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10/06/2005: "Fredericton Follies"
Great to see so many friends. Shouts out to Dave (who had a runny nose, which, I suspect is a symptom of a raging case of chicken fever), Nancy, Shannon, Boobie Tassels Troy, Mark, Ross, Erin, Len (sorry I didn’t get to see Sue), and meeting new people like Lauren Davis, Catherine Bush, Rebecca, Heather, Paula, James, and others.
Got in late Monday, met by Mark Jarman at the airport. Headed to the bar for a few Burns Scottish ales, then back to Mark’s for a few Propellers—this, for those who don’t know, is a local New Brunswick beer; Mark and I weren’t giving each other drunken helicopter spins. Spent the next day recovering. Found Dave’s office after a long search; Dave the salaryman—who would’ve believed it? Hung out at the Grad bar for a bit, then dinner downtown, then the reading. A nice little crowd. Read a bit from Rust and Bone, then took too long answering a boxing-related question. Then after back to the Grad bar for reminiscing and whatnot. A good time, and great to see everyone again.
The bad part—my trying to get BACK here to Iowa City—I will chronicle below. An example of the “anything that CAN go wrong, WILL go wrong” sort of day I thought only existed in movies.
Read on if you’re having a bad day. Or if you're having a good day but love to revel in the misfortune of others. Or if you’re simply curious.
Okay, so I wake up yesterday, get showered and dressed, then dress for the flight. I’ve got about 20 minutes to spare before I realize it—my passport’s nowhere to be found.
I TEAR the room APART. It’s gradual: La-de-dee, I’m sure it’s around here somewhere switches to Well well well this is odd switches quickly to What the hell’s going on here? switches to I’m doomed! Utterly doomed! I’m flipping the mattresses, I’m yanking the dresser out, I’m practically shoving my hand down the toilet. I’m thinking I’m not getting back into the US, no way, I’m screwed. I call down to the front desk—nope, nobody’s seen it. I pull a Joe Friday on the maid: nope, she hasn’t seen it.
Now I’m pretty much in meltdown mode. It’s 9:45 am. My plane leaves at 11. I catch a cab to the airport. I’ve got my Alberta driver’s license and some bank/credit cards. They let me on the Fredericton-Toronto flight with my license. The ticket agent doesn’t like my chances about getting into the US and neither do I.
I fly to TO. I’m crafting in my head scenarios that might weasel me into the US. I get up to the Customs guy, tell him I lost my passport. He shakes his head, looks at my meager ID, steers me through another door.
The world on the other side of this door is like another planet. It’s where all the suspicious customers are routed. They scan my fingers, they take a mugshot. I take a seat beside some sketchy-looking fellow who looks like he’s growing marijuana in the thick nest of his beard.
While I’m waiting these three dudes walk in and I’m not kidding: I thought they were Satanists. I know it’s terribly ignorant, probably blasphemous to say because they’re surely members of some legit holy order I don’t know about—but holy shit! They were all dressed in these black cloaks, a trio of grim reapers, and they had these black cowls over their heads. They all had wicked long fingernails and these giant gold necklaces on: like, baubles the size of hood ornaments. Holy bling. The oldest guy was carrying this big bejewelled staff like Gandalf or something. They looked like dudes who took their Dungeons and Dragons role-playing a little too seriously. The customs guy was grilling them, giving them a good working over. The old guy with the staff was getting a bit riled up. I was pretty certain he would mutter an incantation and Satan himself would show up, fry the Customs guard’s eyes from his sockets, then the three weird dudes would turn into bats and flap out the window.
Anyway, they were processed. Me, not so quick. Turns out the Montana border station processed my visa wrong, so I was listed as a visitor instead of a temporary resident. The guard asked me what I was doing, I said I was a writer. He asked if I had a book. I gave him the copy in my bag and he took a leaf through and when I said he could keep it—blatant, I know—he frowned and said it was against policy. Anyway, he ended up letting me in under the purposes I was here to promote my book, but he said I needed to redo my visa stuff or I’d be turfed out of the US on my ear.
So an hour later I was off. Missed my connection. No surprise. It was 4 p.m. They booked me on another Chicago flight. This took AN HOUR. Some computer fuckup. While they’re redoing my ticket at the next scheduled flight—to Newark—was cancelled. So I’m sitting there amid a pack of pissed-off travelers screaming at the harried ticket agents. Everyone’s pushing and shoving to shout at the agents, and I see two guys—the most abrasive man I’ve ever seen, a Bostonian, and a reserved little man traveling to Lisbon—almost get into a fight.
“I was in line first,” the Boston dude said. “I’m first, cowboy.” He kept calling the little Lisbon guy “cowboy.” “Step back, cowboy. I’m first. Step away, cowboy.”
By this point I’m sort of hoping they fight. The whole day has achieved a sense of the surreal: the strange new dimension has opened up, this weird Twilight Zone dimension, and I’ve been sucked in.
Two hours later I’m on a plane to Chicago. We touch down and I wander through O’Hare, find the connecting flight to Cedar Rapids. The ticket agent—surprise, surprise—tells me I’m not on the flight. She books me on the next flight, at 10pm.
I wander around O’Hare, dazed. It’s jam-packed; I want to find a quiet corner, but there are none. I think about heading to one of the bars and getting shitfaced but I lack the ambition even for that sort of self-defeating action. The sky turns dark through the huge windows overlooking the airfield. It’s just lights—yellow, red, green lights—blinking out there as the huge planes taxi into their bays.
I get into Cedar Rapids at 11. It’s raining like hell. We all wait by the luggage carousel. In time I’m the last on left. The carousel shuts off. No bag. I’m not at all surprised. I almost didn’t want it to be there, didn’t want a single ray of light to penetrate the day. I head to the info desk, fill out a baggage claim form.
It’s raining in the parking lot. I’m wearing ripped jeans and a golf shirt. I’m freezing, but I refuse to run to my car. At least I don’t have a bag to weight me down. I walk very slowly in the frigid cold. I’m shivering like a bastard. By now I am muttering to myself. “Yes,” I’m saying to myself. “Yes, JUST like THAT. Alright. Groovy. This is wonderful. I love it. I love it I love it I love it.” I look like a fucking lunatic, I’m sure, shivering a talking to myself as I search the long-term lot for my car, but it’s late the lot’s deserted so nobody sees.
My teeth are chattering by the time I find my car. As I slide the key into the ignition, for some perverse reason I almost hope it doesn’t start. The day’s been rotten, but it could be worse. This would be a novel capper. I look at it like the last shot of a movie: the dumb fucking schlub, all wet, teeth chattering, turning the key in his car that won’t start in a deserted airport parking lot in Cedar Rapids. The camera pans back and up, back and away, leaving the guy there turning the key, turning the fucking key.
I remember sitting there thinking wether I do it to myself. I wondered wether some deep self-destructive tendency lurked inside me, below conscious thought. I wondered if sometime the night before I’d gotten up, sleepwalker-style, taken my passport off the dresser, shredded it into pieces and flushed it down the toilet—just so I’d have to live through all the ensuing bullshit. I wondered why the hell I might do that, but I could come to no reasonable conclusion.
The car started.
I drove home. I got in the door at midnight.
Looking back, I’m so heartened by the little acts of kindness along the way. The Customs guard bending the rules to let me through. The Air Canada ticketers getting me on that flight despite the crazy Newark-ians all around them. There was a lot of kindness extended towards me, and I’m grateful. Good karma for those folks.
Someone delivered my luggage this morning. I can give myself a long-overdue shave, bush the fuzz off my teeth. It’s a new day. A good day.
But the irony of the situation is this:
I went to Fredericton, I went through all of it, to try to get some notice for my book. I mean, it was great seeing everyone, but in the end the intent was to promote the book. Penguin laid out to get me there, and I appreciate it.
The wicked irony is:
To my knowledge, I didn’t sell one book.
The whole trip, all the nuttiness of it, didn’t result in a single sale.
Shits and giggles, baby.
It’s swell being a writer.
—Craig.