New Mexico #10

New Mexico #10! (It's finally over)


Hello, Everyone,

Well, believe it or not, really and truly, I'm going to get back to doing Xcargo. What's more, I'm even going to try to finish the New Mexico series I started way back last year.

No. Really. Would I lie to you…?

Okay, don't answer that one.

But, this time …at least…I'm gonna be almost halfway truthful. Which is a rare thing in this life. Think politics. So, enjoy it while you can. It's rare thing. Supplies are limited. Operators are standing by.


*

Okay, you'll recall that we went to visit my parents last spring. You'll recall, too, that they live in New Mexico. They're getting on a bit, now, but they're hale and healthy. Though…it's a good idea for us to check in now and then.

Now, there are a bunch of complicating factors in all this. First, Martha and I both teach. That means we have a pretty narrow window during which we can travel. Specifically, we had about a week between when the spring classes we taught ended and the summer classes we taught began.

Oh, but there's more. Not only did we have to get back in time to teach, we also had to be back in Massachusetts no later than the evening of Saturday, 16 May. That was because on Sunday morning, 17 May, Tufts University had its graduation. And Martha teaches at Tufts. And it is a command performance for Tufts faculty members to be at the students' graduation. Or else heads would roll. Okay, so maybe they don't really roll. I'm told the ears get in the way. So, maybe, just bounce.

But, still more complications. Our son, David Tillman, was ALSO graduating from his college…the School of the Museum of Fine Arts in downtown Boston…ALSO on Sunday, 17 May, but in the afternoon.

And we are damn certain we're not going to miss our kid's graduation.

So, let's get this clear, shall we? If we miss a connection, or if we are delayed, or if anything goes even slightly wrong…

All hell breaks lose.



*


So, we have a nice visit with my parents over the course of a week. Then, it is time for us to head back to Boston. Ergo, one bright morning, we head off to the Albuquerque airport…shed several tears saying good-by…endure the attentions of some particularly hostile Homeland Security types…stumble through a full-body scanner… that malfunctions…twice…think MRI machine with hiccups…and then find ourselves on the plane.

Well, we think, that wasn't TOO bad. Should be home in no time, we decide. Probably won't be a bit of bother, we conclude.

Then…

We wait.


*

And wait.


*


And wait. And wait. And wait…


*


See a theme developing here?


*


Someday. When it is all done and said. When I'm dead. And have been for several years…

They're going to invent a super-futuristic train like the ones they used to have pictures of in Popular Mechanics Magazine when I was a kid. The kind that flash through big plastic tubes. At hypersonic speeds. And get you from Santa Fe to Boston in half an hour. Tops. And there's a free lunch.

You betcha. They will.

And, to repeat, I'll be dead at the time.

BECAUSE I will have had a brain aneurism while sitting on A GODAMN PLANE IN SOME FREAKING AIRPORT …


*

I heard later it was something to do with weather someplace else in the country. Or maybe it was a mechanical problem. Or maybe it was gnomes in the jet air intake manifolds. That’s probably the most sensible explanation. But, I really couldn't say. All I know is that we sat there wilting like lettuce on a flab burger in a microwave while pilots cursed, passengers went ballistic, and the stewardi developed that frozen-faced botox smile that comes just before you consider jumping face forward into a document shredder because it would hurt less than living.

So…

I'll spare you the next few hours. Suffice to say that finally we get into the air. Then, after an uneventful flight (well, except for the turbulence…and the overcrowding…and $7.50 snack packs…and the really, Really, REALLY lousy in-flight movie) we arrived at another city where we were supposed to get our connecting flight.

Now, understand, we'd already missed our FIRST connecting flight, but they'd rebooked us a second connecting flight. Which, we figured, we could catch without a problem because there was a 30 minute gap between the time we landed and the time we were supposed to take off again.

So…we "deplaned" (thank you George Carlin), wrestled our luggage into motion, and headed off to our next gate. And, wonder of wonder! It turns out to be only a few yard away.

We arrive at our next gate. Martha sends me off to get coffee since we've got a bit of time and we settle down until they call our seat numbers.

And…

Then we notice something.

"Say," Martha says.

"Yes?" I answer, because I'm good that way.

"Have you looked out the window?"

"Um," I say, intelligently.

"Have you noticed that there doesn't seem to be a PLANE out there?"

"Eh," I say, insightfully.

"So, maybe," she continues, "you might like to, that is, check at the desk."

"Uh," I conclude.

"As in NOW," she adds.

"Er…okay."

So I trotted up to the desk, where a couple of women in company uniforms were sorting large piles of little bits of paper and diligently ignoring me. They clearly planned to finish the first activity in short order…but continue the other to the end of time. Maybe longer. But, by pretending to be about to have a major psychotic episode, I eventually managed to get their attention.

"Oh," they told me. "There was a gate change. Your plane is now at…" and then they named a gate that was another terminal on the other side of the airport.

"Urk," I said.

"We suggest," they said, "that you start running."


*

Okay, insert here a slapstick comedy of the two of us, dashing through the terminal, luggage going in all directions, coffee cups flying, scattering other passengers, knocking over little old ladies, running baggage carts off the road, going the wrong way, doing a U-turn, running back the other way, knocking over the same little old ladies…

I'd describe it in more detail, but, really, words fail me.

*

Further complication: at this particular airport, transportation between the various terminals is provided by an automated little "people mover." It is kind of like a trolley car crossed with an elevator that happens to go sideways as the result of an unfortunate inner-ear condition.

So, that means we have to catch the People Mover or we're not going anywhere. And, amazingly enough, we actually do find a station and we actually do catch one of the little People Mover trains and it actually is moving in the right direction.

We check the time. We can JUST make it.

I look at Martha. She looks at me. "Whew," we say.

And then …


*

It was between Terminal A and Terminal B…

Almost exactly half way between them, to be exact.

And that …

Was when…

We came to a complete halt.


*


There was a crunching noise. Then a kind of tinkle. Then a grinding sound. Then a lurch. Then a bump. Then…

Nothing.

Everybody on the little train looked at each other. Then we looked out the window. We were on a kind of bridge arcing between the two terminals and over the highway. The ground was about three stories below us.

It was about then that we noticed the buzzards. They seemed to be circling the airport. Directly above our little car. And they were smiling. And putting out condiments.


*

Again, I'll spare you all the details. Just repeat the section about being stuck on the tarmac at Albuquerque. Except make it a little shorter. And there aren't any pilots or stewardi. Because the People Mover is automated. And that means there's no one to complain to…or to tell that you're stuck…which means that you wonder if anyone is ever going to notice that you're trapped and you'll end up eating each other...that is, if the buzzards referenced above don't get their first…

*


After a rather long time, the People Mover started, well, moving people again. We arrived at our station, scrambled out, and finally arrived at our gate. There, a charmingly snotty woman told us we were late, and that the plane had left a long time ago, and that since it hadn't been the airline's fault that we were delayed, she really didn't need to put us another plane…

It was then that I stopped pretending to have a psychotic episode and started working on having a real one. They told me later it was quite colorful. Literally. I turned green with purple polka dots and pink stripes. I couldn't say myself. I blacked out after growing the third eye and the second horn.

But it did get us on another plane.


*

Okay, long story short, we finally get home at about three in the morning. We drive home, fall into bed, and go to sleep.

Now, a sort time later, along comes Sunday morning and the day of the two graduations. Martha goes off to hers at Tufts and comes back a little after noon. We then get ready and head out to David's.

Further complication: David's school is downtown. We live in the 'burbs. This means that if we took the car, we'd have to drive in, find parking, pay for parking, and otherwise deal with a lot of difficulties. So, logically, we decided to "take the T."

The "T" is the Boston-area subway and transit system. It ranges from buses to full-fledged trains and is almost always…almost ALWAYS…quite reliable. The trains and buses and subway cars just keep on running…regularly as clockwork. Most of the time.

So, you know, of course, that there'd be NO problem with our taking the subway into town.

Right?

*

It is two hours later.

We are in a subway train. We are underground. We are not moving.

Martha has started rhythmically pounding her head into the window beside us. Which is a nice change. Before, she'd been pounding MY head into the window beside us.

Today, of all days, was the day that the T had an electrical problem.

A word of advice…should you travel…and should you travel with us…do not do so if the trip involves any kind of mechanical conveyance.

Unless, of course, you are the sort of individual who greatly enjoys IRS audits and/or rubbing your teeth on the sidewalk.


*

We finally get out at a station and charge upstairs. We are several stops short of where we want to be, but we figure that we'll never get to David's graduation if we stay on the train. "We'll get a cab," I say, cheerfully, doing my best to Maintain A Positive Attitude. And Be a Good Husband. And prevent Martha from slaughtering me where I stand. "We'll be there in no time."

Except…

Except…

To "get a cab" you have to first "find" a cab.

And on that particular day, every taxi in the greater Boston area, plus Brookline and associated communities, had recently invested in a Klingon cloaking device of the highest quality.

"We'll be there in no time," I say, again, while Martha sizes up available walls for potential head banging. Whether mine or hers, I leave to your imagination.

*

Finally…thank God!...we got a cab. Of course, I had to leap into traffic and drag it back to the curb with my teeth, but we got it.

Then, we're off. The chatty little driver told us all about traffic in Boston and how the streets are weird and the pedestrians are all nuts but, not to worry, he was a trained professional.

Oh, he added, and by the way, for our convenience, we could now pay for the trip with our credit card using the newly installed reader in the back of the cab.

We looked and, sure enough, there's a reader in place. And, since we may need cash to pay for dinner, I figured, what the heck? I'll use it.

We arrived at the theater where David's graduation was about to happen. I ran my card through the reader and…

"It's not going through," the driver said.

"What?" I said, as we 're about to bolt out the door.

"It's not going through." He pointed at a terminal he has in the front. It shows lines and numbers and arrows, all moving and twitching, but none of 'em going any place in particular.

"What does that mean?" I said.

"I don't know," he said. "They just installed this thing yesterday."

"Well," I said, "I'm sure it will go through in a minute, and we're in a terrible hurry, so…"

He looked at me. He didn't exactly snarl. It was more subtle than that. It was more your basic unspoken, non-verbal response which says, louder than words, "If you think you're going to stiff me for the fare when your d*man fake credit card doesn't work out, well, you're even stupider than you look. And that's saying something."

"Ah," I said. "Er," I added.

It seemed insightful.


*

"Okay," I say. "Martha, why you don't go in and watch the ceremony. I'll stay here and we'll work this out."

She looks at me for a half a moment, and then, uneasily, leaves the cab. I remain sitting there while the little terminal thing on the driver's dash blinks and flashes and makes cute little grinding noises. Sort of like the sound the Tin Woodman's head made when he was thinking very, very hard. Or maybe that was George W. Bush. Hard to tell. I get them mixed up all the time.

Just then, the driver looked up and says, "Oh." He hits something on the side the terminal. It goes "ca-chunk," and then, with a burp, prints out a receipt. "There you go,"

I stagger out into the sunlight. "Okay," I think. "We're home free." I head up the steps into the theater. In the lobby, I find myself confronting a nice lady with a frozen smile.

"Ticket," she says. "Please," she adds, after a second.

"Ticket?" I say.

"Ticket," she agrees.

"As in the little piece of paper that lets you get into the graduation?"

"Exactly,"

"As in the little piece of paper which is in my wife's purse and she's already inside?"

"Uh-huh,"

"Oh," I say, in a very small voice.


*


Just then, a miracle occurred.

The nice lady with the frozen smile was called aside by an usher with some problem or other. I was, therefore, able to sneak in. God will surely smite me for my transgression. But, heck, it was worth it. And what's a few decades in Purgatory between friends? I'm particularly looking forward to the boiling oil and hot pinchers. I understand they're very stimulating.

So, finally, after everything, I went up the top floor of the theater, and after a bit of searching, found Martha. We sat down and waited.

Then…


*

We heard his name.

And there…there!...he was.

He crossed the stage. He approached the podium. A man and woman greeted him. They gave him a single white flower…his school's version of a diploma. He took it. He turned. He faced the audience briefly. Did he see us? I don't know. But we saw him.

Oh, Lord, did we see him.

And then he walked across the stage and vanished into the wings.

Martha held my hand.

I held hers.

We did not move…for a very long time.


*

We met David afterwards and went for dinner at a Thai restaurant he knew—name of '"Chilli Duck," no less. Martha took a picture of him standing in front of the restaurant. It shows this astonishingly handsome young man, casually dressed, a flower in one hand.

Where did the little boy go? The one used to be?

Well, if I look hard enough, I can still see him. I always will be able to. It is the special talent of parents.


*

Afterwards, we went home. Magically and maddeningly, the trip was smooth as silk. The trains ran perfectly. The car started right away. There were no more delays. It was as though the tension had drained from the universe, and we were simply carried along with the current of things. We arrived at the house and, a little later, slept without dreams.

And that's pretty much the end of this story.

In a way, it is also the end of yet another, larger story—that is, the part of our life that spanned our son's education and very young manhood. He will always be with us. We will always be with him. He may go to graduate school. He may not. But, one way or another, these things will be different from what came before.

And we will be different…the three of us.

We will change, in little ways or big, but we will change.

I wonder who we will become.


*

Well…

I can't tell the future. I can't say what David will choose to become. I can't say when, or indeed, if I will get the full time teaching job. I can't say when Martha will or won't decide to leave her university. I can't say what my parents' future will be.

But there are some things I know will be true.

We will hold fast to one another. We will love one another. No matter what…no matter what the train…no matter where it carries us.

We will hold fast.

Forever.


*

Onward and upward.




Copyright © 2010 Michael Jay Tucker