FourBux

Chaos theory in real life. Mine.

Since this turned out to be a long post, here’s the Cliff notes: bought a watch while traveling, overly helpful sales person sets it to my home city time, screws up my day and I miss my plane. Really is worth a read:

So while I was in Chicago on business, on the day before my return flight, I was taking spending my free time along the Magnificent Mile - Michigan Avenue. Which, may be magnificent to a lot of people, but when one lives in close proximity to Scottsdale, AZ, which is really one big expensive shopping mall, there was nothing really worth seeing. I ducked into the Northridge Mall to get out of the wind, and just wandered until I came across a Swatch store. I didn’t even know they were still making these things - I hadn’t seen them since the 80’s. Even the ones I’d seen people wearing recently I thought they were vintage. Not so!

Well, on an impulse I bought one. Simple, black and aluminum, nothing like the lime green and checkerboard one I had in junior high, and yet much more expensive than I remember. Anyway, shooting the bull with the clerk, he found out I was from Phoenix, and in what turned out to be the tipping point, he set the watch to Phoenix time, unbeknownst to me. I paid for the watch, put in in my bag, and left. Last night, when I got back to my hotel, I packed my luggage and put my old watch in my suitcase.

This morning, I slept in, since I was already packed, got dressed and put on my new watch, went downstairs and left my luggage with the doormen and went out to explore the city a little more. I took a walk down the road and had coffee and a donut with the locals at Dunkin’ Donuts (what is with this place and the entire eastern half of the country?), and then walked around the park for a few minutes before remembering the Cubs were playing this afternoon…according to my new watch, they hadn’t yet taken the field for their 12:30 game. I thought I could get up there in time to get a cheap ticket, catch a few innings at the famous Wrigley Field, and get back her and take the train to the airport - how could I not catch a Cubs game in Chicago?

Since I was a ways off from the bus routes I knew took me to the stadium, it took me longer than expected to get there, but, according to my watch, I’d only missed about the first half-hour. No biggie, but the ticket windows were closed. Now I’ve never seen that, even if the game was sold out - there’s usually somebody in there to say “Sorry, bub, should have gotten here earlier.” Nothing. Windows closed up tight, not getting in. Oh well - I was there, and from the sounds of the crowd, it was a great game. Turns out that the Cubs won 5-3.

I walked around the stadium for a while, snapping pictures, grabbing a soda from a street vendor (I really wanted a hot dog, but these dogs looked questionable, even by street vendor standards, so I bought the one thing he didn’t have to prepare). I took the long way back to Lakeshore Drive, wandering in and out of the neighborhoods until it stared to sprinkle on me. Not wanting to get my laptop wet, I jumped on the next bus that passed me, and when I got down close to my hotel I stopped at a little sandwich place I wanted to try. Sitting there, at what I thought was 1:15PM, I couldn’t figure out why the restaurant was so dead. Every time I’d been past here the place was hopping, which is why I never went in. Halfway through my sandwich (which was excellent, thank you) my cell phone buzzed on the table, letting me know I missed a call while I was ordering lunch. I picked it up and it was my mom who had called a few minutes earlier.

The phone said she had called at 3:12PM. WTF? A call from the future? It sank in slowly…then with that oh-crap-my-alarm-didn’t-go-off expletive, I grabbed my lunch, coat and phone, and ran. See, my flight was supposed to leave at 4:40PM, and here it was now a quarter after three and I have an hour trip to the airport - best case scenario is I get there and beg and they let me on the plane. However, since this is my life, I am several blocks from the hotel where my luggage is being held, so I run back, throw my claim check at the doorman, and ask the other guys what the quickest bus is to catch the blue line train to the airport: was it the 65 or the 66? “Nah, the one you want is the 29. That’s the fastest.”

Now, just three days ago, I dropped my wife at the airport, and I took the 65 to the train, so I know that one worked, but hey, he’s local, he knows better than I do. They all pick up from the same stop down the block, so I decide I’ll hop the first one that comes by, which is indeed the 29. Dragging my 150LB suitcase (US Airways weighed it for me - thank you very much) onto the bus, I ask the driver if he does indeed connect with the Blue Line “Yep, right at the mumble mumble…..” Uh, what? Since I’m blocking the door I just sit down to get out of the way, thinking I’ll hear the stop and recognize it when it’s announced, so no big deal. First intersection we get to, we turn south into down town. Listening to the stops, nothing sounds similar to what the driver told me, but we’re passing all kinds of Red Line stations, so maybe that next one, no, okay, next one?

After 15 minutes of riding the wrong direction, I finally drag my crap back up to the driver and ask him if we’re getting close to the Blue Line transfer. His response: “What? You’re still here? Your last transfer was 5 stops back!” Perfect. Just what you want to hear when you’re late for a plane. Graciously he stops the bus where we were, in the middle of the intersection, and lets me hop off. I drag my bag across traffic to the curb and begin to hoof it, and it’s not long before I realize I’m in Chicago’s south side, which may or may not be safe, but right now, I’m the only person out here dragging noisy luggage up the block, so I’m attracting a lot of attention. Five blocks later, I come to another bus stop, but don’t see a subway access point. Starting to really worry about missing my flight, or my luggage, for that matter, I decide to maybe cross the street and get on a northbound bus, since I at least know my way around up there. Turning around to cross, I see what appears to be a phone booth, but at the top it states “Wheelchair access to Blue Line” - an elevator! Thinking this is my salvation, I jump inside and go down, and when it opens, there’s nothing - just a long dimly-lit hallway that looks to be about 50 yards deep, which coats me with a complimentary urine scent, not unlike the woman at the mall with the perfume bottle. I take off running again, but at least I was alone down here, and it dumps me out in some side room adjacent to the train lines. Of course I still had to go down two more flights of stairs, but I finally got to the train, and was off.

Having adjusted my watch in the hotel to Chicago time, it now says 3:35PM - hmmm, maybe I still have a chance! After a long train ride, we all de-board and take off into the terminal - thankfully there was no line at the check in counter. I run up, hand the guy my checked bag and beg - maybe he can let me through…please…please…

“I’m sorry sir, they’ve already boarded that plane. You’ll have to catch a later flight.”

“What? Why’d they board the plane an hour early?”

“It’s 4:30 sir, and the plane departs at 4:40. They’re right on time.” My watch says 3:35. They shouldn’t have…”Awwww, damnit!”

The adjustment knob wasn’t pushed all the way back in, so the watch has just sat there, patiently waiting for me to push the button, for an hour while I took a tour of the not-so-great parts of the city. If I had known that there was no way I could get there in time, I wouldn’t have killed myself getting on and off busses, running down questionable streets, and looking for shortcuts. I could have just accepted it and taken the stupid shuttle. Let somebody else shlep this bag around for me.

He was able to get me a better seat on the next flight, which as it turns out was only 2 hours later, so I headed to my gate by way of security. Laptop out of its case and in its own bin - check. Carry-on bag in its own bin - you betcha. Briefcase a with all cables and chargers exposed in its own bin - sure thing. Coat in its own bin - yep. Shoes have their own bin too - sorry folks, I’ve been running through the underbelly of the city. They’re sweaty. Blame the terrorists, get off my fricking back. Lights and buzzers go off - try again, remove the watch and send it through. Stupid watch. Nope, step back again, send my belt through by itself. There you go.

It’s bad enough to have to gather your crap and re-assemble yourself in the airport, but I had five bins, two change buckets and a free-wheeling belt, all spread out amongst other people’s belongings. I think I set a one-person male record for number of bins.

Now, as I write this, I’m cruising over Texas, I believe, on my way home, finally. It’s been a long trip, and an ordeal just to get home, but I’m looking forward to sleeping in my own bed, eating my own food, driving a car.

So, I’d like to say thank you, Swatch salesman, for this little slice of heaven. Especially for the last piece in this twisted puzzle: the gentleman seated next to me who fell asleep as soon as we took off and hasn’t curbed his flatulence for 1000 miles.

Thank you. Please come again.