Three years ago, my parents dropped me off at the Albany airport after a week-long family reunion in the Adirondacks. I was flying back alone, since my wife had left earlier in the week to keep the clinic open during the “back to school” season. I had a wonderful time with my family, but had spent a week without the Internet, so I was very excited to catch up on a dungeons and dragons podcast (I know!).  As soon as I cleared security, I put my noise canceling headphones in, while I waited for the boarding announcements for my flight. I’m the kind of person who arrives at the airport very early for flights.  While I was wandering the gate area, I noticed that another early-bird was flying with a cello, and his ticket was out, while he napped.  It said boarding group H — same as mine. I took a nice comfortable seat in view of the gate since I knew it would be a while. 

The podcast got dramatic as I watched Gate Lady get on her microphone.  People formed lines and boarded in my eyes, while the heroes fought their enemy in my ears. Gate Lady kept going to her microphone, but never called for Group H, and I watched the cello, and it’s owner lay there, on the ground by the wall. After a while, after the passenger stream turned into a trickle. Gate Lady turned around and closed the big door and opened her phone and clearly started surfing Facebook or Twitter or Instagram or something. I said to myself “it’s weird that she’s taking a break before this plane is totally boarded.” Then it hit me that it was time to turn off my podcast and get off my ass.

When I spoke to Gate Lady I said, “I noticed you closed the door.  Does that mean that the plane is done boarding?”  

She looked at me with an exasperated look and said “Yes.” 

I said “I’m supposed to be on that plane, but you never called my boarding group.”

She said “Are you Mr. Glynn?”

My heart started to pound even faster than it already was as I disappointedly said “yes.” She said “I’ve been calling your name for the last 15 minutes.”

 I replied “But I had my headphones on.” (I wonder what would have happened if I’d said “I was listening to a D&D podcast)

She started to tense up like the next thing she expected me to get hostile, so I said “Oh this is definitely my fault. There’s no doubt about that. Can you help me fix my mistake, or do I go somewhere else?”

Her next words were like angelic singing: she said “Let me see what I can do”, as she walked away with my ticket. While I stood at the desk, waiting for her to return from the help the idiots department, a sleepy, frantic young man carrying a cello came up to me and said “Oh my god did the plane leave? I fell asleep!“ 

I said “Yeah man, we’re both screwed.”

A number of minutes later she came back. “Mr. Glynn, I’ve got you on a flight to Chicago with a connection to Austin [my destination]. It’s the next gate over and it was delayed, so it’s boarding right now” 

After an effusive thank you, I asked “How fast am I gonna have to sprint through O’Hare to make my flight?”

“It’s a 90 minute layover. “(This will become important in a moment).

Interesting aside, this was the day I learned that musicians flying with cellos need to buy two seats, because you would never put your musical instrument in Luggage, and it doesn’t fit anywhere else on the plane. Anyway, the cello guy and I both got on the flight from Albany to Chicago, I never saw him again.

When we landed in Chicago, and I knew I had about 90 minutes, which was enough time to get some food, I decided to walk between the two terminals rather than take the mini train, so I could get my step count up. At O’Hare, the terminal connections are underground tunnels. The entire missed flight debacle happened so fast I never had a chance to call Michele before I got on a plane. I finally got a chance to call my wife and tell her my ridiculous story. As I was spinning the tale I reached the end of the walkway and decided to skip the escalator and further stretch my legs by taking the stairs. I hung up with Michele. When I got to the top of the stairs I saw a sign that said “Now Exiting Terminal.” I took two steps past the sign as the words sunk in, and I whipped around to notice the TSA agent next to the sign hold up his hand.. 

“Did I just leave the airport?” 

“Yes.”

“So I have to go through security again?”

“Yes, and it’s very busy today.” 

“Thank you” I said, as I took off at a sprint.

To once again demonstrate how ridiculously good my luck is, I got through security at one of the world’s busiest airports and made my connection. The flight from Chicago had a tail wind and I wound up getting home less than 45 minutes after my itinerary, despite my double fuck-up.  Since my bag had boarded the original plane in Albany, it was already waiting for me at the baggage claim. I walked in, grabbed it, and walked out before anyone else on the Chicago flight had seen their first piece of luggage.