My Bout with Terminal C

This is essentially therapy, written this morning after spending 11 hours in Newark Airport yesterday. I figured I may as well get a little airplay out of it:

Trying to forget the disastrous time I had on Wednesday trying to reschedule my canceled flight to Charlotte, change my return flight, reschedule my Sunday furniture delivery, reschedule the rental car, dodge phone calls from work, contact the kennel and change my parking, I loaded the dogs into the car and dropped them off in Hillsborough.Returning home, I finished packing some odds and ends and checked the flight status one last time before shutting down my laptop and rendering it "carry on". The flight was still on.
I zipped along Rt. 78 East towards Newark Airport, past cars that *I think* were parked in various staggered locations along all three lanes. (Am I the only one who still drives 85?) This left me plenty of time to tour scenic Newark looking for the Avistar parking lot, where I had prepaid for my long-term parking. [CUT TO: TWENTY pot-hole jarring, garbage-truck following, Escalade-counting MINUTES LATER] Not having much time left, I decide to settle for airport parking. As I nestle into a parking space, I felt much the gratified cheese-seeking mouse at the end of the maze.
I depart the AirTrain at Terminal C and headed for "Domestic Check-In".
Now, either U2 was putting on a concert at the Domestic Check-In counter, or I need to queue myself at the end of a very long line of domestic travelers. It was the latter.
t this point, I'm still feeling pretty good - I blew a couple bucks on parking, the thermometers at the airport all read "Absolute Zero" and I was standing at the end of a line containing most of humanity, but it's all good. An hour and a half later, I show my expedia.com itinerary to an agent who is finally able to find me in the computer.
"I'm sorry, that flight's been canceled."
"I see."
"Let me see if there's anything else."
Susan proceeded to type the entire text of Gone With The Wind into the computer terminal, and finally declared, "I can get you on stand-by for a 4:00 direct flight to Charlotte."
"I guess I don't have any choice."
I took my ticket for seat SBY and eagerly headed for Security Checkpoint C-2, where I was disappointed to learn there would be no frisking or cavity searches done. By the time I reach Gate 103B, I see on the Departure Board that my flight has been delayed until 5:20. It's 12:45 now, so I boot up the ole laptop, plug in the Verizon Wireless network card and check my Yahoo! and work e-mail.
Okay, it's now 12:48. I look around at the other alleged passengers and realize that in order not to look like a newbie flyer, I should assume the posture of the veteran, annoyed passenger. I surprisingly find I have little trouble nailing this role.1:00. Must move about. I load up my laptop and head back out to the civilian masses, secretly hoping that they've initiated the frisking and cavity searching policies in the interim. I sit. Look around. Change seats. Buy a NY Times and complete the crossword puzzle (Thank you). Sit. People watch. Change seats. This goes on until 4PM when I make my way through frisk-less / cavity-searchless Security Checkpoint C-2 once again and resume my seat-changing, people watching pastime inside at Gate 103B. Another look at the Departure Board shows my flight still scheduled to take off at 5:20, but now from Gate 101. Yes! Progress! And something to do! I make my way down the 16 feet of corridor to Gate 101 and resume my activities.
A few minutes later I feel eyes on me and notice a guy standing in line at the desk is staring at me. I look away, assuming he's not really staring, but lost in thought. Five minutes later I look again and he's still staring. Okay, he should not be doing this. Especially not to me, especially not now. I stare back at him and feel my molars clench. He looks away and doesn't look back. That was easy… and entertaining. I search the crowd for other people staring but could find none.
The Continental people working the gate make an announcement, "Flight 5072 to Charlotte is booked solid, so we won't be able to board any standby passengers until the plane is completely boarded."
That's encouraging.
The woman sitting next to me and I begin commiserating on our travel mishaps.
"I've been trying to get from Buffalo to Tampa for three days now and I've been stuck in Newark for two of them.", she says.
"Wow, that sucks. This is my third attempt to get to Charlotte in two days."
She continues, "I'd give a hundred dollars if someone would just give me their ticket. You'd think somebody FROM here would give their ticket to somebody stuck in a layover. Be a gentleman or something."
"Yeah."
"Where did you say you were from?"
"Here."
"Oh, sorry."
Finally 5:10 arrives and all the general boarding passengers are on the plane. They make the final boarding announcements for flight 5072 "Last call for passenger Chickita Rodriguez", then call two standby passengers to the desk, "Cotto" and "Holmes". There are only two available seats and Cotto and I stand by the counter as if we'd won the lottery. I use the counter and a tall potted plant to hide myself from the Buffalo woman."This is really, really the last call for passenger Rodriguez. I really mean it this time. I'm not kiddin' around now."Cotto and I both mutter, "Yeah, yeah, hurry up and close the gate so we can get on board."The gate guy takes my ticket and tears the stub. He does the same for Cotto, and we slowly head for the plane. Suddenly I hear a screeching "coochie-coochie" and a woman rushes to the counter with her ticket in her outstretched hand. It's Chickita Rodriguez.
"Cotto you go, Holmes, you stay (In Newark)."
"Okay, se ya."
I find it best not to stand in one spot for fear I may break, harm, injure anything in my vicinity, so I head back to the "Re-Accommodation" line, which is similar to the U2 line, only Foreigner is playing and no one is moving.
After the first hour in the Re-Accommodation line, I can feel the dam that holds back my inner evil slowly become compromised. It's subtle at first. "What exactly IS a book repository?", I wonder. This place makes Ellis Island look like an EZPass lane.Three hours and several imagined assassinations later, I reach the re-accommodation agent and explain my situation.There are no flights available to Charlotte until Sunday.I reach into my lapel for my silenced .45 but quickly remember those were only happy dreams. In disgust, I cancel everything I could possibly cancel, the return flight, my Newsweek and Cable subscriptions. I canceled the guy NEXT to me's flight.Whatever. I'll just get my one piece of luggage and go home.
It's now 7:40 PM.
The agent instructs me to go the baggage center with my ticket with a piece of the baggage check stuck on it to reclaim my bag.The line here is only 20 minutes and I'm told they will retrieve my bag, where it will be sent to Carousel 9.
Relieved to be done with this ordeal, I sit at Carousel 9 and wait for my luggage. And I sit. And I wait. And I sit. I chew on a few more tic-tacs, which have accounted for all of my sustenance today.At 9:00 I return to the baggage center to explain that it's been an hour and my luggage is still missing.
I receive more encouraging news, "If they find it, it'll be sent to Carousel 9."
"If?"
"Yes, if"
"That's encouraging."
See? I told you it was encouraging.
I return to Carousel 9, watching happy travelers come and go - WITH their luggage. As my confidence in airline efficiency is beginning to wane, I begin checking the other carousels in the off-chance that they mixed up carousel numbers. Carousel 8. Nope. Carousel 7. Nope. Carousels 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1? Nope. Now equating my missing luggage with Polly Purebread, I reach into the secret compartment of my ring for a beta-blocker. "There's no need to stroke-out, Antenolol is here."
10:10PM. (Read: LIQUOR STORES ARE NOW CLOSED) I return to the baggage center where I learn that baggage retrieval is now closed for the night. I tell the woman behind the counter my plight.
"This bag was loaded onto the flight at 5:00"
"You mean it SAYS that in the computer?"
"Yes. Who did you talk to? Why didn't they tell you that?"
I don't remember who they were, I just recall them looking strangely like Abe Lincoln and Anwar Sadat.
I file the claim and arrange for my luggage to be dropped off at my house and board the AirTrain, where I'm pleased to have successfully traveled SOMEWHERE, even if it is from Terminal C to parking lot FP-4.
I paid $24 for parking and shivered my way home.

If you're looking for the ray of sunshine in this story, there are two:I had considered tossing my car keys into my luggage when I reached the airport. Fortunately I zipped them into my laptop case.I never DID get to reschedule my Sunday furniture delivery, which means I'll have new couches this weekend.This little story is the only mileage I'll ever get out of Continental.