Make A Dash for It

I’m fixing to make a dash for it.

I had plenty of time after I got to my departure gate at the Pensacola Airport, so I called Elroy at the Waffle House to let him know my status. He advised me to see if I couldn’t bribe the gate agent or some other passenger to get a seat as close to the front of the plane as possible so that I could make a fast exit when it landed.

The last thing he said was that he was going to see what he could do on his end to help get me to the Lotto office in Atlanta before five o’clock. After I hung up I wondered what, if anything, he could do.

It turned out I didn’t have to bribe anybody. The gate agent found me an aisle seat on the second row of coach.

The plane took off exactly on time and I was feeling pretty good when the fasten seat belt light came on at 3:35 pm, leaving me an hour and 15 minutes to claim that forty million dollars. I reached inside my pocket and felt of that winning ticket I had bought 90 days ago that was fixing to expire.

That’s when I heard the dreaded announcement as the pilot said, “Ladies and gentlemen, as usual, traffic is a little backed up in Atlanta and we’ve been put into a holding pattern. Right now we anticipate arriving at the gate at four o’clock.”

At 3:55 p.m. we were still in a holding pattern and I had broken out into a cold sweat, as nervous as a cat in a dog pound.

There was no way we would arrive at the gate in five minutes, but I still had hope if everything went the way I was planning it. After we reached the gate I planned to hit the jet way running and skip taking the train if we docked at Concourse A, that is unless the timing was perfect and the train was fixing to leave when I got down the escalator to it.

Then I imagined myself sprinting through baggage claim and on to ground transportation, grabbing a cab and offering the driver $500 if he could get me to 250 Williams Street in downtown before five o’clock. If I could just be in a taxi by by 4:30 p.m. I just might make it.

Finally, that plane landed and taxied to the terminal, but when I saw where we were docking, my heart sank. Not only was it at Concourse B instead of A, but it was at the last gate on B, which was going to cost me another five minutes.

As I looked out a window I observed the jet way inching like some giant snail towards the plane door.

I took a deep breath, suppressed a scream, unfastened my seat belt and bolted towards the door. The flight attendants were calling me down and the first class passengers were giving me dirty looks as I forced my way into a position by the exit to be the first one off the plane.

I glanced at my watch as the plane door made a hissing sound. I darted through the first crack of the door knowing I would only have about 20 minutes to get downtown once I got to ground transportation.

I dashed through that jet way out into the concourse where I broke into a dead run, dodging in, out, and around all the other people until I got to the down escalator, which would take me down to the train departure area.

It was 4:25 p.m. when I got to the train door, but to my horror, when it opened it was already packed to the gills and no room for another person to get on. I stood helplessly as the robot-sounding voice said, “Please stand clear, the doors are closing.”

Once again, I’m out of space, but I’ll be fixing to continue next week.