D.G. Chichester, �Daredevil: The Fall of the Kingpin�
Sorry for the delay, and sorry if I haven�t got back to you recently. The truth is, I�ve been working on average six days a week, and sometimes seven. In the meantime, I�ve been sick as fuck. Those two things are related, but I�ll save that until the next entry, seeing as the next book for me to review is �Nickel and Dimed� which deals with the hardships of the workplace. Talking about how sick I�ve been lately and how it�s all work-related seems a little lame to tie it into a Daredevil graphic novel. Besides, I still haven�t finished my trip to Massachusetts.
And see, I�m afraid I gave the impression that getting to Massachusetts was easy, almost like it was a lark. Trying to arrange a trip to the East Coast of the continental US is not a lark. Even from the beginning, trying to figure out airfare was a nightmare. The town that she lived in was of comparable distance from no less than four airports, yet since I was coming all the way from Honolulu, the logistics of trying to organize rides in the middle of a wedding was full of fuckery.
If you�ve been reading this site for the last eight months or so, you know that money is a factor as well. I spent two months searching out every online airfare service arriving at five different airports in an attempt to find the best deal. I could fly into Boston on the day of the wedding rehearsal, but that would mean I would arrive 45 minutes before the dress rehearsal was slated to begin. I could fly into Rhode Island on the day of the wedding, but would only have 20 minutes until the ceremony started. Distances of less than 50 miles had price discrepancies of over two hundred dollars.
Finally, after nearly two months of watching airline prices, I was ready to fly into Boston. Kelly promised that the groom could pick me up just before he began his last night out as a free man. I logged into my airline Web site and saw that the ticket price had jumped nearly $180 since the last time I checked, just eight hours earlier. Now, any ticket to the East Coast was now priced in the unreasonable range.
I knew what time Kelly would arrive in Rhode Island and with the sudden price jump for fares to Boston, switching to R.I. would be a negligible difference. Best of all, instead of having to arrange multiple rides, my flight would get in a half-hour earlier meaning that not only would we make it easier on the members of Kelly�s family, but I wouldn�t have to face Kelly�s family by myself.
Perfect!
Well, perfect except for the ticket price, which was edging close to the thousand dollar range.
Kelly was arriving on Thursday evening, and returning home on Sunday afternoon. My original itinerary had me returning at 6 a.m. on the day following the wedding, which nobody in their right mind would agree to serve as taxi for. Who could blame them? I checked on options of other flights and found there weren�t much, as apparently, people from Rhode Island don�t go to Hawaii unless they can leave at six in the morning.
After some searching however, I found if I left on Monday in the early evening, I would save almost three hundred bucks on airfare. As long time readers already know, I�m pretty used to sitting in airports for an inordinate amount of time, including the my 24 hour stint in Oakland, or the more recent departure where I moved to Hawaii. So, I figured, spending a little over 24 hours in an airport in Rhode Island should be no problem. Plus, this way, I wouldn�t be making a burden of myself with her family. When they asked me when my flight departed, I could simply say �later� with a clear conscious.
And that�s what happened. Kelly�s parent�s dropped the two of us off at the airport with Kelly having less than a half-hour to spare before her flight. Her mom tuned to me. �When does your flight leave, Dean?�
�Oh, not for a while,� I said.
�When�s a while?�
�Oh... seven...� I said, hesitantly.
�Seven?!? That�s awful! What are you gonna do until then?�
�Oh, just read,� I said, trying not to think about the moral gray area that my flight left at seven in the evening of the day following.
We got Kelly checked into her flight after some difficulty. Seeing how airports work when they're in close proximity to Washington D.C. and New York in this post 9/11 era is interesting in comparison to Hawaii, where the most thing they�re concerned with is if you have fruit with you. I watched her bag go through the X-ray machine, then pulled to the side and unzipped to be poked and prodded with the automatic drug sniffer machine. While they tried to ascertain if she was a terrorist, I checked in with my airline.
�Hi,� I said, �I�m early for my flight. Really early. So I wanted to check if I can get on another flight and go home, otherwise, I�ll be spending the next 32 hours in that seat in the lobby, staring at you.�
�Well, the airport closes at 10 p.m.,� said the ticket taker, �so I don�t think you�ll be staring at me for that long.�
Oh, fuck.
And of course, they don�t have any other flights that leave Rhode Island for Hawaii that day. They do, however, have a flight that leaves at seven in the morning, but I won�t be able to find out if I can take that flight until five � 15 hours from now.
Kelly boards her flight. After she leaves I read in the lobby. I finish the 200 pages of the Neil Gaiman book. I finish two graphic novels. I notice my butt is asleep, and I�m the only person in the airport.
But I�m prepared this time. I have three other books with me. I can ride this out. But I am bored, and knowing that I was going to spend this much time in the airport, I asked for suggestions from other bloggers, one of whom told me that the center of town is less than a fifteen dollar cab ride away awash with a veritable plethora of cultural happenings. I finish this particular graphic novel and head toward the taxi stand.
�Ayuh,� says the guy at the taxi stand. I can�t respond because it�s the first time I�m heard somebody use that expression which I�ve read in two dozen Stephen King novels where people are supposed to be from New England, Maine, or Rhode Island, and I�m thunderstruck to realize that people actually talk that way! Anyway, he keeps looking at me and finally adds, �Wherein you lookin� ta go?�
I tell him I want to go Downtown, where there is supposed to be a great used record store. The cabbie has no idea what I�m talking about.
�I know of a good titty bar,� he tells me. �I could take you there, but it�s at least forty bucks.�
I tell him I�m just looking for some semblance of a night life that involve commerce that doesn�t ultimately lead to titties. He decides I�m gay and suggests I take the �Ferry� into town, with a discernable amount of mockery in his voice. Following his directions, I find a shuttle that goes into town, which drops you off in front of Brown University. The only problem is that the last shuttle back leaves in three hours. Bored out of my skull, I agree to the nine dollar ticket.
In what can only be described as typical, my trip coincided with the time about two months back when most of Massachusetts decided to go underwater from heavy rainstorms. When I arrived, I was surprised to see clear skies and nice weather. I disembarked from the shuttle and started down the quaint streets lining the university, finding my way to the main thoroughfare. As soon as I did, people starting pointing at the sky and running. Two minutes later, I was the only person on the street, dragging my luggage behind me whilst being totally drenched in an enormous gale. Only after being totally soaked did I find shelter in a coffee shop, as all the other hip, student orientated stores had closed early as it was Sunday, and Rhode Island is one of those puritan states.
Two Grande cups of coffee later and it was time for me to catch the last shuttle back to the airport which did indeed, close at eleven, mostly because of remodeling. I snuck in behind the person working the jackhammer, who occasionally waved to me between ear-shattering thuds through concrete.
At five in the morning, my airline ticket counter opened again, and strangely enough, I was the first person in line. For an extra fifty bucks, they re-routed me to fly into Georgia, which has to be the biggest airport I�ve ever seen. The sheer size didn�t bother me, but it was strange to see the sequestered smoking areas that consisted of nothing more than a few orange cones that children climbed around while huge clouds of noxious gasses floated unobstructed into the general populace.
But I mean, c�mon � it�s Georgia. Smoke if you got �em! What was weirder was seeing the Defibrillator paddles spread out every fifteen feet along the walls, more predominant that fire hoses or water fountains. And then I finally stopped to take a look at the people � hey, at least we here in Hawaii can use Spam as an excuse. I don�t think Popeye�s Chicken holds the same sympathy factor.
Finally, I was on my flight home, stuck between two enormous people with thick accents, asking where I intended to visit.
�Oh, I actually live in Hawaii,� I said.
�Oh really?� said the enormous woman next to me who smelled slightly of Nathan�s Famous Hot Dogs stand. �That must be nice!�
�Yeah,� I said.
�Yeah, it is nice.�
