elwood

And the glory rolls on For personal reasons, I had to catch a flight to Lubbock two weeks ago. For any of you unfamiliar with the asshole of the world that is Lubbock Texas, imagine an entirely flat land three thousand feet above sea level, constantly windy, surrounded by stock yards and pig farms, predominantly inhabited by racist dirt farmers and the most pathetically clichd frat fucks and sorority girlsessentially, this is where republicans send there Hitler youth to learn the ways of the willfully ignorant, securing a future of blind allegiance to the "american way." My six year stint in this shithole is largely responsible for my ridiculous bitterness, distrust, and these goddamn dreadlocks. I had not been back since getting my shit out of storage and finally moving to Austin four and a half years ago.

Driving my rental car through the dusty streets, I felt no feelings of fond reminiscence, only disgust with my surroundings and loathing for the time spent trapped in the west Texas tundra in pursuit of a degree I have yet to even use. The only saving grace was that I did manage to smuggle back two calzones from One Guy From Italy's pizza joint across from campus. One Guy's has, to this day, the best calzone I have ever eatenanywhere. For some reason, that windy little podunk has some of the most amazing food in the world. I used to be treated like family at a Thai dive called Choo Chai on 19th, and it kicks the livin' shit out of Madam Mam's, Sawadee (sorry Marylou), and Thai Kitchen here in Austin, but, alas they were closed on Sunday, and we ended up at a slightly classed up steak-and-ale joint called Harrigan's (who does have an incredible fresh black rye they serve as an appetizer and some kick ass potato casserole). Lest I forget, the west Texas staple of drive through Mexican food, Taco Villaalways pronounced in the gringo vernacular of vil-Uh. So, basically, I spent a weekend eating the same shit that made me the fat kid in elementary and junior high and got me through many a hangover in college.

I had called ahead to Southwest Airlines to verify that I could get away with a carry-on packed with two giant pizza-pockets. They said it would be fine, but I still had my doubts, so I made sure to present the quandary to the gate keepers upon arrival at the airport prior to sending them through the x-ray. The question was met with a smart ass remark about the calzone being fine, but the sauce would have to come out, and I went with the obvious retort, asking the surly (and quite bored) young man instructing the usage of plastic trays in which you place the contents of your pockets and your shoes, should they see fit to examine them if he would care to suck it out for me. I stood there discussing calzones (some lady had come through with seven earlier that same day) and my hair and the general reactions I had received while living in the south plains/Permian basin regions.

I had shown up fashionably late for the flight out, so I already knew I would be in the last boarding group, and, therefore, made no effort to corral myself in with the rest of the herd eagerly awaiting their escape from the Llano Estacado. I took a seat, instead, at the airport bar, where you can still smoke, and you have your choice of Bud Light, Miller Lite, or Heineken. I, of course, ordered a Guinness.

So, I'm drinking my Bud Light, and there is this pink haired girl at the end of the bar conversing nervously, with anyone who will listen, about her irrational fear of flying. Through her rambling, I discern that she has a daughter and lives in San Antonio, where she has to drive back once we reach Austin. They call for our flight, and I stand at the end of an amass of people making small talk with this rather adorable young lady. She is in boarding group A, as opposed to my C, and said she'd be toward the back and was taking the window, which I found to be a strange choice for someone so fearful of flight.

As line C made its way toward the odd acoustic resonance of the accordioned walkway, I allowed a middle aged man to cut in line before me. This rather jolly fellow reminded me instantly of the fumbling father character on the irritating Urkel sitcom, Family Matters, and he had been rejected in his attempt to board with group B against the pre-ordained boarding specification indicated by the iron-clad, inalterable, non-negotiable C atop his boarding pass. I felt a bit of pity for the poor guy, and I was in no hurry, as I had someone holing a seat for me, and through the gate we went.

The flight was full (apparently no one is willing to stay in Lubbock once a semester ends), and the attendant instructed everyone to fill in what ever empty seat might be available. I see pink hair in the back, against a window, and there is still an isle seat in her row, so I head toward the back with "Carl Winslow" sill in front of me, and the son of a bitch steals my seat. There is another isle seat directly in front of that one, and I take it, shrugging with a smile to the object of my failed pursuit.

Before the flight, I pass her a note awkwardly over the shoulder of the lady beside me. It read something along the lines of "Still the safest way to travel. Just think like a bird." To which she exclaimed, to the confusion of anyone within earshot, "No! Birds get hit by cars." I'm not about to carry on a conversation over the heads of the people between us, so I sit down and listen to the latest Tom Waits release and await take off.

This has been a rather stressful weekend, so, when the attendant arrived, I had already decided to find out what my alcoholic options might be. Now, I am a man who often enjoys a quality single malt, and tend to be fairly picky about it, but I decided to opt for a Dewers, as it was the closest thing to a real scotch they had. I also told the attendant to charge me for whatever the young lady with the pink hair might care to drink. She ordered a beer and thanked me. A few minutes later, my Tom Waitsing was interrupted by the steward with a glass of that salty blended crap of a scotch, courtesy of my new pink haired friend.

We're passing notes back and forth, and I apologize to the woman seated beside me, but she says she thinks it's cute and to keep going. I ask Lynn (By this time, we had finally exchanged names) if she would join me for another drink when we get to Austin. She writes that she still has the drive back to San Antonio, and suggests that she orders another and we would have a toast on the plane. Again, my listening pleasure is disturbed when the sky-waiter tells me Lynn had bought me another one. He asked if I was driving after the flight, to which I pointed out the still half full drink in my hand and said "Yeah, but there's no way I'm going to finish this nasty shit, anyway." Keep in mind that this entire flight, from take off to landing is only an hour and ten minutes, so I dump the new glass in with the old, and toast this young lady with a filled-to-the-rim glass of Dewers and try to sip at least some down so that she's not wasting her money.

As soon as we're on the ground and the seatbelt sign is off, I head straight to the toilet to dump that crap and take a piss. We chat while everyone is slowly filing off, and I convince her to have one more with me at the airport bar.

I order a Guinness. They're out.

So, we're drinking our Bud Lights, and I find out her daughter is twelve, she is thirty-one (which means I was way off), her first husband beat her, her current husband (I assumed separated) had been cheating on her, and she had an adorable but slightly devious smile. When the drinks are done, I get up to pay the tab, and she seems adamant about getting down to baggage claim immediately. In slight confusion, I write down my number and email on a piece of paper at the bar, and head down to baggage claim for a proper goodbye. I see pink at the conveyor belt and walk that way. As she turns around to leave the airport, she gives me a startled hello and a half wave. She had neglected to mention that her husband was picking her up at the airport, and he was walking right beside her, carrying her bags. I slip the paper into her hand and keep walking, laughing to myself that the only women remotely interested in a guy with dreadlocks down to his ass have serious issues.

I find my truck amongst the sea of long term parking, and head home to surprise the hometown friend who's been house/dog-sitting with the world's greatest calzone. And, from my own fridge, I finally got my Guinness.