Bob Hopeless

I arrived at Burbank’s Bob Hope Airport disappointed to be leaving the sunny weather, adorable labradoodle, good food, and better company behind. After a forlorn and objectionable goodbye with my Father, I walked into the airport with a fresh breath of air. My grief toward my imminent departure was mended by the knowledge that I’d get to use my brand new iPhone 4 to board the airplane.

Finally, I had achieved my dream: landing a spot in the elite and overwhelmingly present “cool club” – for Smartphone users only. For years, I trekked back and forth to the printer from the computer, attempting desperately and repetitively to print my boarding passes. Printer jams, lack of ink, and the crushing guilt of slaying entire colonies of trees over the years were all concerns that I could now put to rest, with the simple click of a button.

Walking up to the security checkpoint, the officer cheerfully guesses my name. “Good afternoon Miss…..Tiffany?” “Tiffany! Like Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” I think, reminding me that I had forgotten the four California post cards I had just purchased in the car. Frustrated, but still polite, I say “Close! But it’s Sienna.” He chuckles. With immense pride in my eyes and satisfaction in my hand gesture, I give him my phone. “Oh, actually, we are told not to accept electronic tickets.” My heart drops. I am speechless. “Wait…really?” “Yeah, sorry ma’am,” he said with a chuckle, sensing my disappointment, “but if you go print it right over there, I’ll let you cut the line when you come back.” I could have cried. But instead, I smiled and walked away, making sure to take my apparently useless phone with me.

I get in line to have my ticket printed. Finally reaching the front, the happy go lucky and unfortunately unpleasant looking attendant asks if I am a first class member. “No.” “Oh, okay, well then you can go wait in that line and use the computer to print your ticket.” “Go stuff your face in a birthday cake,” I wanted to tell her. So I waited in line yet again and eventually came to terms with the fact that my tree murdering days would not yet, in fact, retire.

Ready to skip the line and get through security, I realize that the charming young man who laughed at my misery but also gave me his word, was nowhere to be found. Instead, a homely, pimply woman sat at the desk. So again, I waited, almost expecting her to say, “Oh, we don’t take paper tickets anymore, just solid gold ones.” She did not. So I strolled past her and onto the security line.

Per the rules, I proceeded to remove my trusty boots that had walked me all over Boston, New York, and Los Angeles for a good six months. My grandmother had been pestering me to buy new ones for a while, as she decided I looked trashy and she couldn’t stand to see me in such wretched things. But I declined her offer on the principle boot season is almost over and it would be foolish to waste money on something I’d wear for only a month. New styles would be in fashion next fall, and I’d just want another pair then. So I decided that my loyal shoes could last until I needed them no longer. Well, I unzipped the left one, careful of the area where the seam had come loose, only to break the zipper, incapacitating it for all of eternity. Walking through the metal detector, I expected to find the airport official rifling through my bags in search of some illegal object that a terrorist had slipped into my bag unbeknownst to me. Instead, the conveyer belt just spit out my broken boot and unwieldy bags. Tying the lace around the top of the zipper, I momentarily mended the dilemma, while simultaneously redefining the term “shabby chic.”

So I sit down at my terminal 20 minutes before boarding time, severely flustered and disappointed. Looking around, my only neighbor is a senile woman carrying a paisley briefcase and a plastic bag with cat food inside of it. Clearly, something was askew. So I ask the flight attendant, who tells me that the terminal has been changed. Up I get, dragging my lame shoe’d foot along behind me to the other terminal. Finally, a place to rest. Now is the time when I would have written the postcards, but clearly that was no longer an option. So for twenty minutes, I texted on my iPhone – a capability that my plain old 2008 cell phone successfully fulfilled. When they called Boarding Group 4, I morosely put my iPhone away, withdrew my paper ticket, and handed it to the real Tiff’nay, who directed me onto the aircraft. Dallas, here I come!