Written on the Sunday morning plane from LaGuardia to Las Vegas.
Outside Kelli's lower east side apartment, waiting for my car — car number 80 — in the cool, early morning.
It's cool, but I know it should be so much colder. It should be freezing. It's January 7th, and yesterday's temperature climbed above 70. People enjoy sudden outdoor seating at friendly neighborhood restaurants while squirrels wonder why they've been storing all these nuts. Something's wrong. I should be in bed.
About ten cabs try to pick me up. Groups of drunk young men and women come banging down the street. Did I mention that it's 5am? There are far too many people awake at this time. At 5am, we should all be under heavy covers with our sweethearts. Even when I was alone, I had a certain amount of respect for the night.
My car arrives. Car number 80. I arrive at LaGuardia about twenty minutes later, and somehow float to the check-in line. John Atkinson and Laura LoVecchio are already here. I greet them.
"Stephen," JA says.
"Good morning, guys."
"Are you on our flight?" JA asks.
I shrug and look down to my flight itinerary.
"Six-fifty to Houston?" he asks.
"Yup," I mumble. "I don't think people should be awake at this time."
"I'm not," he blinks.
"I haven't slept at all," Laura says.
Moments later, I see that John's having trouble at the electronic check-in booth. His confirmation number isn't recognized, so he keys in his last name. A T K I N S O N.
"We have several passengers with that last name," the computer screen informs him. "Please enter your first name."
He keys in J O H N.
"We have several passengers..." And so on.
John is forced to give up with the self-service machine and face the long line of conventional check-in. I stand where he was and, luckily, have no problem. I leave John and Laura at the check-in line and search for our gate. Gate number 7. Lucky number.
Through the necessary and not-so necessary indignities of x-ray machines and metal detectors, and finally to the boarding gate. The very last gate. I don't know how many times I've flown from the very last gate, but it's a lot.
Laura arrives alone. "I knew I should have stayed with him," she worries. "He counts on me to yell. I'm the rude American."
I laugh.
"They didn't have his confirmation number in the system. Don't they know who he is?" she jokes.
"They should," I say.
"I hope he makes it," she continues. "After awhile, they won't let you get on, even if you've been waiting on line for an hour, they'll turn you away, and they won't let you check your bag."
He'll be fine, I think to myself. "Why didn't you sleep?" I ask.
"Proposals," she says. The word drops to the floor like a book from a shelf. "I was up all night working on a proposal. It's been a long week."
I shake my head, I know what she means.
The plane is ready for boarding. "At this time, we'd like to board passengers seated in rows 15 through 30."
Laura reaches for her cell phone, dials some numbers, looks up, and smiles. "I see him. He's coming."
I'm already seated when I see JA coming down the aisle. I give him the thumbs up.
"Hello Stephen."
"Glad you made it, JA."
"So am I," he says, continuing toward his seat.
As the sun makes its slow and steady climb over New York City, our plane races to meet it. Soon, we'll be in Las Vegas. I close my eyes, knowing I'll get no sleep.
