I Had A Flight to Catch, So I Killed Him

I’d tell you the names have been changed to protect the innocent. But there are no innocent parties. So I name names. And I’d tell you that the following is a true story. And it is, although some of it hasn’t happened yet. But just wait. As sure as my name is Richard Joseph Salvucci, story is bound to happen. And remember. I always say you can’t make this stuff up.

Any event, we flew to Philly via United Airlines. It was uneventful, thank God. At the behest of United, we rented a car from Avis, from whom I had sworn forty years ago that I would never rent a car again after they refused to abide by a contract. And until now, I had kept that promise. Now I have new reasons to avoid Avis entirely. I will, in due course, treat you to some of them.

I recent took a flying trip back to home. Home, as my faithful readers know, is Philadelphia. Linda and I went to help a friend celebrate her fiftieth wedding anniversary. This was very pleasant. Linda saw some of her old friends. We did the old-fashioned Catholic thing and tended our parents and relatives graves in Sts Peter and Paul Cemetary (known to the locals as “Two Guys” after a a defunct discount chain). We hit Murray’s Deli which is, as they say, Old School. We went to Termini’s bakery on our way out of town (it is in South Philly) to get real Eyetalian cookies and stuff. And we visited some parts of neighborhoods where we thought we might be able to escape if Felonius Punk (aka Agent Orange), God forbid, gets reelected. You never know. Never bet against the stupidity of the American people. There are friends and relatives we both wish we had seen, but time was short and we just had to make choices. No offense to anyone, if anyone is offended. I can’t imagine why anyone would be, but people seem to get offended a lot nowadays.

So we have this reservation for what passes as a modest vehicle. It was not the model I wanted, but I know you can’t expect to get that, especially if you are traveling peasant class. So we get to the office here and we have to sweat a line–not too bad, really. None of this run out to the lot, choose your car, and go! That’s only for dudes like Joe Buck.

When we are attended, I pull out all the required documents, including proof of insurance! I decline all the crap they want to add on. Then I wait. And wait. And wait. It takes like fifteen minutes to get my card approved. I wonder why, since this is one bill that gets paid religiously. They say, well, this happens when we have a lot of people renting cars. I thought that sounded odd, but what the Hell. Another customer was fighting with them over why she had to have a credit card, so why make things worse? So we wait, and wait, and finally, we get approved with the usual caveat about how much Avis will block on the card. Like I have a choice? Fine.

So now we get to go to our car, right? Wrong?

“They will bring your car to the door.” So we wait. And wait. And wait. And there is another couple waiting. And waiting. And waiting. After at least half an hour, the Avis types bring the other folks their car. Still dripping wet because it was just washed–because it was apparently just returned. Because they don’t have any cars available. Oh. Yeah, they cut their fleets back during Covid, Linda says. Oh. Blame Biden. Sure. Why not? But he wasn’t President then, was he? No, Trump was. But people blame Biden. They think Trump will do a better job of handling the economy. On what grounds? Who knows? Cause some bot on FB told them so. Makes sense.

In the meantime, the other couple–also Golden Agers–are getting out of their freshly washed car because they say it is dirty. So they want another car. Picky. Picky. So as they wait and hold up the works, we continue to wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, these guys get something they can live with. So we are told to wait for a gray Mazda. Ok. I have no idea what a gray Mazda looks like other than it is gray. Finally–and it is now going on an hour since we hit Avis–someone pulls up in some low slung gray thing that is also dripping wet. Because it was just returned. Last in, first out. We double check with an employee. This one? Grunts affirmatively.

Then we try to figure out how to open trunk because we have luggage. God knows. No indication so I shanghai another Avis type and nicely ask how to get the #$%^& trunk open. Dude obliges. Not very roomy, but there you go. After my usual trying to figure out how the damn car operates, we try pushing off. But there is this persistent low frequency kerchunk noise. And it ain’t stopping. I pull over in the lot and listen under the hood. Nothing. Linda looks at me and says something like I bet it’s the radio. So then we go through the “which button, slider, dial, icon, whatever” do we manipulate to turn off the radio, if it is the radio making the noise. Random search finally shuts off the noise. See. Logic, right? This has consumed another fifteen minutes, so when we finally get through the exit security, we are free. Just like the old commercials. Smiling, tanned and beautiful, we hit the open road.

Right.

Actually, we try to figure out where the Hell to go because the signage out of PHL is about as helpful as the signage out of SAT, which I swear is useful only if you already know where you are headed. We sort of do, but you know, I am never sure to go North or South on I95 because we are headed out to Radnor Township and then Chester County. My sense of direction is that of a hopeless left-hander, which means I always head the wrong way. I assume if I think it is the right way, it is wrong; and viceversa. So we have an amicable difference about where the Hell we are going. We head South, and just as I am certain we’re gonna end up in Maryland, we hit I476 (known as the Blue Route over the nimby battle that occurred half a century ago about where to site the evil concrete beast, which actually sat only partially completed for years as a drag strip) and went North. Lost??? Don’t worry. We were headed out to Villanova, and as graduates of that illustrious house of studies, we know the way, eventually. You can always find ‘Nova. Look for the Wildcat holding a beer.

Any event, we get to our destination, which is where our friend’s wedding anniversary party was held. Man, I do not know many–if any couples–who have made it that far, because our generation pioneered the “divorce is good for everyone” stuff. At our table, alas, were two of Linda’s friends who were widows, already. They didn’t get to make the Big 5-0. So you feel good for the ones you can, empathy for the others, and vaguely guilty about yourself. Here I am, happily married 50 years, in apparent (save for few glitches) good health. And the rest of the American Dream. After our Happy Daze at Euphoric State, I should be grateful. Texas may not be anyone’s idea of a dream destination, by after learning the ropes at Whattsamatta U, well, I know there’s worse.

We did spend some time looking at real estate, in case we have to apply for asylum in the event that Felonius Punk gets reelected. Linda’s friend Eileen lives in a hilltop home with a No Fascism banner in front of it. Coolest damn thing I have ever seen. In Texas, it would invite a Christian RPG squad to take your libtard ass out. There are certainly reactionaries in that part of the world, but at least along the Main Line, they appear to be part of what people in Latin America used to call the “civilized right.” They don’t drool over dinner.

We saw some nice places and made it down to Bala Cynwyd PA and Murray’s Delicatessen and drove by Flat Rock Park for old times sake. It is still by the Schuylkill, and unspoiled. Remarkably even by Philly standards. And safe. Linda was feeling not so good, and we stopped there for her to take a COVID test. She still felt dreadful, but tested negative, so off we went. The one really disconcerting moment was when we were on Montgomery Avenue out by Bryn Mawr, Baldwin, and Shipley–real high dollar educational venues for the young and privileged (of any ethnicity, thank you. This is a Liberowl Paradise.).Some dork pulled up in a, well, pickup with a cut-out of Trump riding shotgun. Man, we hadn’t even seen that in Texas, so it threw us into the grass is always greener mode. Literally, cause it still rains around Philly. The sheer shock of seeing Agent Orange around Bryn Mawr instead of New Braunfels sort of brought us back to reality. He’s everywhere. Sort of Like the Anti-God.

Paradise Regained: Where the Brisket is Good, but the Corned Beef is Better

So, missions accomplished. We both knew we can’t go home again. Home no longer exists. We left in 1981 and 43 years is long stroll. Lots of ghosts of Christmas past, but what feels good also feels bad. Make any sense? You see your friends after 43 years and wonder if you look as awful to them as some of them do to you. Life just beats people down, and some of these guys have had a difficult ride–so the there that’s there really isn’t there other than in memory. Well, that’s abput as deep as I get. Not very.

Time to take our car back to Avis. Now it really gets, well, surreal. When we figure out the directions to rental car return, we get to Fortress Avis. You know, tire-piercing spikes greet you if you back up and there ia a security wall that would do the White House proud. But wait. There’s more. As you ease into the facility you realize that there are at fifty or more equally anxious returnees jammed up in a long, chaotic line. We weren’t cutting it close, so just sitting in an ever-growing cue didn’t so much upset us as astound us. WTF? Not only could you not get a car, but you couldn’t return one? Even for modern America, this seemed sort of dysfunctional, not to say dangerous. Cause sure enough, the cars behind us are spilling out into the airport highway loaded with a lot of ticked off, increasingly frantic travellers. Hey. I got a plane to catch. And I can’t do it from here, right? Right.

Linda tells me that something similar happened in Austin, Texas a few weeks ago and people just abandoned their rentals by the side of the road. Avis, of course, has neither a sense of humor or responsibility, so they have been apparently been sending out letters with humongous fines to the derelict owners who just wanted to make a plane, even if they had to waalk with baggage to a distant terminal. I admit, this is a new one to me. I know nothing really works correctly in America these days, but this one was kind of astounding–not to mention scary. Well, why scary?

You know damn right well that in this situation, it’s every customer for him or herself. Sort of logical. You want to get out of a burning building, everyone heads for the door. No one gets through. And people die in heaps at the exits. Hell, you want to be first. It’s rational. It’s also deadly. And since Avis had seen fit to send no one out to the line to reassure the ansty folk that someone would assist them shortly, well, folks start to take matters into their own hands. You see people get out of cars, looking around, pulling out luggage, kids and stuff, and then craning to see someone, anyone. Or no one. No one really talks it over, right. Hell, no one makes eye contact. You think, oh my God, this is Philly, and this will get ugly very quickly. Sort of like the crowd at an Iggles’ game. You realize some people are trying to edge their rentals in front of you even if they came in later. Your first instinct, right, yo! what you think you’re doing bruh? I was here first. And then you say, wait, do, road rage. Or Rent Rage. Damn, some of these people are probably carrying. And the only way to find out is to encourage confrontation, which is definitely a bad idea. So what do you do? Welcome to Trump’s America.

So as you begin to contemplate how to protect your spouse from some nut from a Red State, an Avis employee finally shows up. It’s been about 25 minutes and people are leaving in droves. Ms Avis don’t care. “Leave the key in the car. Leave the motor running. And thank you for renting from Avis.” Dude, we got baggage. Tough. Cars are blocking the way. Tough. Where the Hell is the bus to the terminal. Go find it.

So you watch people jostling past each other and struggle to somehow get to a terminal to make a flight. You think, oh Lord, is this like Texas or Florida? Do I stand my ground? And because I am unarmed, risk getting shot over a car rental? You think this stuff, and then push it out of your mind. Today is not a good day to die, to quote Worf, and damned if it’s gonna be over a car rental.

Well, we got out in one piece. We were shaking our heads all the way home. And once we landed in San Antonio, we had to wait for over an hour before United Airlies retrieved our bags. Hell, we didn’t make it home until 2AM. But that would be a whole ‘nother story. And you really don’t want to hear it, right? No you don’t.

So, look, bring food and a sleeping bag the next time you plan a short trip to a domestic destination. It beats carrying a gun right? You remember all them great rental commercials from the 1960s? God almighty. Let Hertz put you in the Driver’s Seat? This one would be more like an episode from the Twilight Zone. You remember? “Willoughby, this stop is Willoughby?”

Yeah, God help me, I feel like getting off here.

Night

PD As a student, I remember reading a short story by Julio Cortazar called “El Autopista del Sur.” If memory serves, a huge traffic tie up somewhere in the fantasy wilds of Argentina becomes the occasion for the local populace to come out and attack the idled motorists. Why does this story come to mind after going through this idiocy?