Back in fifth grade, I started having panic attacks over being late to school. That was the year my older brothers had moved on to high school, leaving me to walk by myself. It was an odd combination of growing social awareness, self-image, and basically being a baby about things.
I could have walked with Laura, the girl across the street who I’d had a crush on since I was four years old. But that terrified me even more. I really, really liked her…I sure as hell couldn’t talk to her.
Pretty much every morning I’d screw around getting ready, and eat an extra bowl of cereal until Laura was gone. Then panic would set in because I’d be late, and I’d beg my mother to drive me to school. To close the deal, I’d start crying and then she’d cave in just to shut me up.
Honestly, I should have worked on this when I was in therapy a few years ago, but it was still too embarrassing.
That grew into a general anxiety about being late to things. It would ambush me at odd times for the next twenty years, sending me into a panic because I was going to be late to something. Anything: picking up a rental car for a friend’s wedding, getting to the airport, or good, old getting to school on time.
One particularly bizarre moment came when I was in the marching band in ninth grade, and needed to get to the high school for our pre-game march. Everybody in my house who could have given me a ride had left for the evening, so I had to get myself there.
It was only a mile walk, but I decided to take the bus because I knew walking in that heavy, wool uniform would make me sweat like a hog. The bus would get me pretty close to the high school with just one transfer.
We’d been taking the bus for years either for dentist appointments or to just go to the mall. Not a big deal. Dressed up in blue and gold, carrying my watermelon-sized fur hat (like the Water Buffalo hats from the Flintstones), I headed for the bus stop thinking, What could go wrong?
I trudged to the corner of Ridge and Memphis and—lucky me—a bus was just then arriving. I scuttled along in my blue and gold and plopped down in the seat.
A few bus stops came and went and then I noticed that things weren’t looking like they were supposed to. As the Gold Circle discount department store came into view, I realized in horror that I’d gotten on the 82 west bus, instead of the 23 south.
I jumped off the bus and crossed the street, hoping another bus would arrive to start over. Panic set in as I realized that no bus was coming, and even if it did, I’d probably be late. Now, instead of having a one-mile walk, I was at least two miles away.
With my heart racing and my skin already damp with sweat, I started to run.
Times have changed a bit for me. Maybe it’s the wisdom of the years, or maybe it was last year’s cancer, but I don’t panic as much about being late. My wife will attest I get stressed when we run late—and we’re almost always late—but I don’t freak out.
At least I don’t panic.
Last Wednesday was probably as strong a test as I could have gotten. On my way back home, waiting for a flight out of Houston, the weather in the Midwest caused delays going into Chicago. Sure enough, the delay would make me miss my connection into Lansing.
I got in line to talk with the booking agent at the gate and casually checked my email. American Airlines had already rebooked my flight. Instead of a five hour, two leg journey, they put me on a two day, four-leg journey. (That kind of sucked.)
Thinking I was better off in Chicago, I got the booking agent to throw that away and stick me back on the delayed flight to Chicago. I thought I could rent a car and drive home from there. (It’s not a terrible drive from Chicago, and there’s a Jimmy Johns in Michigan City, Indiana where I was just one sandwich away from getting a free Turkey Tom!)
However, none of the rental car agencies in Chicago would rent me a car for a one-way, one-day drive. I suppose there’s not enough profit in it for them, but I was stuck. My wife booked me on a Greyhound bus for the next day.
All I had to do was spend the night at O’Hare. Sure, I could have gotten a hotel and then taken a cab to the bus station, but where’s the fun in that?
I suppose I slept a bit during the night, but O’Hare never really shuts down. After midnight, cleaning crews sweep over every public space. Maintenance crews drive miniature vehicles back and forth, fixing stuff—or maybe just making noise. The various restaurants and kiosks take delivery of stock.
At four o’clock in the morning, the red-eye flights start arriving, and the coffee shops open up. Folks with early flights start flowing into the airport around five o’clock. By six, it’s full-on business as usual.
Fine, I thought. I can sleep on the bus.
I caught the train to downtown Chicago and waited at the bus station. In case you’re wondering, the bus station reminded me of prison common areas I’ve seen on TV: all the furniture was made of steel, and it was all bolted to the floor.
I was stressed, but still not panicked. Despite the garbled departure announcements over the public address system, I got on the correct bus.
The bus driver was interesting. He yelled at a late-arriving passenger, then yelled at the passenger again when he took a phone call on speakerphone. (“I don’t want to hear your conversation.”) A few minutes later, the bus driver pulled the bus to the side of the highway and confronted that same passenger for once again taking a phone call on speaker. (“I will call the Sheriff and put you off this bus! Understand me?”)
The passenger didn’t speak a word of English, but I think he got the message.
We pulled over in Grand Rapids to pick up more passengers, and the driver went inside a Burger King. I was kind of hungry myself, but we were locked inside the bus.
Well, I have two advanced degrees, so I studied the dashboard, found the button to open the door, and went inside to grab a Whopper Junior.
Upon my return, the bus driver was yelling at the passengers. “Nobody touches my door. You touch my door, you’re going to walk. Do not test me again.”
I sat my ass down and ate my burger, stressed about how long of a walk it is from Grand Rapids to Lansing (about 64 miles, give or take).
But I didn’t panic. And I made it home.
Back in 9th grade, I did eventually make it to the high school in time to join our march to the football stadium. A few people noticed that it looked like I’d just ran a two miles wearing a heavy wool band uniform, and that maybe I needed some oxygen. I had to lay outside in the grass until I stopped sweating.
Then I put on my big, furry hat, grabbed my tenor sax, and got in line with the woodwinds.
Meanwhile, at My Writing Desk…
My book is available for pre-sale:
Ashley Undone, a crime story and family drama, is available for pre-order. Set in Ann Arbor, it’s a Cinderella story pitting love of family against the evil of greed.
As I may have already mentioned, reviews and early sales help a book more than anything. If you enjoy my stories here, you’ll love Ashley Undone.
Note: The price may lower before it launches and I’m pretty sure you get the lower price. For those of you here on the Picayune, if you let me know you bought the pre-order of Ashley Undone, I’ll send you a collection of Mickey Picayunes covering 2019-2024.
Also, if you’d like an advance review copy, click here.
Maybe You’d Like
This week, I’ve joined a group of authors for stories to make your toes curl:
https://storyoriginapp.com/to/JogeF6g
Next Picayune
Thanks for reading the Mickey Picayune. I’ll be back in two weeks with more fun stuff.
All the best,
Mickey