Remember Alamo? Dead.
Hello friends and internet robots that keep “subscribing” to this site!
I haven’t posted anything new in a while, and I apologize for that. Sincerely. As you can read here, I’m desperately seeking means of feeding, clothing and generally providing for Jimi, which has kept me quite busy, considering Glenn is taking his sweet ass time in Miami with that stupid thesis nonsense and God knows what else, while I’m here in Chicago raising our dog all by myself.
I’m also working diligently on a post/epic poem about the time my best friend had her heart broken by a thug, so I peed on him. I’ve been writing it for almost two weeks now because, apparently, I have quite a bit to say on the weaponization of bodily functions for purposes of retaliation.
Here’s a story to entertain and/or alarm you in the meantime:
Let’s flashback to the good old days when you could still threaten to shoot someone in an airport.
The year is 1994, the hour is very nearly midnight, and I’ve just arrived in the mostly empty San Antonio airport with my mom and brother, Tony.
We approach the abandoned Alamo rental counter, where, in lieu of a customer service representative, there sits a bright red telephone with three, pre-programmed buttons to speed dial the White House, the Kremlin, and to alert Alamo of your arrival in San Antonio.
Mom glares resentfully at it for a moment before snatching up the receiver.
Tony and I hear only one half of the conversation which follows. It goes something like:
“What do you mean there’s no car? How can there be no car? You want me to wait until morning to pick up my car. It’s 11:30 p.m. I’m traveling with two young children. No, I cannot call back in the morning! Nothing you can do for me? NOTHING YOU CAN DO OTHER THAN STRAND ME AND MY CHILDREN AT A DESERTED AIRPORT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, YOU SON OF A BITCH?”
There are very few other travelers in the airport at this point, but the ones that remain are getting a real show. I imagine they’re pleased to have lingered this long, sort of like when you sit through the entirety of the film credits and your patience is rewarded with 10 extra seconds of Samuel L. Jackson being fatally strangled by a disgruntled snake.
“OH, I BET YOU’RE SORRY! LIKE HELL I’LL CALM DOWN. YOU TELL YOUR SUPERVISOR THAT, IF I HAD A GUN, I SWEAR TO GOD, I WOULD SHOOT ALLLL OF YOU!”
Then, she SLAMS the receiver down onto its sticky red cradle. *SLAMSLAMSLAM* After the third slam, she hefts the entire phone over her head and hurls it over the counter. Just, dunks it into the linoleum in mouth open, tongue-out fury, like Michael Jordan, except short, female and more impressive.
It crashes to the ground in slow-motion with a grisly, reverberating clatter that, under normal circumstances, might sound like a long peal of thunder but, under the present circumstances, sounds like the enraged Sicilian woman who has just threatened to shoot everyone has, in fact, shot someone.
She pirouettes, surveying the stunned onlookers. Across the baggage claim, a lone customer service agent stands behind the Hertz counter. Mom grabs the me, Tony and our luggage and tows us toward him. He stands motionless as we approach, probably in the hope that she will mistake him for the world’s fattest, cowboy-hat-wearing, customer service promotional mannequin.
“Please tell me YOU’RE not completely out of cars, too, are you?” Mom demands.
“N..No, ma’am,” he stutters, frantically. “We have lots of cars. Lots! You can have the cars. Whatever you want!”
“I just need one car,” she says, raising one eyebrow. “Do you have something with a large trunk?”
His eyes widen. “Y..ye…yes! OF COURSE. Is a…Subaru hatchback big enough for…?” he trails off, leaving “the cadaver” implied.
“I’m not familiar with Subarus,” she says, glancing down at our suitcases. “We’ll be adding one more body and one more bag tomorrow,” she muses, referring to my father, who has patients scheduled through tomorrow afternoon and will be arriving on a 5 p.m. flight that evening. “Do you think the Subaru has enough trunk space?”
“You know what?!” he squawks. “How about we upgrade you to the premium SUV, no extra charge?!”
Mom is satisfied with this. “That would be wonderful,” she sighs, reaching into her purse.” The agent flinches, then relaxes again when he sees that she has withdrawn a wallet and not whatever firearm was used to murder the folks over at Alamo.
They complete the transaction with record-breaking speed. “You’ve earned a loyal customer today, Frank,” she smiles, reading his name plate. Frank makes a valiant effort at looking pleased. “You know what kids,” she says as we walk away. “Mommy will always remember what happened at Alamo here tonight, and I will never rent from them again. That’s how you make companies treat their customers with respect, like Frank did just now.”