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More than once I was tempted to jump out at a stop light and look for a ghost, certain I would make better time. If it hadn’t been for the luggage, which was more than even my wagon could carry, I was stuck where I was— taking the Cook’s Tour of my home city.
After leaving a generous tip, I ran to the terminal. It could have just been my imagination, but it very much seemed like nearly everyone in town had convened in the airport that day, in a special effort to prevent me from getting to my plane on time.
Marching through the grim procession, I finally got to the counter, the flames of hope turning to smoldering embers.
“Tickets,” prompted the agent, looking as rough as I felt.
I handed over the specially designed envelope with the company’s name on it. It was a high-end airline I never could have afforded on my own dime.
“Oh,” the agent said, startled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, oh, nothing at all. I’ll get this through right away.”
After getting my boarding pass within seconds, my cases pulled away by the conveyer belt and I found myself on the back of a courtesy vehicle, being driven to my gate at high speed. Leaping off the vehicle, the driver ran to the security and explained the situation, whatever it happened to be.
Hustled through security I like a VIP, I was whisked through the gate and down the ramp. The flight attendant was actually holding my hand to keep me going faster.
I was nearly late but there was no way they were going to leave me behind. Not with me having a first-class ticket and all. When it came to the travel industry, not even the god(s) themselves could outdo cold, hard cash in terms of influence. No wonder the wealthy could sometimes have such arrogant attitudes.
The flight was as comfortable as it could be for a trip so long in duration. Nearly every need and whim accommodated for, and then some. At least the time was going backwards the further west we went, so I would technically be arriving almost the same day I’d left. The last big shift would be coming between New York and Seattle.
When the plane set down, I was about ready to collapse. Odd, considering I’d been sitting down for the last eight odd hours, most of which I’d spent either sleeping or going over the set list I’d planned for the event, agonizing over whether it would be appropriate.
There was about as much trouble at American customs as there had been with the Dutch. It basically consisted of being waved through after they’d taken the most cursory look at my ticket and passport. Things might have been different had I already claimed my luggage, but as It was, I only had one, ordinary carry-on.
Expecting to get a taxi, it was something of a surprise to step out of the airport to find a driver holding a sign with my name on it. It wasn’t a limousine, but I also hadn’t been expecting anything nearly so fancy.
“I’m Holly, Holly Jones,” the driver said, her eyes shielded by Alexander McQueen sunglasses.
The way she said it reminded me of something, but I couldn’t quite remember what.
Folded into the back of the economy car, my height one of the reasons I preferred to bike, I was taken directly to the hotel, raindrops beginning to spot the windshield as we’d gotten close. I’d heard legends about Seattle weather but never really believed them to be true. Now I was proven wrong already.
Secure in the air-conditioned confines of my suite, I took my first shower in over twelve hours, and set myself to the task of unpacking before the jetlag really started to hit.
I was supposed to be meeting Varg and the gang the next day and wanted to be well rested. Still, my drive to organize wouldn’t let me sleep until everything was just so.
I’d seen doctors, just to make sure I didn’t have OCD. Every one of them had said I didn’t. It was just how my mind worked.
Hitting the bed like a tripped sumo wrestler, there came a near instant ding on the computer. It was set to sound like a dinner bell, so there was no way I could ignore it. My stomach was overruling my mind, and I knew I could use better judgement right about now.
The floor came up to meet me with a soft thud, wakefulness blasting through me as the the adrenaline hit. Gathering myself from the rug, I went to see what all the fuss was about.
“There he is,” Varg grinned.
“What’s left of me.”
“Good flight?” Varg asked.
“In most ways. The wine was good and they showed four movies. Pretty good ones. They must save the crap for coach. I’ll have to make sure to thank Seth for the upgrade. Saved a lot of headaches along the way. Did you know that the Atlantic ocean is really rather big?’
