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A Toast: To Never Calling to Confirm

Hung over, my usual condition for flying, I climb out of the back seat of the hired car, wander through the automatic doors, drag myself through the airport terminal, canvas duffel in tow slung over my right shoulder, feet skating over the glassy linoleum, head throbbing with each step, each step reverberating with a resounding thud in my already pounding head. Luckily, I have my boarding pass, and never check baggage, so I can avoid the first of the three mandatory lines at an airport. The line to get through the metal detector is obscenely long, and becomes a hangover enhancement zone. Screaming and impatient children run around and bump into me. Two women with, it seems, every product sold by MAC plastered on their faces find it necessary to talk loudly enough so everyone on line has a deep psychological insight to their bored lives. Wealthy men traveling on business release their frustrations and broadcast their annoyance at the heightened security with exacerbated sighs. All this activity inspires me to burp, and I liberate the gas from my stomach, a feat that would win contests at some of my favorite bars downtown. At that moment the Mary-Kay mothers grab their children in an attempt to express their disapproval. The people around me back away, and I finally find respite from the mayhem.

At the security checkpoint the U.S. Marshall gives me a dirty look as I set off the alarm.

"It's the pin in my right hip," I tell them, as a calm and disinterested security guard in a grey polyester suit runs the wand over my body. After I've emptied the loose change and my keys out of my pockets and the guard makes a few more passes over my leg, they let me continue to the gate.

"Nam," I announce, glancing sideways at the Marshall, subtext F- You, as I push on to my flight.

Cutting it close again. I'm always almost missing flights. It gives me a kind of high; an adrenaline rush to arrive at the gate as the fat woman in her airline issued polyester navy blue uniform makes the final call for boarding passengers. I've grown accustomed to the rolled eyes, the annoyed and arrogant tone that reminds me that I'm supposed to be at the gate at least 30 minutes prior to take-off, and I'm lucky the flight wasn't sold out or they'd have had the right to give my seat away. I smile, nod, and think, Well, the industry is so weak that no one wants to fly, anyway. You should be happy to have my business. But even that much thought brings me to the verge

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