Chapter 3: The Delay

“Well can’t you just go the next week?” Gen asked.

The answer was simple. I don’t want to let some oblivious putz come in, interview before me and get hired just because he had a whiter smile. So I told her that.

“Ok. Fine,” and she hung up abruptly. If she were on a rotary phone I’m sure she would have slammed it.

It’s her wedding. She only gets one. She’s entitled to her Bridezilla moments.

I don’t know what she was so worried about though. My flight was scheduled to land a FULL HOUR before the rehearsal. Like the name of my favorite friendly neighborhood-“I’ll just stop in for one…”-Irish Pub, it was Plenty O’Time.

I woke up with a cavalier confidence that Friday morning in Presque Isle. It was time to say goodbye to WAGM, for now. I walked into the newsroom and the whole staff was watching their blooper reels in a mid morning laugh session. “Boy I hope I get the job,” I thought to myself.

I was taking a flight to Boston alongside another reporter named Angela who was heading home for the weekend. She was Greek and she talked a lot.

We chatted on the plane ride. She did some to calm me during the flight, which was a bumpy one. I jumped in my seat when the small prop-plane we were in skipped through the clouds. She told me that was normal. I was nervous I didn’t come off eager and energetic enough in the interview. She told me not to worry, that I did fine, and to just keep my head up, keep trying and I was sure to land a job somewhere soon.

Wait. That’s not good. Keep your head up? Keep trying? You should have told me everyone at the station loved me and that I was a shoo-in for the job. Do you know something I don’t?

Before I had time to neatly organize my nerves, it was wheels down in Boston. Angela and I bid each other adieu and I sought out first my connecting flight’s gate and then the closest bar to wait out the two-hour layover.

With an eye monitoring United’s flight departure monitor and an ear engaged with a woman from Houston writing engagement party thank you’s, I caught some bad news. Not terrible news, just bad. My flight to Detroit had been delayed 30 minutes. That was just enough to cause me to miss my connecting flight that would have put me in Chicago by 6:00. I guzzled down my glass of Shock Top and headed for help.

2 hours, 3 service counters, 4 booking agents, 5 Budweiser’s and 17 chorus’s of God Bless America later, I was on a direct flight to O’Hare set to arrive at 7:30pm.

The beers were to keep my calm. The God Bless America was to keep my sanity. I sang it aloud walking from terminal to terminal, checkpoint to checkpoint. Some folks peered puzzledly. Others gave a jut of the lower lip and a nod of the head. They understood. They got it. That’s the spirit.

While waiting for my flight to Chicago I took to Twitter to find a hero to give me a lift from O’Hare to the rehearsal dinner. Thank the Lord, Mr. Ford, and my old little league teammate Aaron Gyrion, that I was able to find a pinch hitter poised enough to step up to the plate and drive in the go ahead brother. I had no time to waste. I was landing at the exact time the rehearsal was supposed to start.

Aaron battled Friday night traffic in his big deep-Wedgewood blue F-350, fought off some agitated airport traffic cops and was there waiting for me when I arrived in Chicago. I had nothing to offer Aaron in return for this favor, and he knew that. That’s just the kind of guy Aaron is.

So I missed the rehearsal, but made it to the dinner. I wearily walked in to Home Run Inn Pizza to greet friends and family as they were all in high spirits on the eve of my sister’s wedding. I was delighted to see everyone, especially the blushing bride to be and her fiancé.

I’d made it. It was over. Hallelujah.

The Bride

The ceremony was beautiful. Gen was graceful and angelic in every way and the wedding was everything she wanted. I even got a chance to show off my moves on the dance floor.

I was out there doing my thing. Sliding, gliding, splicing, dicing up the hardwood. It was a hoot. Dancing is hands down my favorite part of any wedding.

I was challenged by a friend of the bride’s to a dance-off. No problem. I wasn’t worried about winning or losing, just putting on a good show for the crowd that quickly surrounded us. But like my tux the next morning, I was going to take her to the cleaners.

I delved into my repertoire. I’ve compiled a bank of moves from stars like James Brown, Billy Preston and Michael Jackson over the years and had a few borrowed maneuvers from local legends like Matthias “Twinkle Toes” Connelly, Jimmy Tardella and Tag-Team Reardon. And then there were the Jake Berent originals. Like the knee drop, the very move that would do me in.

The knee drop is a pseudo-splits move in which I flare out my left leg, slam down on my right knee, and pop right back up. It kills. So I threw that one out there, and everyone marveled, except the DJ.

“Come on, get lower!” he cried.

I shrugged him off casually. It wasn’t going to happen.

“Come on, do the splits!”

I couldn’t back down the second time. Everyone wanted to see it. I’d never done the splits before. But I was about to find out how easy and painful it was.

So I dropped down and laid my legs out parallel to the floor. I felt a pull in my hamstring. A bad one. I sprang back up and limpingly shuffled off to the side pretending nothing was wrong when everyone including me, knew I’d really done it this time.

So my night on the dance floor was over. I was relegated to the role of observer. That was quite alright with me. I had so many wonderful people to talk to. We had some great conversations. But when it came down to the one question everyone seemed to ask me, I had no answer for them. That was:

When will you know about Maine?