Jack Kerouac, "Big Sur"
(This is part 2 of an 18-part story, which begins here. Part 5 is here. And here is where you find part 10. Part 15? Right here. And the end of this entirely too long story is located here. After that, you�re on your own.)
(9:15 a.m. � Oakland Airport � 3nd hour.)
�Hello, thank you for calling The Cleverest Traveler! How can I direct your call?�
�Barb, please,� I say through gritted teeth.
�Barb has the day off, can I help you with anything?�
�I think you�d better,� I say, explaining the name misspelling problem.
�Okay can you spell your name?�
�Yes I can, apparently it�s you people who can�t.�
�No, I mean spell it for me,� she says. I do so. She sticks me on hold and calls Sunny Excursions. After five minutes or so, she comes back on the line.
�Dean, the ticket booth is telling us that you never picked up your ticket.�
�Well, I have both tickets in my hand right now, so I suppose that proves that statement wrong, huh?�
She puts me on hold for another ten minutes. By this point, I�m lightly punching the edge of the phone booth, but I stop when I notice the big guy with the gun holstered to his hip watching me. A voice comes back on the line.
�Dean, I�m going to turn you over to my manager,� the voice says. I have to explain the whole problem once again.
�What time did you show up at the ticket window?� asks the manager.
�Just before 7 a.m.�
�Well, I think that�s your problem right there. We tell you to check in three hours prior to departure. I mean, you can�t arrive 30 minutes before your flight leaves and expect to get on...�
�No,� I interrupt, �I CAN expect that, and you know why? Because the guy in front of me in the line picked up a ticket and boarded the same flight I was SUPPOSED to be on. I couldn�t get on that SAME flight because they wouldn�t give me MY ticket. And they wouldn�t give me MY ticket because the last name on my ticket that YOUR company ordered for me was not the same spelling as my identification.�
�I thought you said they gave you the ticket.�
�They did � AFTER the plane had left. I suppose they figured it was a moot point by now.�
�Well, I can get you a one-way ticket to Kaua�i for $165 on Sunday morning.�
�Why would I want to do that? Especially if they want to charge me $50 for a date change on the ticket? Can�t you just change the date on the ticket for that same flight on Sunday?�
�No sir, because your ticket is now on standby. And what they mean by standby is just that. You stand by. Hopefully the plane won�t be full, and you�ll be able to catch the next flight. But if you want to reserve a seat, it would cost you the full amount.
I slam the phone down. After pacing the airport for a good twenty minutes, I call home. My roommate answers. He gives me my father�s phone number so I can call and tell him not to pick me up at the airport in Hawaii, because I obviously won�t be there. My roommate asks if I want him to come pick me up.
Do I? I have to be back at 4:30 in the morning, and I got into this mess because I couldn�t find a ride at a reasonable time. If I went all the way back to San Jose I would just need to get back, and most likely the only time I would be able to get a ride would be in the evening � probably in about 12 hours.
Fuck it. I�ll camp out here at the airport. At least I�ll be first in line for the first come, first serve ticket counter.
I get off the phone and call the travel agent again to see if they�ll pay my $50 service charge, since by all reasonable measures, this is their fault. Yes, I was late getting to the airport, but would that really have mattered? They wouldn�t give me the ticket because of the misspelled name, so what�s the difference between showing up at 6:50 rather than 4:00? Makes sense to me, but of course the travel agent didn�t see my point. I slammed down the phone for the second time, walking away while still wearing my sunglasses to hide the murder in my eyes as I walked past the armed guards.
I sit on the cold, hard concrete bench outside of the passenger drop-off station, smoking and reading Kerouac.
Sounds romantic, doesn�t it? Well, it�s not. In fact the whole thing sucks ass. Not the book, but my situation. I�m lugging two very heavy bags around that are filled with clothes and books. It�s freezing, but I�m dressed to get off the plane in Hawaii, wearing nothing but shorts and a T-shirt. And I now have 19 hours to wait before I can find out if I can even get on another plane.
I cringed as I started this book. After all, the last Kerouac book was the WORST book I have ever read, and I�m already in a rotten mood. I wasn�t in the mood to put up with any shit from Kerouac now. But somehow in a change of luck, this was actually pretty good, and even interesting as an autobiographical look of being a so-called icon who gets pestered by wanna-be beatniks wherever he goes.
My mood lightens up as I go into the greasy eatery in the main lobby of the airport, sucking down grainy coffee and eating hashbrowns that were cold, bacon that was even colder, and eggs that tasted exactly like bugs. But somehow, even after all this shit, I didn�t mind.
Or I didn�t mind until the story ended and I had to shift through 22 pages of poetry. I fucking hate poetry.
And I hate airports.
And I hate you.
