by Mark Patterson
We embarked with nervous excitement. A somewhat familiar 40-minute drive would take us 5 miles north to route 30, at which point a hard right would head through Clinton, with just several more minutes to our destination, the Pittsburgh International Airport. All roads though, after a lonely Autumn-long wait for him to return from San Francisco, led to our son.
Parental affection toward an only child runs deep, and we had three months’ worth stored away, in places that whisper bittersweet things in the wee hours, the time when burgeoning estrangement can taint treasured memories. Hugs were expected, along with racing hearts. I promised myself to not cry. What we did not see coming was a three-hour exercise in terror. Wes Craven should have filmed the ordeal.
Traffic on this frigid night was unnaturally heavy, even on secondary portions of our trek. And nobody lowered their brights, least of all the jerk on our bumper who had several shots to pass, but instead preferred to push us, like the truck driver in Duel, the one who hounds Dennis Weaver in that iconic made-for-tv movie. I am done scoffing at fellow boomers with the driving policy of reverse vampires-folks who hit the road only BEFORE dark, unless rushing to the emergency room, or returning from a grandkid’s home game. At 68, I finally get it.
At length, the new terminal loomed, like Poe’s House of Usher. Intimidating and impervious to our presence, the multi-billion dollar structure rose three magisterial stories into winter constellations that resembled cold, white Christmas lights on “twinkle” setting and sprawled across enough real estate to fatigue an Olympic miler.
Had the reported 22,000 parking spaces been reduced by one, our only option might have been to phone Shane, wish him the best, and advise starting a new life from scratch, in some unfamiliar borough within earshot of jet screams. But in our only stroke of luck that unfortunate night, I managed to wedge the over-sized Acadia into a slit between encroaching vehicles. But not before backing out so that Jan could open her door to exit the coach (My own escape left me wishing for a Dr. No ejector seat and could justify its own entire column.)
Still, we were a long walk from the warmth, and December winds would have their way with us. How long, we couldn’t tell. Ever gazed at a mountain-a REAL mountain, not these comforting Appalachian foothills we make our lives amidst- and tried to gauge your proximity? We were far, that’s all I knew-except that my bum-meniscus would ache before our arrival.
Suddenly, I felt small, and not in the good way that standing before an ocean engenders. Was I shivering, or instead cowering, before this behemoth of modern design? It didn’t help that passersby, hailing, I just knew, from places more sophisticated than New Manchester (let alone Congo, or Pughtown), seemed impossibly in their element, so inured to the process of air travel that their thought bubbles had space leftover for stale WV jokes.
The ordeal was beginning to feel like that cliched plot (usually based in the dark ages) in which the good guys must breech some fortress undetected and steal off with an imprisoned compatriot. But in those movies, one of the trespassers always knows a secret passage, and how to bypass guarding ogres. Our intrepid band of two had no idea even which door to enter, and there were many, almost in simulation of a nightmarish gameshow- except Bob Barker was nowhere in sight (“Oh, I’m sorry, you should have chosen door 89D. Now you will NEVER FIND YOUR SON. Let’s hear it for the Pattersons, folks. And they aren’t going back to Hicksville empty-handed. We’re giving them a home version of ‘Airport Hell.’ “)
The gatekeeper turned out to be a vivacious 30-something brunette who quickly and coherently directed us…to an escalator so long and steep as to impede incoming flights. Those things mortify me. I always envision that dicey first step grabbing my size 13 and sucking me in- like some sinister piece of harvesting equipment- and once onboard, am sure that the rounded handrail has some gap underneath fully capable of feasting on my fat, clammy fingers, right down to the white knucks. I made the interminable ascent (far) worse by looking back once and realizing that any plummet could buy the casino. After that, I leaned further forward than a man bucking tornadic headwinds-which resulted, of course, to so badly misjudging the final step as to lose balance and duckwalk halfway to the “Arriving Flights” area-and that was a long ways, indeed.
Parched, sweaty, and close to surrender, we lucked upon what, unbelievably, was the entire floor’s ONLY source of refreshment. Imagine Acrisure stadium with just a single concession stand. And size-wise, that place had NOTHING on this “To infinity and Beyond!” expanse. I scanned the pretentious menu and asked for something cold.
“I could make you a ‘chai-tea with vanilla’ and maybe put some ice in it,” said the counter-guy, sounding suitably disinterested for the late hour and remote locale of his outpost. Great. For $12 (each) we could pretend to be at some snobbish brunch, gag, and further dehydrate ourselves.
Luckily, we were informed that icy soft drinks COULD be had just a short distance…from the top of another EVEN STEEPER moving-stairway. Driven by thirst, I was perilously close to braving it, except this contraption seemed designed with lower handrails and stretched to heights beyond vision. Desperate and near collapse, I turned to the only human in sight and asked if the thing was safe. “No way,” the dude replied. Call me over-cautious, but I took it as a bad sign that he was wearing an airport uniform and nametag. “People fall?” I asked. “Oh, HELL yes,” he responded. “Just last week, some fat lady lugging two suitcases…….”
We found an elevator. And shared the ascent with two menacing types pointedly bemoaning their lack of food money. Generally sympathetic in such situations, I was not carrying any cash to give them, and the whole thing had the menacing vibe of a future Sean Hannity rant about “two great patriots” slain by the evil indigent in a very public place that was paid for, of course, by your hard-earned tax-payer dollars.
The chick manning the refreshment alcove actually WAS forking money over-at the apparent behest of yet ANOTHER homeless looking guy who would saunter away with also a large DASANTI and two bags of Doritos. She seemed more scared than charitable. “Just pay it forward,” she muttered meekly, in some feeble attempt to make the narrative more flattering to all involved.
Shane finally emerged; the straggler, as always, and reluctant embraces betrayed lingering family issues. But our first issue would be managing to escape this Hotel California-you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave..
The card slot at the exit-turnstile declined my debit. Of COURSE it did. And then likewise turned its nose up at Bear’s plastic (near estrangement or not; he retains the fond nickname)-AND Plan’s (as long as we’re using nicks). We nearly wrecked backing out of the long chute. I did notice, when looking sideways from the “cash” exit, that the lane we had vacated quickly resumed smooth compliance with cardholders. Should we have expected otherwise?
Scrounging $16.50 (what a racket) from between the seats (I don’t carry cash, remember?) to cover 45 minutes in that slit-sized “parking” slot took enough time for the motorists behind us to perform an impromptu Christmas concert with their car horns. And the guy right behind us seemed to be mouthing the lyrics and gesticulating us to join in. Johnny Mathis, eat your heart out.
I could continue (BELIEVE me) and chronicle confusing direction- signs and the Acadia’s consequent spat with a snowbank, but I assume, faithful readers, you’ve had your fill of Hancock County’s answer to the hapless Griswold’s. So, SEASONS GREETINGS!!! And may I suggest future travelling by train?
mark patterson
