Nobody Said Anything about Sisterly Love, I guess

Sunday. November 16.
So as I said, I got the call early, 5:20, in my hotel room about my mom from the ICU nurse. I was planning to get a flight out early anyway; I'd talked to her a few hours before about the news that mom's blood pressure and heart rate were dropping. But the nurse said she wouldn't last till I got there, that she only had a few minutes left. And so began this self-loathing like I'd never known. Because I wanted to be with her when she died, I should have been there, I shouldn't have been so selfish. So all the times I DID go to be with her were burned away and I was left only with the simple fact that I wasn't there.

I went outside the hotel and walked around, just as the sun was coming up, just as I'd done the morning my father died, walked outside the hospital and watched the sun come up.

Then I went online and found a slightly earlier flight. I saw no reason to take a flight from Philadelphia that went to Boston, then to Chicago before finally getting to Atlanta, even though it supposedly landed before the one I ultimately chose. And also: I didn't want to simply rush rush rush to hop on a flight, and for what, now?

So I packed and set out from the hotel about 11 am. I drove a bit aimlessly. Into Princeton's Sunday morning. It was foggy and still rainy. I took a few pictures. My flight wasn't until 4:55.

I'm always on the lookout for a nicely-dressed tree. I thought this little guy qualified for my Fall Collection.

Here's a picture from the night before. Ken and I ate pizza at Conte's (which is NOT downtown so don't look for it there haha) and then got coffee and walked around the university in the rain. Very nice evening.

I got to Philadelphia about 130 or so, when the sun was coming out from the dark clouds. I rode around for quite a while. Everything seemed very beautiful. I felt very alive.

I got to the airport early, turned in the rental car, rode the ubiquitous rental-car shuttle to the 'port, and realized I'd not eaten all day and was, thus, starved. I checked one bag, but had another bag plus my computer case, so I stuffed my purse into the other bag so I'd just have the two carry-on requirements. I stupidly stood in a long line to check my bag until I finally realized I could just walk up and give it to the Person at the Desk because I'd done the kiosk check-in. Just as I was gathering up and feeling stupid about being in the wrong line, and realizing I wasn't thinking clearly, since I'd been through the process dozens of times, the funeral home called and wondered when I wanted to meet. I told them 9 am the next morning, that I was in Philly at the momen, which meant I'd need to drive to AL when I landed, but hey, at least I was an hour plus closer than normal, being at the airport! So I'm on my way through the dingerdanglers and finally I'm faced with all sorts of eateries, none of which will be very good, of course, so I might as well just pick one at random. I chose "Villa: An Italian eatery." A plate of spaghetti, some garlic bread, and a coke later, I took a seat at the common eating area near the foodery. I noticed, as I was eating (an important detail to my story), that a guy was going around picking up stuff from tables.

Nota bene: I am not one to eschew bussing my table. I am not some diva who demands to be waited on hand and foot. This is another important detail. In fact, at times I've TRIED to bus when I shouldn't and have been often told, "Oh, no no, just leave your dishes on the table."

I swear to you every word of the following is true.

So I finish what I want to eat, leaving a bit of spaghetti and a half a garlic stick. I take my Coke with me. When I stand from my table, I scope out the trash cans, but they are rather far away. I realize that I will have to leave my personal items at the seat if I'm going to take the trash to the cans, and besides, the guy was coming around picking up items from the tables, right? So, ironically, I made a conscious, logical decision not to bus my table.

As in most airport common eating areas, the tables are REALLY close together, though, and I'm having trouble navigating with my bag, purse (which I'd removed from the bag to pay for food) and computer case while holding my Coke, and oh, I had a sack with a couple of small items I'd bought, souvenirs for Snap, (one a fridge magnet: "City of Brotherly Love"--lie!) and as I'm scooting past the last table, my computer case slides off my shoulder; when I bend down to get a better grip, I drop my sack and spill some of my coke just as I hear an employee of "Villa, An Italian Eatery" yell at me; she's beside the trashcans: "MAM! MAM! Come back here and bus yo table!!" The computer case slides off my shoulder again, my phone is ringing, and when I finally get everything carry-able, I assess the situation, looking from my table to the trashcans, and then say to myself, "Fuck it."

My gate, of course, is the last on the concourse. My gate is ALWAYS last. And that's fine.The Villa was about hmm 100 yards or so from my gate waiting area. Next to the waiting area, I stop to look at a sweatshirt that says "Philadelphia" on it. I'm admiring its uniqueness, both in design and color, though I don't need a sweatshirt at all. Someone behind me says, "Excuse me"; I turn around to see two security guards.

They say, "You didn't clean off your table."

I say, "Yes, I know I didn't, but I couldn't carry the trash to the cans without leaving my items at the table, and I'm not supposed to leave personal items unattended, right?"

They agree that I was indeed correct and then say they'll go with me back to the food area and watch my luggage while I bus my table.

Well, that wasn't exactly the point, was it?

I say, "Surely this is a joke?"

They assure me it is NO joking matter.

I ask, "How am I supposed to carry the trash AND my luggage? The girl who yelled at me saw me dropping everything! And I'm talking about THEN, not whether you'll watch it NOW. How am I to know there are security guards available to watch my stuff while I bus the table? I didn't see you around there."

They say they can't answer these questions but that I ABSOLUTELY MUST go back and clean off this table.

I say, "But......."

They say, "Look. Don't make us arrest you."

I say, "Are you KIDDING ME? Arrest me for WHAT?"

They say, "We know this might seem silly to you. But believe me. These people here at the airport all work together and they will have you pulled from your flight if you don't comply."

The thing foremost in my mind is that I'm not going to do anything really stupid or threatening to make them arrest me. The next thing after that is that I am not going back to clean off that table.

I can't explain it, but there was no way I could go back to that table and meekly clean it off. There was something just so humiliating about this whole thing. It was a battle of wills, sure, but it felt like more than that. It felt like everything caving in.

Then I said

and I HATE when people do this, I HATE it: using personal circumstances as an excuse for their behavior, but nonetheless, I said

"Look. My mom died this morning. Can you give me a break?"

One said, "Hey sorry to hear that, but you have to clean your table off."

And indeed, my mother's death had nothing to do with my cleaning off my table, true.

Then I began to cry. I'm in the middle of the concourse, and I want to find a place to sit down because I'm about to drop my stuff. The computer case is SOOO heavy. I head toward some seats, crying harder.

The security guys don't know WHAT to do with me. They're saying "You have to stay here. You can't leave." I say, "Leave??? I'm just going to sit down, okay??"

They keep saying "Look, please, just come clean this table off," and I just cry in response.

So I sit, and I don't just cry. I've never done this in public before, as an adult, at least.  But I bawl. I don't even try to hold it to a sniffle. And what's strange is....sure, I was too "inside" myself to really be totally aware of my surroundings....but I don't recall ANYONE even glancing my way or seeming the least bit interested.

So the securities say, "Okay, the girl was probably wrong to yell at you like that. Why don't you come back down and talk to her supervisor?" I say that there is no way I am going back down there and ask if they'd bring her down to me. They say no, she's too busy to get away.

Then I say,

"I'll pay you $20 if you will go clean that table off for me."

One said, "Hell yeah, I'll do it."

So I'm fishing bills out of my purse. I know I have a small wad of twenties, but all I can find in the side pocket are ones and fives. I gather together $18 and am smoothing it out when a skinny black woman walks up and says to the security guards, "What's going on? What is she buying?" She asks me what I'm buying. I say that I'm giving them twenty bucks to clean the table off for me. She says something to the sec guards I don't hear. Then asks me, "What is wrong with you? It's just a table! It's not a big deal!" because I'm still crying. I tell her my mother died this morning and I just want to get home.

Then the original gal who yelled at me (and apparently called security on me) is suddenly in my face. She throws the stuff I'd left on the table on the seat beside me. Spaghetti goes all over the back of the seat and on my pants. I look up at her with tears dripping off my chin, and she bends down from the waist and YELLS in my face, "I am NOT YOUR MAID and I will NOT CLEAN UP YOUR SHIT."

I just stare at her. I cannot say whether I said this out loud or whether the words were just so huge in my head: "You are a horrible person."

At that point the security guys pull her away from me, she's struggling a bit, and one gets her off onto the concourse and heads her back down toward "Villa, An Italian Eatery." The security guard that's still there says, "I'd put this mess in the trashcan over there if you want to get on your flight."

I did, and I did.

So I call up Mr. Button on the phone. I can barely talk, I'm crying so hard. He's incredulous. And livid. He's threatening to beat every ass in Philadelphia and its environs.
I move over to the waiting area by my gate, and I have those post-cry diaphragm spasms I've not had since I was a little kid.

Finally, my flight is called. I see my main security guy with the dreadlocks again at the ticket taker (you know how they slide your ticket through as you're about to board). I try to see his name tag but it's turned backwards.

I'm finally on the flight, and we take off. I'm next to some gal with a hurt foot that she has sticking out in the aisle as boarding is going on so naturally people step on her foot, and she screams loudly every time. It's apparently her first flight. She's on pins and needles the entire time. I'm so beat that before the flight leaves the ground my head snaps back, and I awaken myself with a big SNXXXKX snore. I resolve to try to keep from making noise and raising more hell. When the landing gear comes down above Atlanta, my neighbor deathgrips the arms of the seat and yells, "WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"

"No, really," she says to me. "What was it??"

I say, "It's the landing gear coming down. It's a GOOD thing to hear."

Oh, she says. When the plane hits the runway, she screams again.

So I'm finally out going to my car looking for my parking ticket that I put SOMEWHERE. . . what seemed like ages ago. I went through every bag and piece of luggage only to find it where I thought I'd put it in the first place, but had missed it: in my purrse.
I'm on my way to Alabama around 8:30 pm. But I can't make it, I just cannot, and I get a hotel room north of Birmingham and make it to the funeral home the next morning at 5 till 9.

And that's that day.