As most of you know, Billy Fix and I flew in and out of Raleigh to get to the Czervik Cup. On Thursday night, our drive to Pinehurst was leisurely paced and although we never really timed the trip, Bill and I decided it would take us "about an hour" to get back to Raleigh on the way home. On Sunday, our flight departed at 5:50pm so we figured we would leave Pinehurst around 3:30pm, allowing plenty of time to catch our flight.
Upon conclusion of play on Sunday, Bill and I sojourned to the bar since golf is such thirsty work. It was already 3:30, but surely we had enough time for one beer. Three rounds later, Bill and I decide it might be time to head out (after taking a couple extra minutes to acquire a bag of ice to cool down the remaining beers in the Escalade—no way could we risk an hour drive without cold beer handy).
Our return trip was progressing nicely as we regaled each other with our adventures on the links. Our clock read 4:50 when we noticed a sign along the highway. The sign read "Raleigh...39 miles." 60 minutes until take-off, 39 miles away. We both silently processed that information, turned to each other, and in the same instant eloquently exclaimed, "FUCK!!!!"
In one smooth and silky motion, Bill slammed the accelerator to the floor, switched his beer to his left hand, scooped up his cell and quick-dialed Southwest Airlines. "Um, we're on the 5:50 flight to BWI and we might be a little late. When's your next flight out?" Unable to hear the agent's response, I was left to presume from the tone of Bill's F-bomb that the 5:50 was the last flight of the day. Indeed it was.
Failure Is Not An Option
Now racing down the highway at 85 mph, the next 10 minutes passed in silence—interrupted only by a short conversation in which we agreed that we are both fucking idiots. We each checked the clock about twice a minute, hoping we could slow time through force of sheer will. It didn't work.
5:00pm. 26 miles away. Okay, time to make a plan. Every minute would be precious. "Screw filling the tank with gas—we’ll pay the penalty."
5:05pm. 20 miles to go. "We'll check-in first before returning the car."
5:10pm. 13 miles away. "When we return the car, forget the shuttle—we’ll get somebody at Enterprise to take us back to the terminal."
5:15pm. 6 miles from the airport. "Oh man...this is gonna be tight!!"
We devise our final plan: Our only hope is curbside check-in. We'll pull over, pack up our gear, check-in, return the rental and haul ass to the gate. Bill notes that if we slip the guy a $20 our chances will improve dramatically. Of course, we have $0 cash between us. Not even a dollar. But we have an ace in the hole: we have beer on ice and a half pack of smokes, which we decide is quite negotiable and legal tender. It would have to do.
At 5:20pm, 30 minutes before takeoff, we screech to a halt in front of curbside check-in. "MOVE!!" Like hungry panthers launching at prey, we leap out of the vehicle. With cool precision we load our bags, bound past everyone waiting in line and explain to the fine gentleman our predicament. Our offer of free beer is politely refused, and he assures us that we would just barely make it (of course, he did not know we had yet to return our rental car).
Okay, not off the hook yet. Grab our boarding passes and race back to the car. At 5:25, as we pull into the Enterprise lot, I look down at my boarding pass. It is sticking part way out of the jacket and I notice something odd. It does not say "Mike McGowan." It says "Malcolm McLeod." Oh Jesus God in Heaven it is NOT my boarding pass!
No Turning Back
I turn to Fix and say, "Bill, we just missed our flight."
"What do you mean?"
"I have the wrong boarding pass."
"Oh shit."
Bill reaches into his pocket and pulls out his pass. Only it's not just his. He has mine as well. The situation crystallizes in an instant: In my haste I had grabbed the wrong pass off the counter—and in so doing totally fucked some guy who is just trying to get home. As I try to balance emotions of guilt and joy, Bill utters what will become another classic Fixism: Shaking his head, and with a slight shrug of his shoulders, Bill says, "Well, Malcolm's just gonna have to take one for the team."
Meanwhile, somewhere near curbside check-in, a man named Malcolm McLeod is desperately checking and rechecking every pocket and bag on his person. "What the FUCK did I do with my boarding pass???"
Bill and I drop off the car. This time, our offer of beer is eagerly accepted as a young man drives us back to the terminal. 5:35pm. Through security at 5:40, and then it's a full sprint to the gate. I can't be certain, but I think both Bill and I have lost a step. At 5:45pm, 100 meters from the gate, we hear our names paged as absolute last call, and we both stumble to the door a moment before they lock it down.
Now comfortably in our seats at 5:50pm, our conversation turns to the plight of one Malcolm McLeod, who at that moment was likely being told by a burly fellow something along the lines of: "I’m sorry, sir, but our records show that your boarding pass has already been issued. At threat level Orange we simply can not allow you to board this aircraft until you present your own pass. However, we do have another flight to Austin that departs in 3 hours—only $575 which includes the meal."
Good old Malcolm. He took one for the team. Well, we know he lives in Austin and checks two bags when he travels. Perhaps we can find him and make him a Captain's Choice for next year.