responsible for missing the flight. As I sit down waiting for the next flight to board I mumble to myself “You still are not having as bad a day as me. Now go home and watch the game on television.”

Mental fatigue is beginning to take its toll on me. I remember that I spent an entire eight hours in front of a crowd lecturing today. The effect of all that activity is accumulating as my tired limbs argue with my racing overcharged mind. Finally the announcement to start boarding my flight is broadcast over the concourse in a familiar emotionless monotone voice. Eagerly, I stand as each person boards the plane one by one, standing directly ten feet in front of and in plain view of the gate agent. It takes forever to load the plane and begin processing the standby list. The first two standby passengers are asked to come to the counter. They enter the plane as the gate disappears with them down the Jetway.

My heart sinks as the last chance of getting on the flight seems more remote with each passing second. Silently I stand as my only hope of getting home is about to push off the gate. Five minutes pass as the Jetway door remains open. I consider running down the Jetway and forcing myself onto the plane. I come to my senses and dismiss the urge thinking about how difficult my travel life is already without getting myself added to some high security terrorist watch list. As if by magic the gate agent returns and consults her screen. “Mr. Brown” she says handing a boarding pass to a young college kid.

I can’t contain myself and blurt out “What about me!”

She looks up, grabbing my ticket and says “You need to get on that plane, because I need to get this plane off the gate.”

A surge of emotions makes me shudder as I run towards the door. “What seat do I have?”

With a stern Baptist authoritative voice she replies “Honey any seat that’s open. You have the last seat on the plane.”

As I approach the jet door I stop and pull out my cell phone and push redial. “Perri, I made it on the plane! I can’t believe that I did it! What’s going on?”

The relief in the voice on the phone is comforting as I catch my breath. “Thank god, we all need you here. She has been prepared for surgery and we are with her as they are rolling her into the operating room. She seems to be doing fine.”

The flight attendant is tapping her foot and staring at me through the jet door. The second I enter the plane the door will be closed and the flight will depart. I look at her a hold one finger up. “Perri, can I talk to her? Can you hand her the phone?”

I strain to hear as the engines begin to whirl. Assuming there is no room on this flight for carry on luggage, I toss my shoulder bag at the ground crew and gate check my bag. In a weak voice I hear my wife say “Hello”. My mind explodes with guilt at not being there as tears fill my eyes.

“Honey, how are you doing?” I ask stiffly suppressing my trembling voice.

In a display of strength she offers the traditional, I’m trying to walk it off. “I’m okay, I’m not sure what’s going on, but they said it’s pretty serious. Where are you?”

I hold a hand over one ear to lessen the deafening sounds of the jet engines. “I’m on the plane in Newark. I’ll be there before the surgery is complete, I promise. Don’t worry everything is going to be fine. You need to be strong, okay.” At the same moment I’m next to her providing her hope, but also ten thousand miles away trapped in a foreign world. The whirl of the turbines is so loud that I can no longer hear the faint voice on the phone.

The gate agent is sternly reprimanding me as she is briskly running down the Jetway. “Mr. Blue, there is one seat open on that plane and if you don’t have your butt in it immediately, you will be walking home tonight. I’ve got to get this plane off the gate. Do you understand?”

Without saying a word I closed my phone without saying goodbye and head into the jet. Passing each row of filled seats the passengers give me an “it’s about time look.” Finally I locate the last open seat in the second to last row of the aircraft. Preparing to sit in the open aisle seat the young man in the window seat looks at me and says “There’s someone sitting in that seat.” In shock I can’t understand what he means. Glancing up and down the aisle nobody else is standing except the flight attendant. I stand dumbfounded trying to understand why he would say that, when all of a sudden the rear restroom door opens and a middle aged housewife steps out. She is just as confused as me as we face each other as the sounds of the engines fill the rear of the aircraft.

Once again the air in my lungs is expelled as if I was struck to the abdomen with a baseball bat. This idiot got up to take a piss when the flight attendants where counting the seats before departure and her seat appeared to be open. The realization is crushing as I am unable to either speak or move. This all has to be a cruel nightmare that I’m unable to awake from. Real life could never be this sinister and evil to provide hope and then snatch it away so arbitrarily. My heart bleeds for the blood of my blood. From the darkened back of the plane I see the gate agent making her way down the aisle.

In her emotionless professional I don’t give a damn attitude she explains “I’m sorry Mr. Blue but you need to get off this plane, my flight is now late.” Broken and despondent I silently obey and slowly shuffle behind her towards the front of the plane.

Somewhere in the middle of the plane a gentleman in an aisle seat grabs the gate agent by the elbow and tells her “I can wait and take a bump here in Newark if someone really needs to get home.”

She looks at him, smiles slightly and continues to walk past him to the Jetway. I’m horrified at the complete lack of compassion or interest in doing the right thing. This is where legendary stories of customer service are created, stories that are told for decades, stories that forge missionaries to preach the virtues of great companies, but I am sentenced deal with a person that a long ago lost all passion for what their job is. The gate agent’s only concern was to get the door of the plane shut in order to ship of another 50 problems to some other gate agent in a far away city. This is Continental Airlines, the company that paint their plane each year proclaiming the winner of the JD Powers award for customer service.

I wait at the counter for the gate agent to complete sending my flight home without me. When she reappears I stand on the other side of the counter and stare intensely into her eyes. I want her to feel every ounce of my disappointment and pain. I want to make her understand that her actions impact real people. She coldly looks through me like I’m not human, but some sort of pesky insect that needs to be crushed. Finally I lean over the counter and with as much sarcasm as I can muster and says “I only hope I can do the same for you one day.” I turn and walk away from the counter, dismissing her with no greater concern than her showed me.

I can no longer forgive the airlines for their lack of courage and empathy. This is a wrong that can never be righted. There is no longer an affinity with the people that I spent so much time with. The mere thought of returning to this airport tomorrow attempting to catch another plane makes me sick. Vile disgust churns sour bile in my throat as my hopes are dashed.

With great regret I pull my cell phone from my pocket. “Perri, the bastards pulled my off the plane. I’m not going to make it. I’m sorry I tried.” My mind was a raging torrent of sorrow, anger and impatience.

Her response recognized the pain and loss I was experiencing. “I’m so sorry honey, but don’t worry we are going to stay here with her until she gets out of surgery. Her mom and daughter in-law is with me.”

Although I was helpless and emotional destitute I knew she was with her closest friends and family. Abruptly I ask “What’s going on?”

With a controlled calm, Perri answers “We are not going to know anything for a while, she just when into the operating room. I’ll call you from the waiting room the second we get an update.” I look at my watch and calculate the time until the surgery is complete which will be sometime after midnight.

Perri has been my wife’s best friend for over 25 years. They have followed each other in management positions through a half dozen companies. They are a set inseparable in work or life. Perri was the one that recognized the problem when my wife was dismissing a severe crushing pain as just a migraine headache. They had a close mutual friend crippled by stokes and Perri was highly sensitive to the symptoms. Reluctant to go to the doctor, my wife would have left work that day and went home to sleep it off, certainly never awaking. Perri recognized the loss of memory and disorientation as a fatal sign of serious trauma, immediately took control. Talking to my wife on the phone she demanded “Girl, I’m coming to get you and we are going to the emergency room. No room for discussion.”

Perri drove past a dozen hospitals until she was at one of the best neurological hospitals in the nation. Once in the emergency room it can take hours to be looked at and admitted. Many brain aneurysm patients die in the hospital waiting for treatment. Perri has always been a strong decisive woman that is fiercely loyal and protective. After waiting about ten minutes, Perri took control by cornering the attending physical of the emergency room setting him on his ear. “It is my understanding that heart attack or stroke victims take priority over all other patients in this emergency room.” Two minute later my wife was on a gurney heading for a CT scan.

I begin to break down when I thank Perri for what she did today. “Perri, your saved our girl’s life, if it wasn’t for you…………..”

She interrupts me not allowing me to uncork the rising tide of emotions which would turn me into a hopeless quivering mass. “Look honey, we can talk about that after our girl is fixed up. I’ll call as soon as I hear anything.”

I realize I’m just wandering down the concourse, not knowing what I’m doing or where I’m going. It late enough in the evening that most of the travelers have been either pushed into plane headed for somewhere or decided to give up returning home. An eerie calm pall permeates the concourse. There is only one place in world I want to be if I can’t be at the hospital. I need to heal. I need to go to the center of my strength, the place of personal power. I need to go to the house I grew up in.

I pull the phone out again breathing deeply to steady my voice “Hey, mom. I didn’t make the plane. How about that late dinner I stood you up on earlier?”

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. What are you going to do?” she asks.

Tired and not wanting to talk about tomorrow I muster the energy to answer. “I’m on the 7:00 am flight tomorrow.”

Trying to be helpful she offers “Why don’t you get a room at the airport hotel instead of driving all the way down here and getting up early to drive back to the airport? I’ll pick up the room charge.”

“No, it’s not the cost. I’ll not going to sleep much tonight. Sitting in a hotel room would drive me insane. I would prefer to spend the time driving in order to spend some time together. It would make me feel better if I was at the house.” I reply.

“I understand. I can heat up dinner and you can have a cocktail to relax.” I close the cell phone turning to the escalator for the monorail. Every ounce of emotion has been drained from me. My mind is numb as a tension headache is a constant pounding reminder of my wife. I am a lost soul wandering aimlessly like a zombie unwilling to interact with anyone. Just leave me alone is painted on my forehead in neon lights.

Standing in the monorail elevated above the airport the New York harbor is clearly visible. In the distance the Statue of Liberty is bathed in warm orange light, a solitary sentinel in a black lifeless void. For generations people have passed this symbol of hope wishing for redemption, wishing that tomorrow’s promise is fulfilled. The statue buoys my spirits. Leaning against the glass, I can’t recall thinking about anything at all. The defensive mechanisms take control turning off consciousness and reason.

In a familiar routine I exit the monorail and head downstairs to the car rental facility. I remember that I forgot to reserve a car, but because I practically live in this company’s cars, so I walk directly to the executive aisle picking out a white nondescript Impala and drive to the exit booth. I like the fact that the parking garage is abandon. Without saying a word I hand the attendant my license and gold membership card. A few minutes later she hands me back my cards along with a contract as the gate opens allowing me to leave without a single word of interaction. There is no need for urgency as I follow the labyrinth of ramps, exits, crossovers, merging lanes and underpasses until I am on the New Jersey Turnpike heading south.

This stretch of the turnpike from the airport to the Garden State Parkway is a surreal wasteland of chemical plants, refineries, piers and power plants. It always reminds me of another world at night as you pass huge jumbled masses of pipes dotted with thousands of security light. Protruding from the industrial wasteland is dozens of stacks extending high into the horizon with bright blue and orange flames dancing on poles as the natural gas is burned off in the refining process. A strong order of natural gas mixed with petroleum and chemicals invade the confines of the rental car. The landscape at night is a photographic paradise that I’ve dreamed about exploring some night.

My phone rings with my stepson on the line. He is a complete wreck sobbing out of control. His contorted gasps make what he is saying unintelligible. Calming him down I tell him the only thing I know for sure “Look Troy you need to be strong, you can’t get your mother upset. There is only going to be one outcome to this situation. No other outcome is acceptable. You understand me there is only one acceptable outcome and you need to focus on it.”

It takes a few minutes but Troy calms down and realizes the truth in my comments. “Your right there is only on acceptable outcome. Thanks. Call me when you hear something.” Helping Troy gives me back some strength, knowing that his situation is improved.

The car drifts off the turnpike at exit 11 and rolls towards the tollbooth on the Garden State Parkway. Out of reflex, seventy cents is pulled from my pocket and drops into the basket. Miles disappear as I sit in a silent trance listening to the hum of wheels on the asphalt of my childhood. The closer I get to the house the more confident I feel. I am surrounded by forests and meadows of my youth as the spirit of my father and grandmother invigorate my soul. Being grounded to the land is the source of my power and I make the only decision I could, which was to come back to the center of my life to heal the spirit.

The car pulls off the exit driving itself. There is a sacred place just next to the house which I always must pass. Over a have a century ago the developers of where I grew up preserved a half mile of pristine American beech forest. The warm gray trunks frame the narrow lane to create a natural cathedral as great as any church in all of Europe. The moist rich forest floor was the playground of my childhood as I spent thousand of hours cradled under those sheltering boughs. I see myself as a child running down the slopes in fall with the entire forest ablaze in yellow and gold. I see years pass like pages in a book. Where did all the years go? In this cathedral of youth I whisper a small prayer of hope. As if a summer breeze touches my face, a solemn peacefulness sweeps over me as I know with absolute certainly that there is in deed only one acceptable outcome.

Mother is standing on the porch as I pull into the drive. As we hug she breaks into tears. It’s been a long difficult day for everyone. I look into her worried eyes and say “You need not worry everything is fine. I know this to be the truth.”

She draws strength from me and heads off into the kitchen telling me “Why don’t you fix yourself a cocktail.”

I fill a glass with ice and reach into the cabinet, pulling out my father’s favorite “Dewers White Label. I pour a drink that even my father would be proud of. Sitting down at the table mom brings in a plate of food. We sit together while I pick at the plate not really hunger. I can’t recall the last time I ate. I guess it was a muffin for breakfast before the seminar at 7:00 am this morning. After a while we move into the living room where I fix another stiff scotch and sit in my dad’s chair. This chair has always been the absolute center of the world’s power in my life. I can feel the past. The conversation is superficial as we discuss my brothers and sisters. Mom is careful not to ask about the white elephant sitting in the room. Time is frozen as I glance at my watch a thousand times, but no longer worried about the outcome of the surgery. Once again time has stopped, refusing to let next chapter start.

At 11:45 the phone rings, its Perri. “The nurse just came out of the operating room to tell us that our girl in doing fine. The aneurysm was successfully clipped, blood was re-established to the brain and she has in their words tolerated the procedure well. They are planning to close her up and take her to recovery in about 45 minutes. I’ll call you back when they are done.”

Looking up at mom I nod as tears of relief roll down her face. I give her a big hug and decide this news deserves another drink in celebration. I can relax as exhaustion and scotch allows the stress to melt from my limbs. We watch the clock until the phone rings again at 12:50 am. “Okay I’m with her in the recovery room and everything is fine. She is talking and asking where you are, but she won’t remember what’s going on.”

“Thanks Perri. I’ll get to the hospital around 11:00 am in the morning. Give her a kiss for me.” As I smile at Mom letting her know the storm has passed; now we just need to see what damage has been done. “I’ll need to be up by 5:00 am in order to catch the flight home.” As I note that the time is now 1:12 am. I walk up the stairs and falling into the big overstuffed comforter with all my clothes on.

I’m too exhausted to undress. As I relax with my eyes closed an image appears in my mind. The image is indistinct and covered with snow like an old television with bad reception. I focus on the image trying to discern the details as it drifts in and out of focus. Suddenly I realize the faded image is my wife in the recovery room laying there asleep. I must have tapped a spiritual connection by coming to this place of my childhood. Allowing the energy of this powerful place to fill me I direct myself as a conduit transporting the energy to a recovery room a thousand miles away. I feel the white crispness of what seems like static electricity. Can this connection be real or has my exhaustion advanced to the point of hallucinating. It is of no consequence to me as I drift into a deep slumber holding the faded image in my mind.

What seems like a split second later I hear someone calling to me? Opening my eyes a searing pain rips through my temples. “It’s 5:00 am. I am cooking some eggs before you leave.” I stand up only to realize that my body feels like it has been in a car wreck and was eject from the vehicle at a high rate of speed. On top of it all I wasn’t content with a normal mental and physical beating I decided to add a hangover to the mix. Barely able to see I climb into the shower looking around for my travel bag. I totally forgot I checked my bag at the gate last night and it is quietly resting in some distance location. It’s acceptable to look rough hewn today considering yesterday as I run my hand through my wild spiked hair.

Feeling terrible I choke down some eggs and three cups of coffee while saying goodbye. Other has feeling like a dump truck ran over me; I cruised back to the airport, hardly stopping at the car rental facility and security. At the gate it’s another completely packed flight. I think to myself, “Why the hell doesn’t the airline add another flight or two maybe try to grow the business?”

The plane is loaded and we take off. My pounding headache and sour stomach won’t allow me to sleep during the three hour flight. Without incidence the plane lands and I walk off and go to the luggage claim. The lady behind the counter looks up “Mr. Blue, I just left a message on your cell phone,” Reaching under counter she hands me my luggage. I think why it is so easy today and such a mess yesterday? Jumping into the car I drive directly to the hospital getting instruction on how to get into ICU. At the hospital I press a button as a camera projects my photo to the ICU receptionist. The door swings open as I take a deep breath and walk in. My heart is racing as I find the door to her room. I stop for a second and prepare myself for what I’m going to see. I gather the strength and turn the corner. A small face turns looks at me with a huge white bandage covered in wires and medical equipment. I notice a weak smile as a tear rolls down my cheek.

I Did Not Die

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

Navajo Prayer

Who am I Fooling?

For years I have carefully studied light, composition, contrast, balance, texture, rhythm and color in an attempt to develop an eye for photography. It has been one of my interests although I still am humbled by the skills of many artists. I have now been humbled by myself to such a degree that my confidence has been shaken. The photo you see before you was taken by me, but the circumstances are of interest.

As I was leaving the office I noticed the approaching sunset which had all ingredients of a memorable moment. About the time I pulled into rush hour traffic on the interstate the sunset began to peak. It was difficult driving in traffic and glancing at the sky. Suddenly I realized my camera was in the passenger’s seat. On the spur of the moment without much thought I opened the sunroof and while darting in traffic extended my hand out the sunroof ripping off a few shots without aiming the viewfinder or focusing. The photo you observe is a random reflex requiring no talent or framing. Staring at the photo I am startled that it may be equal to my best photos. All this time I’m telling myself that I have honed my skilled to an elevated state. Who am I fooling?

"He that wrestles with us strengthens our nerves and sharpens our skill. Our antagonist is our helper."

Edmund Burke (1729–1797)

Whisper in the Wilderness

“A thing so light and wispy. On the wind it is surrendered. With no will of its own it is carried by the breeze. Only when captured by the most gentle of the earth's elements is its essence stilled, its own impression revealed.”

Calafia, 2006

Philadelphia Tarpit

tarpit  [tahr-pit] –noun. A seepage of natural tar or asphalt, esp. an accumulation that has acted as a natural trap into which animals have fallen and sunk and had their bones preserved. (Origin: 1830–40)

Silence of the night is shattered by a chilling shriek cascading through a damp primeval forest. Somewhere hidden in the darkness a behemoth fights to escape, trapped by the thick gooey mass of black tar oozing from the recesses of hell. Unable to extricate itself from the deadly pit the behemoth struggles to no avail as the movement only secures the beast’s untimely dead. With its fate is sealed, only time stands between the beast and its final resting place. Hours upon hours pile on the back of this forgotten creature as searing thirst claws at its flesh. Soon the behemoth will succumb to the lack of water no longer able to keep its head erect, as the strength ebbs it will fall silently into the black sewer never to seen again. The scene disappears as a noise from the concourse loudspeaker awakes me from a brief nap on the uncomfortable bench specifically designed to prevent anyone from reclining, regardless of how long you are caged in this sterile environment.

The day was another typical one day grinder to Philadelphia and back. The day although difficult was going exactly according to schedule. I arose at 4:00 am to catch the 6:00 am direct flight to Philadelphia. Arriving at 10:30 am, we flagged the rental car shuttle just as we stepped onto the sidewalk from the concourse. I mentioned to my business associate, Richard, that was a positive sign indicating we would have a flawless day. In the rental car lot we boarded a new white Chevy Impala from the executive aisle and bounded out of the airport for a 90 minute drive to meet our new client. Unfamiliar with the Brandywine district back roads, but armed with a computer generated directions we navigated narrow winding streets and obtuse intersections effortlessly without incident arriving at the appointed address fifteen minutes early. It was a perfectly executed plan covering 1500 miles with a Swiss watch maker’s precision.

Our meeting was a success as we met with the director of facilities and director of capital improvements. They received glowing recommendations from a previous client, researched our company and without our knowledge decided to offer us the job without requesting proposals from other companies. This is a highly unusual circumstance for a public entity. After a quick tour of the site and we jumped back into the rental car for our country drive back to the airport after only spending 2-1/2 hours with the client. It was a beautiful fall day with the maples ablaze in orange and red set against the bright green hills as we drove the back roads with the windows rolled down.

Our first sense of concern was how early the rush hour traffic started on the back roads. It was only 3:15 and the roads were already clogged resembling virtual parking lot. We maneuvered the highway inch by inch with an increasing sense of urgency until we reached the accident which was causing the delay. It was the normal mating of a Ford Taurus and a Chevy Suburban. For some strangle reason these two vehicle are attracted to each other while at high rates of speed. Passing the pile of shattered glass and chrome we took our time rubber necking at a crawl like each car before us in the traditional Philadelphia ritual. Almost 30 minutes of our precise schedule was consumed by the unplanned mechanical pornography. Driving the rest of the way to the airport utilizing my best over aggressive macho Philadelphia attitude, we arrived back at the airport just in time to board for our 5:00 pm flight back home. We dropped the car off right next to the attendant, who immediately gave us a receipt as we bounded back onto the moving shuttle bus. Three minutes to clear the car rental facility, not bad. We reclaimed six minutes of our schedule.

Our spirits were high as we reclaimed another five minutes by finding an open ticket kiosk. The last hurdle was clearing the security checkpoint after which we would have executed our game plan with commanding precision only requiring the airlines to fulfill their part of the agreement, an agreement which was confirmed with the purchase of two $1100 tickets. Punching the flight number at the kiosk in front of the counter a chill ran down my spine as the dreaded phase appeared “Unable to check in. Please see the flight attendant at the gate.” I looked at Richard, “This is never a good sign, is fact this is a very bad omen.” This typically means the airlines have such distasteful news that they need to get you through security ensuring you’re not armed before they break the bad news to you. Past security the Philadelphia airport at 5:30 pm resembles a Hollywood disaster film set, with throngs of panicked wild eyed customers running and screaming in a sea of chaos and confusion. The phase “City of Brotherly Love” doesn’t come to mind as crazed adults trample small children trying to escape this seventh circle of hell.

Slowly we approach the gate only to find the counter crowded with agents, heads bent checking schedules on small green screens, typing away with mindless fury. We wait in line for a small French girl with a pleasant smile and calming demeanor. It is clear from her polite helpful manner that she has not been hardened or scarred by the human carnage surrounding her. She informs us that our flight to Chicago is delayed 2-1/2 hours and it is probable that we will miss our connection home from Chicago. If we were not boarded by 7:20 pm we would be staying overnight in Chicago. Normally I consider this a good trade, Philadelphia for Chicago. Having traveled to Chicago over fifty times in the past two years, I am well acquainted on how to get in trouble in the city with big shoulders. The primary concern is that I am scheduled to fly to Charleston at 8:30 am in the morning and assumed I would return home to pick up my luggage before heading to Charleston. It was time to get creative about our situation. Utilizing years of travel guile we poured over the flight monitors and travel schedules to find alternate routes home. Houston was overbooked. Atlanta was overbooked. The connection through Washington did not work. It didn’t appear that home was going to be a viable option tonight.

Glancing down at my leg I notice a patch of tar on my pant leg and shoe. Slowly I began to realize that we were partially stuck in a modern day tarpit. I refuse to comprehend the futility of struggling by continuing to extricate myself from this black hole of hell. Finally a solution dawned on me like a single ray of sunlight peaking through black circling storm clouds. Why travel from Philadelphia to Chicago, Chicago to Kansas City, then in the morning travel from Kansas City to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Charleston; why not just travel Philadelphia to Charleston tonight. Without tomorrow’s travel itinerary in hand I called the office to talk to Mary and had her contact the Charleston hotel and check to see if they could an extra night to my reservation. A few moments later my cell phone rang, retrieving a message from Mary “You are confirmed for today in Charleston”. I may be on to something here. Clearing the first hurtle I returned to the demur French girl with the smile, asking if there was a flight to Charleston tonight. This is when she informs me of my dilemma. I was booked on US Airlines in the morning and the second part of my return trip was United Airlines through the code sharing partnership. I could book the Charleston flight but I need to go to from Terminal D to Terminal C to talk with US Air and have them book me on the flight.

I look at Richard and say “It’s been nice knowing you, but I’m dumping your ass and getting out of this mess. You’re on your own.” Survival ends up being an individual sport in the seventh circle of hell. Richard knows the call. He has elite status on at least two airlines. This is one of the written road warrior codes of conduct when all hell breaks loose, save yourself. You are no good to the organization “missing in action”.

I offer Richard one piece of advice as I depart, “I would stick on the Chicago flight. The way things usually work is that Chicago is just purgatory and after a delay they will let you back home. You will probably make it home after midnight, if not get a room at the Fairmont Hotel in the loop and have a steak at the Palm Restaurant across the street. You’ll like the food there. All your need to do is take the Orange CTA train and get off at the Randolph street exit. It costs $1.50. Good Luck!”

Turning to leave my cell phone rings. A computer begins “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. United Airlines flight 1027 to Chicago leaving Philadelphia airport at 5:01 pm is delayed. The new departure time is now 7:20 pm.” I look at my watch and it is 5:12 pm. Now that’s what I consider totally useless information. If I’m not on the airplane and moving down the runway at 5:01, by 5:12 it is even apparent to me that my flight is delayed? What am I support to do with this information? I shake my head and turn toward the moving walkway to take me to Terminal C.

A brief brisk ten minute walk thought the screaming masses of trapped travelers terminates at US Air gate C26 where I wait in line twenty minutes before I was informed by a thin black nervous gay gate agent that in order for US Air to process my request, United first needs to make a reservation on the Charleston flight then release my ticket to US Air. “Sir you need to go back to Terminal D and get United to process the reservation.” Glancing at the gate I notice the departure time is 6:30 pm and it is already 6:10 pm. Recognizing my concern he offers what he considers a gesture to comfort me.

“Don’t worry this flight is delayed three hours due to weather somewhere.” He says with a twinkle in his eye.

Walking away I mumble “Great I feel much better now knowing that I’m going to spend another three hours in hell.”

Weather seems to be airlines standard response for any misjudgment or ineptness in operational execution. It is the one thing no one can deny, yes there is weather somewhere, but I’m not sure I get the connection yet. A cloud appears over Dallas and my Philadelphia-Chicago flight takes a three hour hit? A snowstorm in Buffalo and all west coast flights from Washington DC are cancelled? A butterfly flaps its wings in the Sahara of Africa and Miami airport closes for the night? Why don’t you just tell me the truth, “We are not allowed wake up the union mechanic from his nap until 6:15 and after that time he will look at the plane?” Shaking my head I start back to Terminal D to talk to United again.

On the moving walkway between terminals my phone rings again. A drone of a computer voice begins “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert…….” This time the voice changes from an automated female to a recorded male. “This is Chicago O’Hare meteorologist. Due to low clouds and limited visibility we have instituted air traffic flow control. Travelers can expect delays of 60 to 90 minutes for flights leaving Chicago O’Hare International Airport until 11:30 pm.”

Before I can place the phone back in my pocket it rings again. My favorite computer girl says “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight status update. United Airlines flight 2421 to Kansas City is scheduled to depart Chicago O’Hare airport on time at 7:53 pm.” I stare at the phone like I’m in some type of reoccurring nightmare. You just called me telling me of a 60 to 90 minute delay and now it’s on time? The flight is delayed, it is on time, it is delayed, and oh hell you don’t have any idea what is going on!!! I have found the automated flight status update program useless and even annoying. The only benefit of the system I can assign is to allow friends and family to listen to frontline battlefield reports informing them how the war is going. If you’re on the frontline there is no lack of understanding as to the status of the war.

Back in Terminal D, I pass Richard sitting at the gate looking surprised. “Thought you were going to Charleston, you decided to have dinner with me in Chicago instead?”

Pulling the wad of tickets from my breast pocket I say “Well I was still trying to get to Charleston, but our new girl didn’t know how to complete the ticket transfer properly.”

With a smile knowing he had the opportunity to pimp me a bit, he says “Well I saw you were delayed to Charleston by three hours. You probably didn’t have anything else to do and probably needed the exercise. I like how the airlines look out for your health”

“Hey screw you too! Remember while you’re waiting to get out of O’Hare, I’ll be stretched out in that luxury bed in Charleston” I replied wiping the sweat from my forehead.

“You want to bet who gets back first?” Richards says with a smile.

“You’re on! The first one to get back on the ground in the desired location should call the other.” I scan the counter for my cute French girl.

Quietly I stand in line waiting for my turn. “Next” she says blinking her sapphire blue eyes. “I remember you, but I don’t recall what you needed?” as she looked at my tickets. “US Air told me that United needs to release the ticket in order to take control of the reservation and print me a boarding pass for the Charleston flight.” For the next ten minutes she types and enters information on dozens of screens. I watch her small lips pucker as she works through the complex system of screens. Finally she looks up, smiles parting her lips and says “This should do it. Give this ticket to the US Air gate agent in Terminal C.”

I waved goodbye to Richard as I head back to Terminal C. My phone rings again. “Hello this is Orbitz with another automated flight delay alert…….” I hang up before hearing the complete message. “Let me guess the Chicago-Kansas City flight is delayed.” On the moving walkway between terminals I realize that if I miss my first flight leg to Charleston in the morning, the airline will automatically cancel my return flight reservation. I call Mary at the office to have her reinstated the return flight on American Airlines for Monday from Charleston through Atlanta to Kansas City. A few minutes later my phone rings and I answer assuming it was the office. “Yeah, were you able to reinstate the flight?”

A voice replies “Hello this is Orbitz with another automated flight delay alert…….” I hang up, well aware of the problems in Chicago. Arriving back at gate C26 there is no one to be found. As soon as the last flight closed everyone working at the gate disappeared. I position myself in a seat at the bar across from the gate with an unobstructed view of the entire area. I order vodka on the rocks and wait for the gate agents to return.

There are two middle aged gentlemen at the opposite end of the bar waiting for the Charleston flight. Their gestures indicate that they have spent the majority of the afternoon sitting in the bar drinking and waiting. They are now to the point where they are loud and really having fun. One of them has been taking an informal poll with people passing by the bar, turning it into a game. A couple strolls by the bar with their heads hanging in oblivious despair. The guy leans out from his seat and yells to the couple “Let me guess US Air?” The couple quietly nod while the bar breaks out into a roar of laughter. A few minutes later a flight crew in a tight cluster runs at high speed past the bar. Again a voice screams “Let me guess US Air?” The roar from the bar makes the crowd sitting in the concourse turn to see what is going on. I entertain myself by watching the activity in the bar. Each new patron to wander off the concourse into the bar is greeted with the same question in a booming loud voice. “Let me guess US Air?” Each affirmative response is greeted with another roar of laughter and back slapping.

Finally the thin gay guy and a heavy short stern black lady return to the gate. I wander over to exchange my ticket for a boarding pass which will officially guarantee I will be taking the flight if it does in fact depart. I hand my ticket to the black lady; looking at it she twists her face with anguish. “This is for Charleston. I’m working the Minneapolis flight right now. Go away until we finish.” Slowly I turn to walk across the concourse back to my seat it the bar when I hear the drunk guy scream at me “Let me guess US Air?” Smiling, I nod allowing the bar to erupt again with laughter.

The phone rings and it is Mary from the office. “OK we got you reinstated on the flight you were booked on for Monday. It cost an additional $650 dollars. You want the confirmation number?” It takes a moment for the information to sink in.

“Wait, you’re telling me that they charged me another $650 dollars to reinstate a flight I was already on and already paid for?” as my voice started to reveal my anger.

The voice on the phone replied “They said that you can not change your travel itinerary without paying for the difference on the fare.”

On the verge of losing my temper I note “I did not change my travel schedule. It’s the same flight. There is no change. I was even willing to let them have the fee for the missed leg! Did you tell them that we would all feel much better if they would just put a gun to my head while they are robbing me!!!?”

I put the phone away in total disbelief. How the hell does this system work? Could this be the customer service that is causing the legacy carriers to go bankrupt? How soon do you think I’ll book another American Airlines flight? They will screw anyone they can get into their system and treat you like dirt in the process. It is now my mission to screw the legacy carriers out of every dollar I can. It’s only fair. The system is fat, bloated and totally out of touch with the business traveler which is the primary source of revenue for these unresponsive pigs. Do they understand why the no-frills carriers are kicking the snot out of the legacy carriers? As soon as the low cost carriers open international routes the legacy carriers will cease to exist.

My thoughts return to the concourse as another “Let me guess US Air” echoes in the bar. Finally a voice comes over the intercom. “This is the last call for flight 806 to Minneapolis, Minnesota at gate C26. All ticketed passengers should be on board.” I wait another five minutes before approaching the thin black gay guy at gate C26.

“Could you get me a boarding pass for the Charleston flight?” as I hand him the ticket.

Shaking his head he looks into the green screen. “This says your traveling to Chicago not Charleston. I can’t issue a boarding pass until it has the right destination. You need to go back to United at Terminal D one more time.”

With a serious face puzzled I ask “You’re kidding me, right?” Giving me a timid puppy dog look he mumbled “No.”

“It’s almost departure time and I want to be sure that I will in fact get a seat on this flight if I go back to Terminal D?”

“Don’t worry I’ve got a seat reserved for you.” He lifted his arm horizontal and wriggling his wrist is a short sweeping motion he indicates I should hurry up and be on my way.

While on the moving walkway between terminals my phone rings, “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. United Airlines flight 2421 to Kansas City is scheduled to depart Chicago O’Hare airport at 7:53 pm is delayed. The new departure time is now 10:10 pm”. I smile, thinking that poor Richard doesn’t have a chance of winning our bet.

Arriving back at the Terminal D Chicago gate I discover the flight has departed and my little French girl is nowhere to be found. Just my luck! I glance over at the costumer service desk and notice a long line of very angry frustrated travelers. It appears the crowd will be starting a riot any moment. Deciding I don’t have the time to mess with so called “costumer service” system. It really is a system in the airport designed to punish you. Look here valued traveler we will show you how unpleasant your trip can be, just come by customer service and complain. Instead of enduring another episode of verbal abuse, I pick out a senior flight attendant standing alone of an empty gate and approach her.

“Ma’am, please excuse me, I am in need of a hero today. I’m hoping you could qualify?” As I hand her my papers as she looks at me with a “this better be simple” look from over top of her black rim reading glasses. I succinctly explain my problem as she looks into another green screen. She snips “US Air is wrong our records show they have the ticket.” Picking up the phone she calls gate C26 and begins to rank the thin gay guy on the other end of the phone with a big legacy carrier attitude. All of a sudden her voice changes inflection as she says “Oh that is correct. Oh no, I was mistaken Yes sir, I understand. Yes sir, I will.” I raise my eyebrows in disbelief. Did I really hear one of these hardened battle axes admit that they were wrong? No, I didn’t hear that and dismiss the admission as a hallucination created by my exhaustion. After a few more moments of typing she hands me the pile of tickets back with another new piece of paper added to the collection. “This should do it. We apparently did not have the right destination listed. You should have no problem now.”

On the moving walkway back to terminal C for the fourth time the phone rings. “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. US Airlines flight 907 to Charleston……” I guess that last trip to Terminal D worked because my phone is now flooded with Charleston flight delay calls? Approaching gate C26, I hear a scream from the bar “Let me guess, US Air?” I turn and nod allowing the bar to roar again in laughter. This time one of the drunks at the bar cuts the celebration short. “Hey, we know him. He has been here before. No fair. He doesn’t count.”

Without speaking I give the little gay guy my bundle of tickets that are now about an inch thick. He smiles, pushes a button and my boarding pass is issued. Somewhat stunned I look at the thin white boarding pass, confirming my name, the right flight, the right day, and that I have a seat assignment. Looking at the clock it has taken me almost three hours to get this one ticket changed. A few minutes later the stern black lady returns to begin boarding the long delayed flight to Charleston.

As the announcement is made to begin boarding the crowd begins to act like a pack of hungry dogs rushing the lady at the gate as if she had a bucket of bones. The gay guy moves aside unsettled by the desperate surging of the crowd. Slowly the plane fills as the passengers elbow each other jockeying for better position. I’m one of the last to board the plane. The plane is a small regional jet with a capacity of about 40 passengers. My seat is the last seat in the plane. This is the seat they use to punish their most loyal customers that pay triple the fare of everyone else. Approaching my seat I notice the flight attendant in the gallery in the rear of the plane is on the phone with the pilot. She appears concerned as her eyes dart back and forth scanning the irritable group.

After everyone is seated and has stowed all their carry on luggage, the pilot comes on the intercom. “We have a switch that is sticking. We have called maintenance to take a look at it after which we will be on our way. It should only take about five minutes” I think to myself, is that five minutes in the real world or is that five minutes in the airline world? From the front of the plane I hear the two drunks bellow “Let me guess US Air”. No one laughs this time.

There is a lot of activity in the front cabin as an array of maintenance personnel mill about whispering to each other. The flight attendant in the rear of the aircraft hunkers down for the wrath of what is to come. After about thirty minutes the pilot comes on the intercom. “The maintenance staff needs to replace the switch and they have sent for the replacement part. It takes about five minutes to replace the switch, however in order to replace the switch we need to power down the plane. This will shut off all power and emergency lighting and by rule we need to de-plane the aircraft and wait in the gate area until power is restored.”

Finally exhibiting his frustration the pilot concludes with a parting comment directed at maintenance. “I had noted a problem with this switch last night when this flight arrived and if the maintenance staff has acted on the request to look at this problem we would have not been delayed tonight. I’m sorry for the delay.” There was an ugly groan from the passengers as the hope of escaping from the tarpit was erased. “You can leave your carry on bags on the aircraft if you like, but please take your boarding pass to re-enter the plane.”

The passengers stand slowly and file out of the aircraft past the surprised gay guy at the gate. When all of the passengers were assembled back at the gate an announcement poured from the intercom. “We expect maintenance to complete replacement of the part and testing shortly. Our new scheduled departure time is 11:15 pm.” Twenty of the forty passengers wander across the concourse toward the bar. As soon as the two drunks were visible the entire contents of the bar screams “Let me guess US Air?” They both raised their arms in victory like two warriors returning home from battle.

By this time my eyes are burning and I am unable to neither read nor concentrate. My legs are throbbing from walking six miles back and forth between the two terminals. My back is aching from carrying my computer bag for almost 18 hours. My mind is numb from lack of rest and stimulation. Sitting isolated in a sterile environment like an airport is exhausting. If it wasn’t for watching the people running around insane from being trapped in the system, I would have nothing to do.

My phone rings “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. United Airlines flight 2421 to Kansas City is scheduled to depart Chicago O’Hare airport at 7:53 pm is delayed. The new departure time is now 11:30 pm”. Once again I smile thinking about poor Richard. He may not be staying in Chicago for the night, but I might still have a chance of winning our bet.

Before I can put my phone away it rings again. “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. US Airlines flight 907 to Charleston……”

I hang up and mumble “Yeah, I heard. Tell me something I didn’t know.”

Time slows to a painful crawl. Each second seems like an eternity as I stare at the beaten broken passengers strewn across the gate. Earlier in the evening there was the most delightful baby boy running around the concourse being chased by his mother. He has now been reduced to a babbling mass of tears and screams as his mother attempts to consol his tired body.

11:15 comes and goes without comment. The thin gay guy seems to be handling the crowd well as he calms each new threat just before they attempt to strangle the living daylights out of the only US Air representative in harms way. I can see why they put him is this position. He is nimble and swift on his feet with agility. Plus how much satisfaction can you get from beating up a little gay guy. He ducks around the jetway and disappears for a few minutes.

Upon returning he grabs for microphone and makes an announcement. “The mechanics have installed the part, but are having a problem with testing. We are going to give them another twenty minutes which will give us a departure time of 12:45 am.”

Silence of the night is shattered by a chilling shriek cascading through a damp primeval forest. Somewhere hidden in the darkness a behemoth fights to escape, trapped by the thick gooey mass of black tar oozing from the recesses of hell. Unable to extricate itself from the deadly pit the behemoth struggles to no avail as the movement only secures the beast’s untimely dead. With its fate is sealed, only time stands between the beast and its final resting place. Like the behemoth I understand that I will never escape this seventh circle of hell. Someday they will find and marvel at my ancient bones. I no long maintain the strength to struggle. The perpetual motion of the last ten years will end somewhere in the forgotten depths of the Philadelphia airport.

My slow painful death is disturbed by my phone ringing. “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. US Airlines flight 907 to Charleston……”

I did not hang up this time; the phone just went dead from the more than 200 hundred flight delay alerts. The system was not satisfied beating me into a slow painful death, but it had to also suck the life out of my little phone. This is great! I don’t typically bring my phone charger on day trips, so I have no way to restore my connection to the outside world. Losing your phone is the modern day equivalent of having both eyes poked out with a stick. You are no longer a functioning part of society. In most airports there is a little rubber room at the end of the concourse for all the unfortunate travelers who have lost their phone. The rest of us avert our eyes when we see these poor souls and now I’m condemned to be one of them. What did I do to deserve this day?

No one is surprised when 12:45 am comes and goes without comment. However, the thin gay guy is getting really nervous as the crowd is getting ugly. He keeps running down to the jetway to talk with maintenance then comes back a little more jumpy each time. I can see his time is running out. The crowd is beginning to think that there is indeed satisfaction from beating up a little US Air gay guy especially at 1:00 am in the morning. He calls in for reinforcement and flees the gate like a jack rabbit. I remember thinking that the gate must be on fire or something? The last I see of him is literally running down the concourse toward security. This can not be a good sign.

All of a sudden his replacement appears as a shadow at the end of the jetway. Walking toward the top of the gate she emerges into the light. It takes my tired eyes a few seconds to focus. Oh my god, it’s the “cleaner”. Not the janitor, but the “cleaner”. The one the mob calls in to dispose of the bodies when things go terribly wrong. You know the guy in Pulp Fiction Winston Wolfe. A harden steel cold blooded eagle that cleans up the worst of messes. US Air is not taking any chances, they have called in the professionals. She was a short stout East German lady in her fifties with thick tree trunk legs and a massive build. Her salt and pepper black hair was rolled into a tight bun on top of her head. There was no attempt to disguise this determination with girly makeup. Her fingers were like big sausages stuck on hands that resembled giant ham hocks. She had no ankles, just thick calves that disappeared into wide industrial black nurse’s shoes. She didn’t really walk like the rest of us, but rather rocked back and forth while alternately extending massive legs. As the earth shook mere mortals parted clearing her path.

Man, I bet no one has ever knocked her off her feet. There was no question that she was in control. I looked around the gate at our beaten whipped group and thought I bet she could pulverize this group without even disturbing the sawdust on the floor. Philadelphia can be a tough town and over the years in the airport she must have kick some major ass. I was impressed.

She immediately stood behind the podium taking a broad defensive stance and picked up the microphone. “The maintenance staff is having problems testing the switch. We are going to try to start the engines. If we are able to start the engines we will leave. If we are not able to start the engines we will go to plan B and you do not want to hear plan B.” The microphone is returned to the podium as she picks up a clipboard and crosses her massive arms waiting for the next challenger to approach. I was surprised that no one went up to the podium to discuss the options, or should I say the lack of options. We were all content leave the “cleaner” undisturbed.

At 1:15 am the two flight attendants scurry up the jetway next to the “cleaner”. The “cleaner” picks up the microphone and in a stern German accent announces “The engines have started. We will be departing. Please show me your boarding pass as you board the plane.” We all file past the cleaner as she shouts out the seat number allowing the flight attendants to record it. I realize she is even larger than she appears from a distance as I pass her on my way to the plane. Assembled back into the plane I am reunited with my computer bag. Once again the flight attendant in the rear of the aircraft is nervous talking on the phone with the pilot. I think, “No don’t tell me something else is broken?”

There is a commotion in the front cabin with the cleaner. I overhear the flight attendant on the phone say “What do you mean our count was 39 we are suppose to have 38.” For the next ten minutes our two flight attendants march up and down the aisle counting heads. I wonder how long it is going to take them to do a complete inventory of the passengers in order to determine who the extra body is. From the front of the plane I hear the cleaner say “Oh the hell with it just shut the cabin door.” Now that’s someone in control. I’m assuming the cleaner has bent a number of regulations in order to get this flight off the gate, the least of which is letting the plane to depart if “it starts”. I’m sure nowhere in the operational manual does it say “If all these procedures fail, just try to start the damn thing. If it starts push off from the gate before it stalls.” A harden steel cold blooded eagle making decisive decisions cleaning up a seven hour mess. The right person in the right place is what I admire.

The wheels leave the runway at Philadelphia airport at 1:48 am and immediately begin to wonder how I will get to the hotel in Charleston. I’m the last person on the plane and by the time I get off the plane all the taxis will be taken. I have never been to Charleston. I have no idea where the hotel is. At this point I am so tire and exhausted that I am unable to relax or consider falling asleep. My burning eyes stare blindly out the window watching the small town lights pass in the early morning hours.

At 3:20 am we touchdown at Charleston airport and taxi to the gate. The ordeal is about to end. I walk out of the plane down the concourse past the worn crowd waiting for luggage into the cool evening air. I snicker thinking at least I don’t have to wait for luggage because my luggage is waiting for me at home. To my surprise there is a long string of taxis waiting for the delayed flight. Apparently the transportation company knowing the delayed status of the flight called all the cabs in town to the airport. You know, I’ll going to like this town as I jump into a cab. As we begin our thirty minute drive to the hotel I mumble to myself “Hello this is Orbitz with an automated flight delay alert. US Airlines flight 907 to Charleston……”

The cab driver turns his head and asks “Did you say something?”

Rolling down the cab window a crack I turn “Yeah, what is the weather going to be like this weekend?

“Sir you picked a beautiful weekend to visit us.”, as the taxi exits the interstate.

A few minutes later the cab drivers turns and points at a high rise building in front of us and says “This is your hotel as you can tell they are doing some work on it.”

Stunned and confused I look at the structure. Doing some work on it is this year’s understatement. We are pulling into a complete construction site. It is not possible to determine what type of structure this is going to be with all the steel beams and open trusses. As we circled a parking lot filled to construction vehicles and storage containers I have no idea on how to enter the construction site let alone the alleged hotel. Every square foot of ground is covered with piles of gravel, iron pipe, wood framing and electrical conduit. Hey, I’m familiar with a construction site, that’s what I do and let me tell you this is not a hotel, this is a construction site. Weaving his way through the construction supplies and temporary fencing, the taxi driver pulls up to a small temporary construction trailer attached to a remote corner of the structure and stops.

Smiling he points “This is the temporary entrance to the hotel.”

I look at him with bloodshot eyes and say “Are you sure this hotel is open for business?”

He smiles and replies “Yes sir, they are open for business.”

Getting out of the cab I pay the fare and ask “Do you have a business card so I can call if this place is closed?”

As the lights of the taxi disappear in the dust of the temporary access road, I slip his business card into my pocket. “Oh shit, my phone is dead. I’m stuck here. Maybe I’ll just break into this construction trailer and wait until someone shows up for work in a couple of hours”

Slowly I drag myself up the wooden steps to find the door open. As I step in, the corridor could be called a hotel like space, I guess. Walking down the corridor I stumble into a larger reception area with a temporary pile of furniture that sort of looks like a reception desk. Hidden from view a young girl is sitting on a folding metal chair decides to stand up when she hears me approach the collection of furniture. “May I help you?”

Startled I respond “Christ, you scared the crap out of me.” Regaining my composure I ask “Is this a hotel and are you open for business?”

Unflustered by this worn traveler she asks “What’s the name?”

“Mr. Blue.” I reply looking around the makeshift lobby. “Nice look you got here. I bet we could call architectural digest and have them come out to snap a few shots.”

“Mr. Blue, your room is 925. The elevators are around the corner and to the end of the hall. Have a good evening.” As the night manager hands me the keys.

Turning past the corner into the hall I am surrounded by only a concrete shell. No drywall, no wallpaper, no pictures, no carpet, no flooring, no furnishings of any sort. There are copper pipes stubbed up against the wall with orange cones next to them. There are holes in the concrete walls with electrical wires hanging out with small ribbons of warning tape tied to the ends. Along one side a long plastic sheet divides the space where wall is going to be.

I begin to wonder what my room is going to look like. Is it going to be another concrete shell with a pile of construction cardboard tossed in the corner for a bed? Will it be decorated with orange traffic cones and OHSA safety posters hung on the walls? Will my furniture be scaffolding with old paint buckets to wash my face in? As the elevator door opens, it is once again bare of carpet and wall coverings. I’m so tired that an empty concrete shell is all I need to get some rest.

The elevator door opens on the ninth floor and to my surprise it looks like a normal hotel corridor. Not that you can tell a lot about a hotel by the corridors. I wander down to room 925 and open the door. Switching on the light I’m surprised to find a completely renovated beautiful furnished room. The room is decorated is a soft mustard motif with an oversized luxury double bed with six white overstuffed pillows and 200 count Egyptian cotton sheets. I think about crying but decide it would be too much effort. In an attempt to get my bearings I look out the window and see the river to the left and the Citadel in the distance on the right. The morning glow is tickling the horizon as the cadets begin to arise for the day.

It is not more than a few minutes before I’ve stripped out of my clothes and am lying in this wonderful luxury bed between the Egyptian cotton sheets. I look at my watch and the time is 4:17 am. This day is now complete. This day was a new milestone for the road warrior. This day was a new record for perpetual motion. Never before in my many years of travel has a day lasted over 24 hours. Never before has a day exacted such an excruciating toll on me both physically and mentally. Never before have I completed the circle 4:00 am to 4:00am. Am I growing old of this investment of effort or is the system becoming more punishing? Is this brutality meant to humble me or to steel my resolve against the inhumanity of the carriers? I feel grateful to have a quiet moment to rest, but feel horribly abused by the entire experience. My body is aching and throbbing like a thumb that has been hit with a hammer. My mind is raw and without focus as if I’ve been drugged. I can no longer process the experience as I drift to sleep.

Sunlight streaming into my face awakes me. I look at the clock and it is 10:30 am. For a brief moment I do not recall where I am. Oh yeah, I thought it was a nightmare. I need to let someone know where I am and that I made it to Charleston. I get out of bed with a modest headache and pull my computer from the travel bag. I’ll just jump on the internet and email the world on my escape from the Philadelphia tarpits. I plug the cable into my computer finding no connection. I search for a wireless network, but there are none to be found. I look at my dead cell phone realizing I don’t have the charger to fire it up. I decide not to use the hotel phone since the rates are usually obscene. My only other option is to go to the front desk and ask where a hotspot might be.

I pull on my clothes from yesterday. Looking in the mirror I am appalled at what I see. A wrinkled, bearded, bloodshot homeless bum. “Man, yesterday put some miles on me and it shows!” There is not much that can be done for me, no razor, no toothbrush, no comb, no deodorant, no mouthwash, no change of underwear, no nothing. My hair looks like I placed my finger in an electric socket. Looking at the bags under my eyes I think “Who says I didn’t bring luggage look at those two overnighters.” The black circles around my eyes give me a raccoon appearance. I look like the drug crazed fiend in reefer madness. “Oh, the hell with it, you can’t look like a beauty queen every day” as I grab my computer and head to the lobby.

The elevator door opens with a young southern bell and her four year old son standing in the corner. My appearance startles her, but she maintains a civil polite demeanor, which is more than can be said for her son. I break the ice with the intellectually stimulating opening line of “Going down?” They both nod as I get in the elevator. The boy plasters himself against his mother’s leg and stares at me like I’m going to bite him. About halfway down to the lobby, the boy can’t bear it any longer “Mommy I’m scared”. To which he is immediately rebuffed by his mother “Shhhhh….!” I look at the small boy trying to ease his concern “You known why I look like this?” Too frightened to speak he just nods his head. “I fell out of an airplane and it drug me down the runway for a long time. So the next time you get on an airplane stay away from the doors unless you want to look like me.” The boy’s eyes are as wide as saucers as the mother gives me this “thanks a lot” look. Take that, the legacy carriers don’t be able to screw that kid because he won’t get over his fear of flying until he’s fifty years old. They didn’t think I could get even with them for yesterday but they were wrong.

The hotel manager has her head down as I approach the counter. Looking up she sees me and involuntarily sucks in a little puff of air like a goldfish eating an insect. She begins by stating the oblivious “Can I help you?” Lady by my appearance it is readily apparent that I can use of whole lot of help. The real question is where to begin? I start with the easy stuff “Is there a shop in the hotel when I can buy some toilettes?”

“No it’s closed”
I try again “Is there a hotel restaurant to get breakfast at?”
“No it’s closed”
“Is there a restaurant within walking distance?”
“No not really”
“Is there a convenience store within walking distance?”
“No not within walking distance.”
“Okay, I noticed there is no coffee maker in the room. Do you have coffee service somewhere in the lobby?”
“No”
Okay, I noticed there is internet service in the room. Do you have internet service somewhere in the lobby?”
“Yes sir we do.” I win. I found something that would classify as a customer service provided by even the meekest of hotels.
“Sir the internet service is not very strong and the customers tell there is only one place to get good wireless connections.”

I look around the temporary lobby and ask “Where might that be?” She leans over the counter and points down to a folding metal church chair sitting in front of the makeshift reception desk not more than three feet from us.
“You have got to be kidding me?”
“No sir.”

At this point in time I don’t care any more and turn to plant my scruffy, bearded, wild hair, wrinkled butt down into that metal folding chair. I am finally able to connection to the internet and tell the world that I have in fact survived the most brutal day ever conceived by the demented minds of the travel industry.

For the next thirty minutes I am a pitiful fixture in this makeshift lobby. I am the homeless indigent bum sitting in a wrinkle shirt and two day old underwear begging for a cup of coffee and mumbling something about a war with the airlines. Most of the people checking into the hotel avert their eyes and steer a wide path around me until they realize that I’m sitting under the reception desk at which time they take pity on me.

Another four years old is staring at me like I’m going to bite him, when he can no longer bear it he says “Daddy, give that man a dollar. It’s so sad.” How low have I sunk in just twenty-four hours? Just twenty-four hours ago I was a consummate professional securing a million dollar contract and now look at me.

My journey has been so harrowing that I have totally forgotten the purpose for me being in Charleston. It is the midyear board meeting of a national professional organization of which I am a secretary. It is a position of esteem to be honored as I participate with fifteen other very distinguished professionals from around the nation. Our group will be arriving today at this hotel for a three day board meeting which will determine the policies to govern the organization for the next six months. All of this information comes flooding back to me as I look up and see a fellow board member walk into the hotel. As we make eye contact I smile.

“Mr. Blue, what in the hell happened to you?”

Silence of the night is shattered by a chilling shriek cascading through a damp primeval forest. Somewhere hidden in the darkness a behemoth fights to escape, trapped by the thick gooey mass of black tar oozing from the recesses of hell. Unable to extricate itself from the deadly pit the behemoth struggles to no avail as the movement only secures the beast’s untimely dead. With its fate is sealed, only time stands between the beast and its final resting place. Hours upon hours pile on the back of this forgotten creature as searing thirst claws at its flesh. Soon the behemoth will succumb to the lack of water no longer able to keep its head erect, as the strength ebbs it will fall silently into the black sewer never to seen again.