I’m kind of sad to write this, because I’m bumping down my 666th post. I can almost hear the ominous choral music…
BUT. There is a story that must be told. The story of my illustrious return to Boston.
April 5, 2008 started, for me, at 5am, when I awoke from approximately 2 hours of sleep to ready myself for our flight home. I showered up, packed my bags, and, after a quick Starbucks run, we were off to Hector International Airport. (sidenote: what exactly ARE the international destinations from Fargo? None, as far as I can tell, but anyway.)
My boss always gets a little cagey when we fly, and for good reason. With every trip, we are carrying well over $200,000 of equipment, not to mention hours upon irreplaceable hours of shot tapes, and he wants to make sure that everything gets where it needs to go without incident. However, after only ten minutes at the check-in counter, Pusser had commandeered a hapless Northwest agent and was proceeding to educate her, in vitriolic tones, on the critical nature of our mission. As his tirade reached a shrieking fever pitch, I left to smoke a cigarette. It was 6:45am.
By some miracle we made it through security, despite my carrying on 5 industrial-grade lithium batteries, Pusser’s refusal to put the master tapes through Xray, and the interminable inspection of Buckethead’s sound rig and mixer. By the time we hit Minneapolis and our four-hour layover, I felt that a bloody mary was more than deserved: it was a necessity. The time between flights passed pleasantly enough.
Of course, our flight out of Minneapolis was delayed for “mechanical reasons”, which always instills a great sense of confidence and security.
A flu-riddled Katsu picked us up at the airport, and, while loading luggage and five cases of equipment into the Focus, I planned my upcoming evening: some light unpacking, some wine, and some Netflix DVDs. I did not plan my evening around the camera case being broken, a return trip to Logan, and a heated argument with Northwest baggage agents. Apparently, there is no reimbursement policy at NWA for damaged luggage – as the woman behind the counter told me time after countless time, all she could do was send it out to be fixed.
e: but it’s NOT MY CASE. it’s a RENTAL.
woman: it would only be gone for a few days.
e: ok, but I’m RENTING it by the day.
woman: well, is there anything INSIDE the case?
e: OMG WOMAN THERE IS A FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLAR CAMERA INSIDE THE CASE. I AM PAYING THREE HUNDRED DOLLARS A DAY. I CANNOT GIVE IT TO YOU. WTF.
woman: well, i don’t know what you want me to do for you.
e: you could start by shooting me in the face with a tranquilizer gun.
i love helpful people.
I also loved getting home, unpacking my duffel bag, and finding that the bottle of wine I’d packed had shattered all over my wardrobe. Don’t ask why I had a bottle of wine in my luggage, simply try to appreciate the joy I felt as I picked through malbec-soaked T shirts and glass-encrusted sweaters, trying to ascertain what could be salvaged from the mess. Answer: a pair of socks.
e: (trying to make the most of things) HAHAHAHA, I guess i better do LAUNDRY, then!!!
katsu: i guess so
e: (starts washing machine, reaches down for detergent, finds none) Um, hi. There’s no detergent.
katsu: oh yeah. i forgot about that.
April 5, 2008, and the helpful folks at Northwest Airlines, you can seriously bite me. I hate you.