0:05

You know what? I do have somewhere to be for the first time in months. I have somewhere genuinely important to be, and I'm not going to let anything get in the way of that. I was supposed to be here two hours ago. The driver wanted to talk to himself the whole way, wanted to take the scenic route, wanted to tell me about his million dollar ideas. I caught maybe four words at a time between sighs and mental resets. I'm operating in a light haze, held together by pre-flight anxiety and brought down by a pre-flight cocktail that hit a little harder than expected. As such, I refuse to rush. Rushing is for cattle rushing is for quote unquote deal makers that wear terrible suits and annoy me. A Russian is for oil. Gs rushing is for Ricky Williams, who is six foot and 220 pounds. Okay, I may be six foot and 220 pounds, but there are other differences as well. I simply can't rush behind me, I quickly read a sign. No parking active loading zone vehicles will be towed. I acknowledge it with the same respect I give expiration dates. Security welcomes me in like an in-law. We all wish I wasn't here. I shuffle into the line cow to slaughterhouse when the man checking my border pass, greets me with an almost sinister cheer. He scans my ticket, then my face, he finds several imperfections. He chose kindness. He smiled. Did he just wink? Why is he looking at his colleague pointing at me and smiling, pointing at me and laughing. I look behind him. It's the chaos lines feeding into lines, feeding into regret. Everyone pretending they're not silently hoping for a moment of intimacy with the TSA agent on the other side of the machine, the agent considers me carefully. He turns his head gmas like Kendrick, smiling at Drake at the super pool, shrugs and waves me on Caesar sending another gladiator into the arena. On the other side, the confusion really just begins for the 10000th time. Today, the TSA agent informs everyone of the instructions and how to get ready for their big, scary machine. The only problem is I've never heard it before, and he goes very fast and he gets a little annoyed when I ask specific questions. I flirt with taking my shoes off. A poor soul behind me mirrors my decision blind. Leading the blind. No, the dumb leading the religious whomever. Whoever parked the gray Odyssey in front of the airport, please move it. A TSA shout brings me back to reality. The guard waves me forward. Then tells me to stop, then waves me forward again, then sends the man in front of me back through the scanner for crime's unknown. Oh no. They got the person who was following me something set off the scanner. They're going to have to do a deep, deep search. I think I noticed a single tear fall from her eye. All I can do is say a quick prayer. Finally, freedom. I emerged into the terminal reborn and lightly damp. Now where is that flat escalator? I'm running way behind and I'm going to need the speed power up. You ever ate to five gum? You ever drink water while chewing five gum? You ever rode on a flat escalator while drinking water and chewing five gum? It feels like hyper speed. I was telling Shabaka next to me, I got a bad feeling about this. I like to see Han and Su navigate this terminal. You may be at light speed, but this labyrinth will have you turn 15 ways to Friday. It's not commonly understood why it's called terminal. I can tell you it's'cause it's slow, incurable, and the end. I would've loved to attend the meeting where airports were standardized. It was clearly in the 1960s. Someone said futuristic. Everyone agreed. Now the bluest blue you've ever seen jump scares you at ever turn aggressively reminding you what gate you're not at. floor to ceiling windows bake you alive while forcing you to confront the reality that you're about to get in and fly off in a pushed over skyscraper that has no business flying, is what you're about to fly off in. Final warning, the Odyssey is about to be impounded owner responsible for all fees. A fake palm tree slaps me in the face when I lose focus. I'm no longer convinced. I am no longer convinced my gate exists. There can't really be 63 gates in terminals reaching the letter F. Who is flying to all these places? Where are we going? Why are we all dressed like this still? I count 1, 2, 3, 4, 4, 4, 45, 46. Then I see it a line. No rational person would join willingly. I follow it to its source and lock eyes with a six foot tall cow standing upright holding a sign that says, eat more chicken The red logo calls to me like a lighthouse, to a shipwreck, just a snack. I think. What's a snack at Chick-fil-A? Hmm. Maybe just a number three, with a Diet Coke. You never know when you'll eat again this could be for survival. Even peak efficiency collapses in the airport, slowest Chick-fil-A on earth. While I'm sitting there eating, a man sits down, he pulls out a Department of Defense clearance badge while he continues to. Uh, berate me with his stories and plugged it into his computer. I'm trying my hardest to ignore him, but nevertheless, he persisted As he talked, he was scattered and interestingly outta breath. Then he told me he was a little bothered because he just, he just got frisked by the TSA Huh? Aren't you Department of Defense? Yeah, but they don't know that. And the dog stiff my bag, and apparently my baby formula smells just like cocaine. Right when he says that the dog that frisked him and his 18-year-old at most handler walks by the man proceeds to ruthlessly mock him and this dog, and quite honestly, I'm dying laughing with a mouthful of Chick-fil-A. Then the dog turns at us quickly, sharply, decisively. Tell me why my newfound annoyance goes stiff as a board points at me and goes, he's the one making fun. He, he doesn't think your dog knows. Come here from scom. No way. There is no way. He just did that. And just like that, I'm swept away into the deeper bowels of the terminal where they check my deeper bowels. And with all my drugs now confiscated, I barely managed to escape. Whoever owns the Gray Odyssey illegally parked out front, you are now an enemy of the airport there on the horizon, gate 63. But when I arrive, dread sets on my face. There's no one there. There. No one pretending to have a medical condition to board earlier. No fake Coast Guard members waiting eagerly to finally get the recognition they deserve. No pretentious first class, no anxious flyers. Doomed to sit in the back of the plane for their first time. No one but me and the airline rep are there. The rep wears the haunted smile of a man who loves people but hates the rep. Wears the haunted smile of a man who loves people but hates logistics. He toggles between joy and despair with every iPad tap. What in the world is he tapping so much on that iPad? I approach the stand and the blonde portly man who seems to be in touch with his feminine side immediately forces a grin that for some reason angered me and then says, ah, you must be Mr. Austin. We were expecting you 20 minutes ago. Then we enter into a smile, grimace off each one, somehow less sincere than the last. Each man seeing what tactic will work. Anger, the more rational one. Flirty, funny, a smile. The good news is my bags didn't make it onto the plane. A fake grimace focused Look, the bad news is that I will not be getting on this plane because the door behind us doesn't open a smile. Well, it does open, but it doesn't open for you. A fake grimace focused look. Why does it not open for me? Well, because the man in front of me told me with a look of either genuine concern or constipation on his face, whatever, whatever, whatever I concede, the airport wins. I have nowhere to be anyways, I retrace my steps and I only get lost on the way back outside the drug looks at me a little too knowingly. The Department of Defense employees smiles and waves at me, the Chick-fil-A employees back my second order. The fake palm tree hits me again. The lady behind me in the TSA is now leaving the TSA line. And what's this? My gray Honda Odyssey hooked up to a tow truck. What's that doing here? How did y'all know to bring me this boys? This will do letter drop. I'll drive her on home. Things are starting to look up for me, I guess.