Peaches and Hot Seats (Sketch Two)

I was sitting in Atlanta, having eaten a burrito that was at least two times bigger than my face, and I was doing my best not to cry.

            Wait, let me back up. That’s not where the story starts.

            I’d never really flown by myself before. Well, not unless you count the times when my parents were sitting in different rows than I was, which I don’t. It was a strange idea – I’d been interested in game shows for as long as I could remember, but I knew that 90% of the people that watched them didn’t try out for fear of rejection. I didn’t know that fear. I signed up and got a confirmation for a Who Wants to Be a Millionaire audition in New York City. I picked the cheapest airline I could and spent all the money I’d saved up for the past year and a half trying to find a cheap hotel. The flight left on June 10^th and went through a connecting flight in Atlanta, with plenty of time in between.

            I prepared constantly between the audition date and the actual flight. Millionaire question archives, watching YouTube videos and trying to get to the answer before the contestant did (though I knew they were told to talk it out). Even delving into Jeopardy territory. Trying to memorize every fact I possibly could. We bought a lavender button-down shirt specifically for the audition. I knew I looked good; I knew I was representing my school; I knew I was undoubtedly prepared.

            So, at 4:00 AM on a nondescript summer Thursday, I woke up in a Red Roof Inn and drove to the terminal where my flight was waiting. I was shaking with anticipation; I’d done this a million times before but never on my own. Never without the nagging looks from my parents telling me to hurry up as I put my belt on backwards, or got “randomly selected” due to the metal in my eyebrow piercing.

            This was my time, this was my moment. I asserted my independence with this step into manhood. I’d read encyclopedias, memorized dictionary entries for words like “kerf,” and bought the plane ticket all of my own accord. I knew much more than I’d ever known; probably more than I ever will know again.

            The blue faux-velvet faux-expensive carpet squeaked under my sneakers as I carried my black leather weekender bag to the plane and sat in utter terror as I unintentionally recalled all the statistics I’d drilled into my brain about plane crashes. 96% of all plane accidents happen during takeoff or landing. Most plane crashes don’t have a secure emergency backup system. Blurs of terror whizzing behind my eyelids. Someone gently touched my arm and asked me if I was a nervous flyer and I shook my head no, though the whiteness of my knuckles as I gripped the armrest indicated otherwise.

            Despite my reservations, the flight to Atlanta was a non-event. People around me wished me luck when I told them the purpose of my trip, and I couldn’t have been happier – or more nervous.

            Atlanta gave me a three-hour layover, and I had no choice but to find some lunch. The connection would put me in New York at about 7:00 PM Eastern time, so I needed to get a big lunch in my system before the long haul ahead. I found a burrito place that reeked of cheap Chipotle knockoffs and names that made you wonder if you’d stepped into an alternate reality where NASCAR was the official national pastime.

            I finally selected my burrito, tastefully titled “The Homewrecker,” and chowed down. While I did that I looked up famous personalities on my iPhone. Edison. Hawthorne. Cummings. Mailer. Tesla.

            Finally, the time came to board the plane. I got everything into position and sat there and waited. And waited. And waited. After an hour of sitting stagnant the pilot informed us that there were some technical difficulties and he needed us to get off the plane.

            Sitting on that strangely brown carpet in Atlanta I started to understand true panic. Every thirty minutes the flight attendants would come on the intercom and announce the flight had been delayed yet again. I did my best to control my breathing. Tried to remember the capital of Liberia. Anything to get my mind off the situation at hand.

            Finally, with all the weight of a sumo wrestler sitting on my chest, I was informed that the flight was cancelled. I immediately called my mother to see if there was any alternate flight I could take that night and still make the audition the next morning. She said she’d look into it.

            The thirty minutes between my mother hanging up and her next call were the strangest emotional roller coaster I’ve experienced to date. I couldn’t tell whether to feel elated, sad, disappointed, or even just stoic. Finally my mother called back and told me, with tears shimmering in her voice, that there was hail in the NYC area and that I wouldn’t be able to make the audition.

            I don’t know about you but I have an auto-bawl feature built in, so whenever my mom starts crying I immediately cry with her. I had to take several deep breaths and tell her not to cry or else I’d start crying and that nobody likes watching a grown man cry in public, it’s just awkward. I kept reassuring her that yes, it was important to me, but yes, we’d find another way. I had the hotel voucher for the night. I had a shuttle to take me there free of charge. I’d be fine.

            After a disappointed night in a hotel five minutes from the airport – which, holy God, they couldn’t have given me a room that wasn’t directly across from a spotlight, or barring that at least blackout curtains – that made me feel like I wasn’t in Atlanta but rather Alaska, I hopped a flight back to Dallas the next morning. When I touched down and got through security, I saw my mom waiting for me.

            Nothing could have made me happier. I hugged her and told her how happy I was to be home. She expressed her disappointment and I did too, but I knew things always had a way of turning up roses.

            I learned an important lesson that day. Things that happen to you will inevitably, invariably happen. No matter what you do, the world will spin and you are at its mercy. It is what you do to recover from those things that makes you who you are in the aftermath. I came of age in my ability to handle things out of my control, and in my ability to bounce back from unexpected circumstances.

            Eventually, I made it to New York that summer. And I did audition for “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?” But that’s another story, for another time.