The phone rang while it was still dark outside. I ran to answer it, and heard Matt:
“You awake?”
“Yeah.”
“Sure, I’m outside”
I thought he was crazy, but my phone said 6 am, just as we had planned. I should have been ready to go. All I had to do was change clothes, but the hard part was convincing Raina, who had just come home from work 4 hours earlier, to wake up and take us to the airport. Luckily, she was too groggy to really argue. As we were about to leave, Matt asked if I knew which airline we were on, which confirmed my suspicions about his level of planning for the trip.
Raina dropped us at the US Air terminal, and Matt thanked her as we got out. Her reply, “You’re not welcome.” I think she was starting to wake up. We went inside to find a huge line. and most of the E-checkin machines were out of order, so we tried the curbside checkin. The line was still long, but better than inside. However, as we queued up, the agent made an announcement about not being able to check in the 7 am flight to Charlotte. With a curse we joined the hours-long line inside. It was 6:20.
I’ve never missed a flight in my life, and that record owes much to the people who walk through the giant check-in lines, ask what time your flight is, and send you to the front, further screwing everyone who got there at a reasonable time. Just like always, the airline angel swooped in just in time and sent us to the first-class checkin, where there was a solitary E-checkin computer. We used it and bolted for security and our gate. Even had time to pick up an orange juice before boarding.
The first flight was the long one, but I thought I lucked out by scoring an exit row seat with lots of legroom, but I had forgotten that those seats don’t recline, making sleep near impossible. Worst of all was the complete lack of bottom cushion padding, but this was apparently endemic to the whole plane. Our sore asses arrived in Charlotte with plenty of time to catch the connection to JAX, so we checked out the news stand. With a fresh European Car magazine in hand, we moved to the gate and compared tickets. I began explaining to Matt that the boarding Zone is solely based on seat position, with the back rows boarded first, when he pointed out that my ticket was for Zone 4 and his adjacent ticket was for Zone 2. As i sputtered for an explanation, they announced Zone 2 boarding. There went my plan to slip into the window seat and leave Matt with the middle to elbow-joust with a stranger.
Maybe because it was his stupid trip, or maybe he had already realized that the flight was nearly empty, but when zone 4 finally boarded, Matt ushered me into the window seat. As I stowed my backpack, he asked what I had brought. I told him a laptop, a GPS antenna, and a pair of sunglasses. He noted that he had brought the same things and I probably could have gone without a bag, but I had felt like I needed one. Who travels by air with just a wallet and a cell phone? It would’ve looked weird.
As we taxied to the terminal in Jacksonville, we started to plan for all the terrible things that could befall us in the coming hour. I made Matt show me the claim ticket for the parking lot where the Supra had spent the entire spring. It was some sort of photocopy, with the ticket number written in pen. I gulped. He called the number on the back and asked to be picked up at the terminal. He gave the months-old hand-written number, which didn’t seem to cause any consternation on the other end of the line. Maybe this would work out. However, I still had my concerns that the car had long since been dismantled, and they were sending a car to kill us for inquiring about it. I resolved that if the shuttle didn’t look legit, I’d go back inside and book a flight to Detroit.
A white van with cheap magnetic signs identifying it as the Park N Fly shuttle screeched to a halt in front of us, and an older tweed-coat chap posing a businessman jumped in. Matt followed. My split-second assessment was that if they were going to kill us, they would’ve sent a car. With a trunk.
The extended-parking area of Jacksonville consists of a single road lined with lots, the quality of which diminishes with distance from the terminal. We passed the manicured palm trees, and began to see signs extolling, “Paved”. I think I visibly blanched as we pulled into a business that was clearly more chop shop than parking facility. However, this wasn’t the Pank N Fly. Our companion jumped out and the van continued down the road. We pulled into what appeared to be a mobile homestead with cars parked in the yard to keep the weeds down. Matt’s Supra was out front getting an improbable car wash. The driver surveyed us in the mirror, and asked, “Is that your car? That thing’s been here forever.” How would the shuttle driver know that?
He dropped us at the trailer, and we entered the most spartan office imaginable. The key room was wide open, and we could’ve had any key there, but I think Matt’s 20 year old Supra was the best. The gentle man who had ben washing the car joined us and gave Matt the total- $320. I expected a confrontation, but this was somewhat less than he had expected so he handed over his credit card without a sound. We asked if it had started by itself or had required umpers, and the man proudly told us he starts every car once a month, and it didn’t have any trouble. Our suspicion is that he had been driving it home every night.
Once in the car, the first order of business was to make sure the air conditioning worked. Check.