Jeneration X: One Reluctant Adult's Attempt to Unarrest Her Arrested Development

by Jen Lancaster

  A few years ago I watched my friend Poppy slip a skycap a twenty dollar tip and he slapped a Priority tag on her luggage so fast it was almost as if it had always been there. When it comes to travel, I learn quick and whenever I’m forced to check a bag, I follow her example and I’ve never not gotten the magical tag. Said tag not only insures that the bag will be the first unloaded, but also that at no point will my luggage be used as a football.

  When I get to the airport, my driver pulls up right behind a bus. “Oh, no,” he said.

  “What’s the matter?” I asked.

  “Cruisers.”

  “Police cars?”

  “No,” he sighed. “Cruise people. One of the ships must have docked this morning and now you’re going to be behind all these morons. From the looks of them, it was an Alaskan cruise. Good luck, ma’am. You’ll need it.” Then he handed me my bag and drove off, rather quickly now that I remember it.

  But the line for the skycap was only a few people deep so I figured it couldn’t be so bad, plus the kiosks were mobbed inside, with the line of passengers snaking down the length of the terminal and back up around.

  As I waited behind two couples, a harried-looking chauffeur kept making trips back and forth from a big passenger van. Although the number of customers in front of me didn’t get any larger, the amount of baggage they were checking grew exponentially until there were five massive pieces of luggage for every hunched old person.

  When I say massive, I mean it. I’ve never seen such enormous suitcases. An adult could have easily zipped him- or herself inside and still had more room than your typical airplane bathroom. Seriously, I’m talking massive towers of bags the same size (and floral fabric) of those overstuffed couches that were all the rage in the eighties. Although I wouldn’t say I’m a clotheshorse, I have a decent-sized wardrobe, yet I assure you everything in my closet would fit in three of these bags.

  I didn’t get the full measure of exactly how heavy the bags were until the older woman in front of me knocked one of them onto my foot and spilt my toenail in half. I haven’t felt pain like this since a horse stepped on me in college. As I howled, clutching my shoe and hopping around one-legged in pain, the woman merely turned around, looked me up and down, shrugged, and then turned back around without picking up her fallen bag.

  Wait.

  What?

  Oh, bitch… it is on.

  For the first fifteen minutes in line, I was too focused on my throbbing digits and roiling rage to notice that the line seemed to have stalled. But fifteen minutes after that, I began to wonder if there wasn’t a problem, as neither of the two couples in front of me had moved. As I looked up and down the white unloading zone, I saw that every other skycap was surrounded by tiny old people and mass amounts of baggage.

  And this? Right here? Is why I’m never moving to Florida.

  The beleaguered skycap was whizzing around, at least in spirit. He was banging on his computer keys and printing out long, sticky bag claims before wadding them up and trying again. I couldn’t figure out the problem, but he seemed enormously distressed and it wasn’t until he staggered out from behind the counter that I noticed he had a terrible limp, too.

  Fucking cruisers.

  Eventually the first old couple finished their business. I noticed that they were responsible for only four pieces from Mount Samsonite, so that meant the couple ahead of the rest of us in the line was in charge of the remaining sixteen. While we waited, a few random old folks shoved their way in front of me to talk to the Toenail Assassin, and then they’d meander away again, so she must have been responsible for checking everyone’s bag in addition to ruining my pedicure.

  None of us in line could move up, though, because the lady refused to scoot any of her bags closer to the desk. At one point she said to me, “Why don’t you move those?” and I pointed to my savaged piggy toe saying, “I can’t. I’m crippled.” So she left them.

  Forty-five minutes into the wait, the rest of us in line got to know each other, forming the kind of bonds forged during war or hostage situations or freshman year of college. I had a deeply meaningful chat with Bernie, who was headed out to DeKalb to spend some time with his fiancée’s family. Yeah, it took him a while to come around to realizing that he wanted to get married, but hey, how often is he going to meet a cool gal like Casey? So he took a leap of faith and it totally paid off and I hoped to dance at their wedding. If I could ever walk again, that is.

  After quite some time, Bernie decided he’d take another leap and try the terminal inside because clearly this line was never moving. He promised to come back for us if it was any better inside, but we knew he never would. At some point, self-preservation kicks in. We all sorely felt the loss of Bernie; he was kind of like our mascot.

  At this point, the woman in front of me knocked her suitcase over again, but I was able to hop out of the way. When she wasn’t looking, I gave it a solid kick with my good foot.

  The Lopezes were very excited to see their grandson for the first time and maybe going to the top of the Sears Tower if they had the chance, and please, God, let their kids have gotten a new sofa bed so it didn’t mess up Jose’s back again. That thing was going to be the death of them!

  Bill and Brian were ecstatic about their wicked pissah meeting at Microsoft, although they were dreading the long flight back to Boston in coach. Maybe if they landed the deal, their boss would let them do business class next time. Bloody Marys were on them if our crew ever made it inside to the bar.

  And then there was Bubbe Bernbaum, who announced she was not about to spend the few years she had left in this fakakta line and what the hell was wrong with the meshugenah with all the fakakta luggage? Then she rammed some of the offending pieces of luggage with her wheelchair. Bubbe Bernbaum raised such a stink that eventually another skycap came out to assist, fifty-four minutes after I arrived.

  Bubbe Bernbaum is the only reason that I’m not currently standing in that line today.

  The kicker is that after taking up an entire hour of the skycap’s time and, most likely maiming his foot, too, the woman gave him a five dollar tip. Five dollars! At that point, airport security be damned, I couldn’t take it anymore. I shouted after her, “Hey, lady! I’ve got your five dollars right here! Bend over!”

  She shrugged and then turned back around.

  ARGH.

  Of course, everyone in line clapped for me, but hey, that’s what friends do.

  I didn’t want to engage the skycap too much when I got to the counter so I was extra-prepared with my ticket, license, and big tip. “I can’t believe after all that, she only gave you five dollars.”

  All he said in response was, “Cruisers.”

  Security also took forever, largely because three TSA agents spent ten minutes pawing through every single item in the Toenail Assassin’s carry-on bags. When it was my turn to have my license checked, I pointed and told the agent she was a problem outside, too. [Congratulations to me for being a walking, talking piece of the Patriot Act!] Last I saw, she was being escorted to one of the little rooms off of security.

  If there is a God—and I believe there is—she received a full cavity search.

  Bet they found five dollars up there.

  I arrived home four and a half hours later and without further incident. I stumbled going up my front step and that night I needed Fletch’s help to get the television off whatever weird button I’d accidentally pressed and back on my TiVoed copy of American Idol. Then I spilled a bowl of grapes and we had to move the couch to find them all.

  We were laughing as we chased down all the shiny green orbs and in so doing, I knocked over my glass of wine, and almost soaked the cheese plate. “My God, it’s like I can’t do anything.”

  Then I remembered my three weeks of smooth sailing through airports as I crisscrossed the country.

  So I amended my statement.

  “I mean, almost anything.”

  Reluctant Adult Lesson Learned:

&nbs
p; Play to your strengths. (And remember, there’s no shame in taking the bus or the train if air travel perplexes you.)

  C·H·A·P·T·E·R T·W·E·N·T·Y-T·W·O

  That’s the Night That the Lights Went Out (in Lake County)

  We are the kind of people who are prepared in this house.

  Always prepared.

  Utterly prepared.

  Of course, the manner of preparation varies according to each member of the household. The cats, for example, have a bead on the cabinet where their food’s kept, and at least ten times in the night—every night—they pry open said cabinet to feast on the exact same kibble located in their endless feeding bowl one foot away from the scene of the crime. [We eventually have to install baby locks.]

  As for the dogs, they’ve stashed no less than eight thousand bones and tennis balls throughout our home, thus assuring the human members of the household frequently twist their ankles stumbling over said objects in the dark when they’re roused to check on the cats’ banging.

  Fletch says this is the dogs’ way of preparing for impending doom. He figures if the balloon [Or is it the bubble? I can never get this expression right.] goes up, the dogs’ plan is to hobble us so we’re easier to catch and eat. Considering these same dogs spend the majority of their day barking at their reflections in the window and tossing their own salads, I’m hard-pressed to believe they’re capable of this level of vigilance.

  I, on the other hand, am that kind of capable. Seriously, you’ve never seen anyone so ready for some shit to go down; all you need to do is take a peek inside my purse.

  If you’ve ever rushed a sorority or worked with a skilled wedding planner, you’re acquainted with the magical bag of tricks these ladies [Or the occasional fancy gent.] carry. Now I’m not talking your garden-variety bag containing mints or a couple of Kleenex (which, of course, they have.) Rather, the level of preparation contained within their satchels is an art form. Did your clumsy new spouse accidentally step on the hem of your dress during your first dance? Did your drunken sister-in-law-to-be spill her red wine in the limo? Did your monthly bill arrive right before the Alpha Phi open house? No worries! A good rush counselor/wedding planner has everything needed for a quick fix from sewing kits to stain wipes to every kind of tampon manufactured in North America designed to staunch any flow from spotty to tsunami.

  Because I pack my purse for my own eventualities, my emergency supplies are a little more personalized. For example, I’m never without at least one extra string of pearls, earrings, and a bracelet. Because I’m concerned about squint lines [Botox can do only so much, you know.] I always carry a spare set of contact lenses, eyedrops, and at least two pair of sunglasses. Depending on what kind of hair day I’m having, I can simply smooth out my tresses with the brush, yank it back in a ponytail holder, tame an unruly bit with bobby pins, get more sun on my face via pearl-adorned or tortoiseshell headbands, or coax my bangs back into shape with a single pink Velcro curler.

  My smile’s guaranteed to look its best due to ample supplies of floss, gloss, balm, liner, and three shades of lipstick, which I apply depending on my mood and state of my tan. Should I want longer eyelashes, I have lengthener mascara and if I want them thicker, I have thickening. Although I hope the circumstances never arise, I’m also carrying enough concealer to camouflage a black eye or blemish up to and including the size of Mount Vesuvius.

  Do I keep sparkle powder on hand?

  Oh, honey, please.

  Do you prefer iridescent pink or shimmering gold?

  In more practical terms, I never need to make awkward conversation in a long line at Costco because I can busy myself with my iPhone, iPad, [Complete with earphones.] and fully charged Kindle e-reader.

  Should my feet get cold, I have a spare pair of socks and if I ever find myself in shoes that aren’t one hundred percent comfortable, I’m packing Band-Aids, anti-rub blister stick, and the cutest little black bow-topped ballerina flats that not only match everything I own but also curl up to the size of a Honeycrisp apple.

  My Leatherman tool allows me to open wine bottles, turn screws, snip wires, and, if needed, cut a bitch. [To this point, I’ve only used it for wine, though.] I can start fires with my matchbook and cure anything from anxiety to acid reflux to shoulders strained by lugging too much with my ample pharmaceutical stock. I can even secure all the items in my bag with my ever-present gym lock!

  On top of the extras, I port the basics, too, like credit cards, writing devices including at least one Sharpie in case anyone wants an autograph, [So far no one’s wanted one, but when they do, I’ll be all over it!] a checkbook, a compact, a handkerchief, and four kinds of nail polish.

  Ironically, I never seem to have more than about eight dollars of cash on me, but that’s not the point.

  The point is we like to be ready. I suspect this compulsion stems from when we were unemployed and practically destitute back when the dot-com market crashed. We were caught at such unawares that we vowed to never be taken by surprise again. I mean, if you’ve ever dined on a faux pizza made with stale hamburger buns, tomato paste, and nonfat mozzarella cheese because that’s all you have, you never, ever forget it.

  And now, while this whole author thing seems to be at least semipermanent, I’ve yet to get rid of the clothes I wore when I worked temp jobs because my perpetual state of “what if” never permits me to let down my guard.

  I liken us to the older generations who lived through the Depression. No matter how good and bountiful their lives are now, they can’t forget what it was like to want or need. Because of that, they stockpile resources. Grandma Daisy isn’t showing signs of senility when she cans every wormy peach she plucks off the tree before her driver drops her off for lunch at the country club; she’s hedging her bets.

  Fletch’s preparedness veers more towards the dramatic. He believes the eventualities for which we might prepare are a bit more apocalyptic. Maybe it’s his military training or perhaps he watches too much it’s-the-end-of-the-world-as-we-know-it Discovery Channel programming. But for whatever reason, he’s concerned a major catastrophe will occur in our lifetime. When it happens, he assures me we’ll be all over it.

  Bless his tinfoil-hat-wearing heart.

  As soon as we moved to the suburbs, Fletch converted our basement to a veritable army surplus store. Tucked between plastic tubs of ancient sorority sweatshirts and framed photos of me from a spectacularly big-haired [And small-assed. Sigh.] time period, Fletch has been squirreling away everything from water purification tablets to Arctic weather–grade sleeping bags.

  He promises nothing will catch us off guard. Like, if a riot breaks out on the mean streets of Lake Forest? Perhaps in the main square by J. Crew or the Talbots? Across from the farmer’s market where they sell those magnificent heirloom tomatoes? Then his grenade simulators will disperse any crowd!

  Chemical attack? No worries! Fletch’s premeasured sheets of window-sealing plastic and industrial-strength duct tape are located on the shelf marked Zombie War next to the box containing my Christmas nativity scene. (He’s very helpfully drawn an arrow towards his arsenal, so I won’t confuse his thousand rounds of ammo with the Baby Jesus figurine.)

  And if the Russians ever invade à la Red Dawn, trust me when I say it will be Fletcher shouting, “Wolverines!” and leading the counterattack.

  If being prepared is a virtue, then he’s Mother-freaking-Teresa.

  Like I said, we pride ourselves on being ready for whatever happens next.

  Or so we thought.

  We’re upstairs having post-dinner ice cream [Try Graeter’s Black Raspberry Chocolate Chip—you’ll thank me.] and watching White Collar when I notice the sky has turned the same shade of purple as my dessert.

  “That doesn’t seem right,” I comment.

  “I’m sure it’s fine,” Fletch replies, eyes fixed to the screen. I suspect someone may have a big boy crush on Tiffani (formerly Amber) Thiessen. [Oh, Kelly Kapowski, your legacy lives on.] �
��Besides, if the weather were really bad, we’d be seeing an alert.”

  We’re at the point in the summer that we pretty much ignore inclement weather warnings. I swear that some sort of alert goes on every damn day and I’ve yet to see an episode of So You Think You Can Dance that isn’t at least partially obscured by a map of the tri-state area and rolling crawl announcing the possibility of wind in a bunch of counties of which I’ve never even heard.

  Seriously, there’s no reason for the hyper-enthusiastic StormTeamSix folks to break into whatever I’m watching fifteen times an hour to tell me I’m going to get wet if I go outside. Um, yeah, guys, that’s why I choose to live indoors. When it starts raining frogs, feel free to interrupt our regularly scheduled programming. Otherwise, I need to be able to hear whether or not Mary Murphy’s putting Caitlynn and Tadd on the Hot Tamale Train for their interpretation of the cha-cha-cha, so stuff a prepacked sock in it, why don’t you?

  We continue to watch the show, although I do keep stealing glances out the window. The sky’s the exact color of the bruise I got when that horse stepped on me in college. Stupid horse. [This is, what? My fourth mention of the horse? I must really be holding a grudge.]

  “Trees are getting kind of bendy,” I comment.

  His eyes don’t leave the screen. “It’s fine.”

  The downside of Fletch’s level of preparedness is that he tends to not sweat the small stuff. Me? I’m all about the small stuff. I mean, a zombie war may happen once in a lifetime, whereas I apply lipstick many times a day.

  The wind begins to howl so loudly that Fletch has to adjust the volume. I say, “What’s happening out there is the opening scene of The Wizard of Oz. I just saw an old lady knitting in her rocking chair go by, plus a cow, an antenna, and a couple of guys rowing a dingy.”