Is There A Problem Here?

Want a story about BEG? OK, get your coffee.

When I went to Boston last weekend I asked BEG if she would take me to the airport on Friday morning. That way I wouldn’t have to leave a car in the remote parking lot at the airport. She said she would do it, but she was also going to a seminar in Fort Worth that morning so she said she would just drop me off early.

My flight was at 9:30 am and she had to be in downtown Fort Worth at 8:00 am. I won’t bore you with the details of the timeline, you only need to know that she was on a mission to drop me, then head 30 miles to the west and she didn’t want to be late.

When we arrived at the airport she accidentally overshot the correct terminal for my flight. That meant she had to make a full loop through the traffic of the wrong terminal in order to return to the correct terminal.

That took extra time. It was extra time she used to scrunch her face into a look that seemed to say “you are not my favorite person right now.” I don’t know why. I didn’t miss the turn for the terminal. She frantically honked at a man pushing an empty wheelchair through a pedestrian zone. He stopped and looked at her completely confused as to why she was honking at him. He was approximately 90 years old. It took a while for him to re-group, confounding the exasperation of one “I’m in a damn hurry you ignorant old fool” BEG. I sat quietly wearing my wrong turn assigned guilt like a good soldier.

I bought BEG a new Ford pick-up truck last year. We needed a truck and she likes to feel safe when driving. No problem. She is now an authentic 107 pound Texas girl in a four door pick-up truck and she drives as if she understands her vehicular rank when she is in a hurry.

We ultimately arrived at the door of the proper gate at the proper terminal. Her watch was ticking like a time bomb in her ear. I opened the door of the truck and got out. She said “I love you, run like the champ you are.” I closed the front door. BEG drove off.

I quickly banged my fist on the trucks bed. She waved merrily with her right hand and I could see her smiling at me in the reflection of the rear view mirror. She was gaining speed as she moved out of the drop-off zone and into the flow of traffic.

I chased her waving my arms. I’m pretty damned fast, but I preferred to save the running for the track meet in Boston. I yelled. A cop on the sidewalk looked at me and blew his whistle at BEG trying to help. She kept going. I kept going!

Finally she saw me running behind the truck, looking like O.J. in the commercials of long ago, jumping seating and suitcases in pursuit of a flight, except I was chasing a truck.
She pulled to the curb and stopped. She lowered the passenger window to talk to me.
She asked “What’s the matter, did you forget to tell me something?”
I said “No”
She said “Did you forget your tickets?”
I said “No”
“Oh”, she said, "you are so adorable; you forgot to say you loved me back. That is so sweet. But, I’m really going to be late sweetie, I’ll see you in a couple of days.”
The cop that blew the whistle came up behind me, tapped me on the shoulder, and wanted to know what was going on.
As I explained the situation to Barney Fife, BEG rolled up the window, blew me a kiss and took off again!
I started chasing her again, waving my arms and yelling at the top of my voice. Fife was yelling at me to stop running.
She saw me in the rear view mirror again. She stopped and rolled down the window again. All the love was lost. Her face was imploring. It was a face that seemed to both glare and say WTF is it with you???????....
I decided I better tell her straight out and not try to answer her questions this time, besides Fife was on his way down the sidewalk again. He owned persistence, but not my trained and honed speed.

“Could I please have my suitcase from the backseat?” I said.

BEG lit up in the biggest grin this side of a Texas sunset, and said “Seven, you are the most forgetful thing, you worry me sometimes.”
I smiled, opened the rear door she had never given me a chance to open 50 yards up the terminal street, took out my suitcase and stepped back to get out of her way.

When she was gone I muttered under my breath in a way that would make Steve Martin proud, “Well, EXXCCUUUUSE ME !!

Of course that was about the same instant I realized my cell phone was in my pocket. Hers was in the truck's console. Calling is easier than running, but after all I am forgetful it's said.

Postscript: It wasn’t a great morning for me. There’s more. It gets worse. Wanna hear about it?