Cherry-Poppin' in Springfield - Part Two

[b]The getting there part...[/b]

“Ka-klang! Thump.. thump..” Whatever made that noise was quite annoying. Disturbing a man in the middle of a convenient - if not restful or comfortable sleep - was, in the best conditions, considered rude. “Thump, thump, ka-klang!” Not that I minded, really, since my dreams were about a walk in the park, beautiful flowers, “…sir…” a steady warm breeze, with the stench of a bad cologne “…Sir…” and the hand of a diapered Red-Bull drinking monkey into mine; t’was so … “SIR?!”

That did the trick. As the strange primate disappeared, the call of a tall, all-too-gay flight attendant brought me back to reality. This tall, dark-grey haired guy looking at me intently from across the seat in front of me, googly blue eyes bulging out of his thin skull as if he had ingested half an ounce of funny flour, a mustache oddly trimmed and definitely hating his job was shoving me a bag of cookies I couldn’t care less for at that precise moment. The noise was definitely coming from the bottles sitting atop the four-wheeled flight case filled with goodies. We were a few hours into landing and, looking out the window and for the first time in the many trans-Atlantic flights I had a chance to be on, Greenland was clear of any clouds. The eastern coast was an absolute marvel to look at from 36,000 feet up. A range of high, jagged peaks, fangs sprouting up majestically off a barren, toothless world, scarred the flat white plains of snow extending for miles and miles, North to South. The land seemed to be the only true humanly untouched natural wonder left in this world which, sadly enough, if the meteorological soothsayers and fortune tellers have their way, won’t remain virginal for long. Greenland and Miss Piggy both. Not the puppet. Moving on.

The approach to Chicago was pretty much bumpy all around. The frontal wind we had since the mid Atlantic felt so much stronger upon descending on the final landing strip vector that it shared similarities to any earth quake worth its name. It was obvious that Mr. Gust had no intention of making my landing a smooth one. So be it, sucker: I’ll be out of here in an hour, once I make my connection! Years of technology advancement and Newtonish physics prevailed… barely.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to the United States of America, Chicago-O’hare international airport, where the current conditions are cloudy and windy, with a balmy 43 degrees and chances of rain. The local time is 11:19 AM. We will be arriving at gate M-2. If you have a connecting flight, you must physically collect your luggage at the carousel, go through customs and immigration and re-check your luggage, then proceed to your connecting gate. If Chicago is your final destination, follow indications to immigration and baggage claim…. “ . 11:19…. 11:19!? ELE-VEN NINE - TEEN !?! Holy “$%&/$%”!. Yup. Eleven nineteen. Twenty minutes later than the projected ETA. Considering my connection was at 11:50, my day that had somewhat been uneventful suddenly became a race through terminals and control points. Gate M-2 to whatever other terminal in 30 minutes without them was a near-miracle, at best; now imagine at security code orange. Could anyone else hear Mr. Gust cackle “Technology Schmolology”?

Of course, having booked my flight the day before due to the events related previously, I sat at the very end of the plane. A B-triple-seven didn’t empty in a second. Two-hundred and eighty-four souls, with their strollers, excess luggage, duty-free and Goofy caps didn’t exactly follow right behind one another in such an orderly fashion. Funny how people are just in such a hurry to board the plane and, when the time comes to haul ass out, they take their sweet fucking time. After a few minutes, we finally got to move. As much as possible, I made haste to the front of the plane, whining my way with lack of time for connection, while people kept silently swearing at me for being an ass. No kidding: I’d be an ass, all right, if I were American too. Being an elephant is just not sensible, under any international standard… I’m wandering off-subject…

As soon as I hit the airport, I dashed through the crowd all the way to the immigration post. Of course, it was to be expected: there was a line. A heck of a line. Definitely one of the longest lines ever. Just as I was thinking that, I heard the lady right behind me bitch aloud and mumble something about a Frisco flight in 20 minutes. Waiting not qualifying as being an action, I grabbed her arm, looked her right in the eye and pulled her along: “Follow me!” There was no room for interpretation. As we raced through the maze of both rope line and people, we made our way - not without difficulty – to the nearest security guard. The room felt stifling from lack of oxygen and smells of poor hygiene. “Excuse-me, ma’am”, I blurted, out of breath. “Waddja want?” came out with little interest, spiced with her thick Hispanic flavour. “Listen” I tried, with a smile, “it’s not usual, and for that, I apologize, but the lady and I, here have a flight departing in 20 minutes…” And she motioned us directly to a priority line. I turned to my partner in crime and winked. She looked dumbfounded. Yeah, it did work. There’s little in this world, not even jaded people, that can’t be swayed by “Please and thanks” properly used. I let he go in first then, as my turn came up, another security agent came in escorting an enlisted disabled man coming back from his tour, wounded. As much as I need to get out, a little respect for those who do a job I never wanted to be part of doesn’t hurt. A bead of sweat slowly made its way down my spine, almost trickling its way down like the second hand of my watch, agonizingly ebbing what little time I had left to make it to my plane. Long. Way too long it took for the immigration process. I need to enroll in Nexus.

When I finally got to stand in front of the agent, one look said it all: Young, definitely happy to be working on Sunday morning to see us, travelers, thinking all the same: Could you hurry up? I took a chance I never would have, under different circumstances: “Good morning sir. I know you’ve a job to do, but, look at my passport. I’ve entered and left the U.S. 25 times in three years, and I’ll do it again, for work, but I have a connection leaving to Springfield, Missouri, in 20 minutes, and the more I delay here, the thinner my chances get to making it….” And then I waited. The man, surely not anywhere near his thirties yet, looked me right in the eye, scrutinizing deeply and almost to my core, or so it felt, probably debating if I was telling the truth. I mean, I’m Canadian, we worship bacon and maple syrup, flies eat trout up North, and we have a kick-ass hockey team, the only thing we ever beat Americans at: what threat can I possibly pose?

The agent, whom I never got to read the name, looked down at my passport, scanned it and flipped through the pages while the computer munched on its central server to retrieve whatever information it had on me. After a few seconds, which lasted a year, he looked up, hesitated, and handed me back my passport. Without letting his gaze off me, he uttered a single, magic word: “Go”. I wasted no time. “Thank you”, as I departed, must have sounded like a fading echo from afar, as I jogged to the luggage belt. Thanks to the heavy travels on a single airline and the Gold status related, my priority luggage were there, not two agonizing minutes after I arrived at the belt. 16 minutes. I dashed, madly, to the recheck counter. The lady scanning the extra baggage nonchalantly and said: “Going to Kansas City”. “Err no. Springfield, MO!” She looked like I had ruined her day. Lass, wanna hear of mine, thus far? “Go over there” She pointed towards a check-in counter with a man sitting, waiting, just as motivated. I ran.

“Sir, I was on UA975 that was cancelled yesterday with a connecting flight to Kansas City, but was rebooked on UA975 today to a connection to SGF and my tags weren’t changed!”. Obviously irked by me spurting way too much information at once, I decided I had no time to deal with people that didn’t listen fast enough. “Hang on. You was on that plane that just land?” I’ll never know what prevented me to spit back a yawping “DUH!” at him, only I know that “was” is either 1st of 3rd person, not 2nd and that landed was more accurate. “Yes”. No time to be precise. 15 minutes. “Aiight..” he said. “Not entirely sure your luggage’ll make it”. I snapped. “I don’t give a flying… so long as I do!”. Tagged properly, I had fourteen minutes to get my arse moving.

I ran, as fast as I could, to the second level, where the train would take me to gate C2… in Terminal one. (For those of you who’ve never transited through O’Hare, that’s one gate away from the farthest possible gate combo there can be in that airport. Fucking-A!”. Of course, the train wasn’t there, or so I had deducted from the despicable look of that woman flying to Frisco, awaiting with as much patience as I, only for just a tad longer. 13 minutes. There is no way she makes it. Heck. There’s hardly a way I’ll make it myself.

As the train pulled in, some 30 seconds later, I was somewhat relived. It took the better part of 5 minutes to get all the way to Terminal one. Of course, just when the doors opened, I ran – a bat out of hell – heck, I ran like an engine on Nitro boosts, an afterburner consuming all my strength but pushed by the sheer motivation of focusing on the problem, that I needed to… FAWK!. Yup. Slight detail I overlooked. Taking the train meant, by very definition, leaving the terminal, and going INTO terminal one meant another delay: another check point. A pretty busy one at that, too. I ran straight to the security agent, pleading again, my case, and loud enough so that other people could hear it. By some miracle, everyone was really nice and let me pass. 6 minutes. I ran through the checkpoint in less than 30 seconds, not even bothering to put back on my belt or zip my bag. Shirt sticking out, shoes untied, pants nearly dropping, I skidded like a madman on the sharp left turn towards concourse, yelling “Make way” so that people would just stand aside and let important people catch their planes. I ran, past families, uniformed, TSA’s and whatnot. I ran. I had but one target in my mind: C2. 4 minutes.

I fell. Not because I’m clumsy, but because I’m out of shape. I missed the turn towards the gate. Swearing under my breath, I picked myself up and made for the gate… and arrived. 3 minutes to spare. Luxury time, it seems. “Springfield?” I asked the attendant. “Looking at me quizzically, up and down, considering if the scarecrow handing the boarding pass was to be admitted, when the other guy standing next to her chuckled “Yet another O’Hare connection”.

Sitting, at last, sweating, out of breath, bent and nearly dead, I made the plane which would take me to Springfield. Ms. B would pick me up and everything should be a-ok for SHINEDOWN, in a few hours…

Part 3 coming...