anticipation

I have a friend, Allison—who coincidentally happens to be a lovely, charming, genuine, classy and forthright lady—living in North Dakota. One day in mid-November she sent me a message out of left field: "So...if I were to come visit where should I fly into?" You may imagine that I was somewhat...enthused to receive this message. I hadn't seen Alli in two years. She was a very dear friend...and, as I've mentioned, a lovely, charming, genuine, classy and forthright lady. Man, I was pumped. In a few days, Allison had secured permission from her employers (she works at a camp, hiring new counselors, writing up new literature, creating presentational materials, and, most importantly, doing fun stuff with kids; she also subs in school classes). She bought a ticket for McCarran International on the 13th of December, and the countdown began. I was on tenterhooks. You'd best believe it. It's disgraceful—I'm a 23-year-old man, for Pete's sake—but one thing the history of the world has amply demonstrated is that grown men do not necessarily act as such. As Douglas Adams wrote, "Grown men, he told himself, in contradiction of centuries of accumulated evidence about the way grown men behave, did not behave like this." I couldn't wait. I was finally receiving an extended visit after months of relative isolation. And, furthermore, my visitor was lovely, charming, genuine...well, you know the rest. The days dragged by. Thanksgiving came and went, and finally December rolled around. I busied myself with bartender's school and flying (knocking off cream drinks and instrument flight, respectively), all the while trying not to explode with impatience. And then...the big day arrived. December 13, 2009. I rose semi-early, made sure I had a jacket and my accoutrements about me, got in the Jeep and headed off. I stopped to get some gas in Lucerne Valley first. Big mistake. Being such a tiny town, gas is insanely expensive. Then I went up the 247, finished gassing up in Barstow where it's a lot friggin' cheaper, got on the 15, and had an uneventful trip to Las Vegas and McCarran International Airport. My heart didn't really start to pound until I got out of the car. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I didn't have change for the parking meter, and couldn't find the change machines. So I exchanged three bucks with a couple of old guys who were on their way out, pumped in two hours' worth of quarters, then moseyed toward the terminal entrance. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I'd taken the time to familiarize myself with the layout of the terminal beforehand. I knew the orientation of each baggage carousel. At a glance, I was able to determine the one Allison's flight would be employing: Carousel 10, on the west side. There was nothing left but to wait. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I was early. That's how I am. I equate being "on time" with being "late." If you have an appointment at 11:00, and you show up at 11:01, you're late. If you show up at 11:00, you're late. If you show up at 10:59, you're late. It's unacceptable to be anything less than 5-10 minutes early. Preferably more. Allison's flight didn't get in until 12:30 p.m.; I had arrived at 11:45 a.m. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I went upstairs, in the direction of the security checkpoint, to ascertain which direction Allison would approach from when she debarked. I then went back down to baggage claim, placed myself squarely between Carousel 10 and the escalators descending from Level 2, and settled in. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] It was loud. It was Sunday, sure, and the crowd could not rightly be labeled massive. But in addition to the never-ending murmur of voices, there was the incessant blare of advertising. The Venetian, already playing host to Blue Man Group (for which Allison and I had reserved tickets on the 17th), was advertising its smash-hit show Phantom, based on the well-known Phantom of the Opera. And they were advertising it stridently. Same thing with Planet Hollywood's Peepshow, Cirque du Soleil's Mystère (at the Bellagio), and so forth. These ads were playing on giant screens hung over the baggage claim area, and echoing up and down the lengthy chamber in chorus. Then...it was time. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] I wasn't merely nervous about meeting a girl in an airport. That was a whole 'nuther kettle of fish. I was just nervous about meeting somebody, period. I always am, for reasons similar to the ones surrounding my über-punctuality: the what-ifs. What-ifs come swarming over the walls and attack, and I inexorably panic. What if we don't meet up? What if we can't find each other? What if we miss each other in the crowd? What if every cell phone tower within a hundred miles goes out simultaneously? What'll we DO??? [Thud-thud, thud-thud.] As people began to drift into the area, I stood up and faced east, from whence they came. I searched every face, my hands fiddling about behind my back. I attempted to maintain a confident, masculine sort of posture, with all these worries wandering through my head and my heart pounding away ever faster in my chest. [THUD-THUD, THUD-THUD.] After a time, I figured she must've been near the back of the plane. People from Flight 415 had been streaming by for twenty minutes already. That unreasoning, irrational panic began to well up. The what-ifs raised their banners and charged. What if I screwed up her flight information? What if this really isn't her flight at all? What if I'm at the wrong carousel? What if I'm at the WRONG AIRPORT?! And suddenly, there she was. [Ka-POW!!!] And suddenly everything was all golden sunshine. Whew, I wasn't at the wrong airport. Our faces lit up as our eyes met. I opened my mouth and said, "You know, up until this point, I wasn't even aware that Bismarck had an airport." Alli and I exchanged greetings, hugged, retrieved her luggage, and walked out to the car. My heart had slowed down a little, going from a high boil to a slow simmer. I had a visitor. The meter still said 56:00 as we clambered into my Cherokee and pulled out of the parking lot. I managed to avoid doing anything too undignified. I messed up a little getting back to I-15 from McCarran, but that could've happened to anybody. (Later, you'll read about a real automotive mishap, a red-face special.) And then we were on the road, whirring down the wide highway in the warm sunshine, Allison's flowery scent filling the car, meeting accomplished and visitation commenced. We caught up during the three-hour drive back, getting reacquainted and reminding each other what we were like. It had been two years, and the two of us had been around a bit since then. Alli was even nicer and prettier than I'd remembered. The rest of this trip was shaping up fine. As we drove, I pointed out the sights and scenery that I knew anything about, all the while asking Allison how her job was going and her life in general. She filled me in on how things were going, made small talk, laughed, and was generally scintillating. It was delightful. Just hearing her voice, being in the same car with her, talking to her face-to-face was magical. I began to realize just how long it had been since we'd seen each other. Too long. We got home safely, without delay. After the introductions were made, I helped Allison get settled in my room. Pop cooked some Brunswick stew for dinner and we had a lovely meal for five in the dining room. I was amazed and pleased by how free and easy Allison behaved: here she was, in a strange house with a strange family in a state she'd only visited once, and she was fitting right in. Such a situation would and routinely does terrify me. Alli, however, wasn't shy or withdrawn at all. Au contraire, she was witty, conversational, and outgoing. Things couldn't have gone better. I went to bed that night (on a cot in the living room) with the keenest sense of anticipation. For on the morrow, the grand vacation would begin. [Thud-thud, thud-thud.]