6:00 am. The alarm on my phone has been going for seventeen minutes. I'm usually obsessive compulsive in choosing a time that ends in a 5 or 0 but I decided to break the habit last night. The down comforter I was too lazy to switch out in spring is balled up at the foot of my bed. I'm sweating a bit under a thin cotton sheet in late July.
It takes me ten minutes to get out of bed leaving little time for a shower before the cab arrives at half past. I seriously consider skipping it but I hate sitting on a crowded plane smelling of sweat, animal dander and pot. With six minutes to go I pull on my shorts, check my pockets for phone, wallet, keys, and a little pre-flight oblivion.
I ask the cab driver to wait while I search for headphones in my car. No such luck. I'll regret that later. Trunk open, I hop into the cab with just a backpack and my camera bag. My driver has to get out to close it.
"It's supposed to get hot and humid again today. But I guess you don't have to worry since you're leaving." I mumble something about Alabama and my head falls back against the seat. I feel some remorse but with exhaustion taking hold of my caffeine addiction for the time being, my less than sober state slips me into a silent state for the remainder of the journey. I always feel bad for taxi operators. Long hours unrelated to a solar day. It must get lonely or at least upsetting when a passenger doesn't want to talk. It's worse than the hours of driving I do alone. At least I can sing off key to whatever I want. Or listen to news reports of oil spills, Pakistan hedging it's bets over the war in Afghanistan, searching for a cure for aging and death. A taxi driver is reduced to a machine designed to convey people, not words.
I rattle off a barely respectable email to my mother and father and have my first large, iced dark roast, black. I learned to love the rush of caffeine swirling around my stomach and bloodstream in college. I always knew the effect that the bitter, awful tasting stuff had on my mother so I avoided the nasty taste. Then I hit the, for lack of a better word, real world. Long hours, little sleep, less motivation. I told myself if I'm going to drink it, it's gonna be straight. No milk or sugar to mask the truth.
I've got even less time to finish my coffee than I did taking a shower. I almost immediately regret jerking myself awake so abruptly but it's too late now. With bloodshot eyes and a pounding headache compounded rather than alleviated by caffeine I head through security.
I empty lights, camera, pockets, belt, shoes, hat, soul into grey bins and walk towards a machine I can only assume is designed to cause cancers of a horrible nature. "Stand with your hands over your head for seven seconds.". I think to myself: if I were a terrorist with a bomb, the security checkpoint is the last place I'll reach before discovery. Might as well blow it up. Being stuck at this bottleneck, being violated by a doomsday device, can only increase the chances of being destroyed on this very spot. But maybe that's for the best since I'll probably die of cancer or complications related to my breakfast sandwich if I survive this safety check.
I've never been to Alabama. I suppose after my eighteen hours in Birmingham, I'll still feel that way. Most of my time will be consumed by work or sleep. I am on assignment to film Serengetti kittens. I'm not sure if that's how the breed is spelled. I never bothered to look into that. In any case, it won't matter until I hand off the tapes to an assistant editor who will undoubtedly laugh that I'm out of breath, from walking up two flights of stairs, when I reach his desk. It won't even matter then. All that will matter is the footage contained on the mini dv tape. So important and yet so insignificant.
As my connecting flight begins to descended into Charlotte, I can't help but wish they still gave out in-flight snacks.
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