I should have known it was going to be a bad day when the rum broke.

I bought a bottle of Appleton Rum to bring back to the States.  This is the ubiquitous alcohol that they put in just about everything in Jamaica – frozen drinks, mixed drinks, milkshakes, baby food, whatever.  I wasn’t sure if you could get it in the US (you can), so I picked up a liter at the gift shop.  I figured I would bring it back to NYC and at some point throw a Caribbean-themed party at my place for my friends, which would consist of us drinking the rum in pineapple juice, watching VH1 Classic in silence, then going out to our local bar to sit in silence.  It would be an awesome party.

But when packing up yesterday morning, my last day in Jamaica, I knocked the bottle of rum off the hotel room desk and onto the floor, where it broke.  Fortunately, it was wrapped in newspaper and taped up so it didn’t spill everywhere, but I should have known that was an omen.  Because the rest of my Wednesday totally fucking sucked.

Before I continue, I should declare that I have only two pet peeves: 1) Don’t touch my shit; and 2) Be on time.  If I am punctual to the point of compulsion, I am possessive to the point of mania.  It is a major con, I know, but I can’t help it.  I like my shit.  I like to use it, look at it, wear it, or wrap it around my testes – whatever the situation calls for.  Although I am more than happy to let others use it, all I ask from anyone in my life is to not mess with it and/or fuck it up.  And also, just be on time.     

At 9:30am, the hotel shuttle was to take us to the airport for our 1:30pm flights (I was the only one returning to NYC, while the rest of the party was flying back to Philly, but our flights were only minutes apart).  We were instructed to leave our bags outside our hotel room doors at 8:30am.  At that time, a member of the hotel staff would come by, bring it to the shuttle, and from there it would be loaded onto the bus.  Though I was reluctant to do so, as I was essentially forfeiting the care of my bag to someone else, I put my bag outside the door at 8:30am.

We were to go to hotel reception, pick out our bag, and they’d load it on the bus (we had a large group and were taking three different buses).  When at hotel reception, I noticed my bag was not there.  They (the hotel staff in charge of it) had no idea where it was.  Thus continued the downward slide.  I would have flipped out more angrily, but by this time I was so sweaty that I resigned myself and hoped that it would be on one of the other shuttles that had previously left the hotel.

Thankfully, it was.  I picked up my bag and got in line to check in a full 2.5 hours before my flight was to take off.  Crisis averted.  Now let’s go home. 

Because everything moves very, very slowly in Jamaica, even though I made it to the airport 150 minutes before my flight was supposed to leave, I barely made it in time to board my flight.  I stood in line for over TWO HOURS.  The line wasn’t even that long, but they had only two people working on checking passengers in, and those working the counter talked with the passengers, laughed, made plans for later – I think I saw one girl getting a massage from the counter guy.  It was unreal.  Behind me, the line grew and grew and was soon stretching halfway down the terminal.  We we all in line to check in for the 1:30 flight to NYC and it was almost 1.  I wondered how the hell the 150 people behind me would make it in time.  I was making myself sick with worry.     

I finally checked in, checked my big bag, and tried to race through security.  Of course I was grabbed for a random bag check.  I told the guy that my plane was boarding and had to hurry, to which he replied in his Jamaican accent, "No worries, mon."  I told him, "No, there are worries, man.  Lots of worries.  I have to go."  He half-assedly looked through my toiletries and at my laptop and let me pass.

I ran through the terminal, reached the gate, and boarded as they were calling my row.  This threw off my pre-flight routine, which entails me getting to the gate of the flight, then pooping at the nearest bathroom.  While pooping, I eat two tablets of Pepto and spray Afrin up my nose and then pray like a mother fucker that should the plane go down, I die quickly, violently, and, above all, with my shirt on.

I sat down in my window seat.  Next to me was only one aisle seat (the plane was an airbus and so the seating went 2-4-2) which I prayed would stay empty.  I thought I had a good shot, since we were very close to departure time and the plane was not nearly full.  

I slowly realized how all those people in line behind me would make the plane.  The plane was running late.  Real late.  I wound up sitting on the plane for an hour and a half as I watched people slowly and casually file in, with their deep tans or bad sunburns and bottles of rum.  Fucking assholes. 

My neighbor for the flight showed up and took her seat beside me.  I hated her immediately.  First, because she was fat.  I don’t mean to be self-loathing here, but there’s me fat – like how I can’t have sex for more than two minutes and how three flights of stairs is entirely out of the question – and there’s her fat – like how she has to pay the slow neighborhood boy two dimes every morning to tie her shoes because she can’t reach them and how her breathing sounds like two cattle mating.  Mother fucker.

Not only that, but she had more carry-on luggage than whole aisles of passengers.  She had four items instead of the limit of two – her giant handbag, a cardboard carrier for four bottles of rum, a "small" piece of luggage that was bigger than the bag I checked, and a "large" piece of luggage that was bigger than most of the girls I’ve made love to (not that they were especially tiny, but regardless).  This blatant disregard for the rules drove me up the wall, and I was close to going off on a Walter Sobchak rant. 

After the 1.5 hour delay that left my knees and legs aching, the flight took off.  I noticed something else about my neighbor: she had body odor.  This was going to be the longest four hour flight of my life.  I crammed my considerable frame into my seat, plastering my body to the window as far as possible away from her, and turned up my iPod so I didn’t have to hear her cattle-breathing.

It only got better from there [sarcasm].  I thought she wouldn’t be able to top herself when she bitched out the poor, flamingly homosexual steward who wouldn’t give her the whole can of Sprite even though she was "damn thirsty because it’s so goddamn hot in here," but she proved me wrong.  About an hour into the flight, one of the stewardesses came over the PA and announced that they had recovered a pair of sunglasses and asked passengers to check if they were missing their glasses.  My neighbor sat still for about for three minutes before hitting the call button above our heads. 

A stewardess came over (I guess she scarred the effeminate steward) and my neighbor said that she had lost her glasses.

Stewardess: "OK, where did you lose them, on the plane or at the terminal?"
Neighbor: [blindly guessing] "Um, in the terminal?"
Stewardess: "Oh, well, we found these on the plane.  They belong to a woman back there."
Neighbor: [unconcerned] "Oh."
Stewardess: "If you like, you can file a lost and found claim for your glasses when we land."
Neighbor: [having lost all interest] "Ok."

The fat woman next to me was trying to get a free pair of glasses by claiming someone’s lost pair was her own.  She was caught was and completely unconcerned and unembarrassed.  I was turning red with rage at this point (or maybe the toxins coming out of her were causing my blood pressure to rise).  The best part about the above exchange?  The entire time she had sunglasses propped on her head.  No fucking shit.  She was trying to say she lost her sunglasses when they were on her face.  In her defense, her face was so fat that she really can’t be expected to feel all of it.  That’s just too much to ask. 

Finally, thankfully, the plane landed at foggy JFK.  I could not wait to get out of there, as I was uncomfortable and sweaty from my strange positioning and very, very angry.  I wanted to run out of the plane as soon as we touched down, but then we proceeded to taxi for about an hour. 

I can’t do justice to this moment.  All I can say is "We proceeded to taxi for about an hour" because though I got a 4 in my English Literature exam, I only got a 3 in the English Language exam.  Therefore, I can’t accurately portray how quickly I descended into madness as the plane drove around that runaway when all I wanted to was get off the plane, away from the stinky porker next to me, back to the safety of my apartment.  One hour - when you are so close to home, after flying for four hours, sitting for 1.5 before that, waiting in line for two before that, and driving for 1.5 before that –  is an eternity.   

We got off the plane and I was clocked in at about 20 mph as I raced to immigrant, which I got through without incident.  As I waited at the baggage claim, I stopped at ATM to take out some cash for the $50 cab ride from JFK back to my apartment.  Soon I’d be laying on my couch in my own apartment – and alone, too.  Brian moved out over the weekend, so I finally had the place all to myself.

But we had one minor snag: my bag never came.  I watched and waited, waited and watched, as bag after bag was pulled off the belt and people walked away.  There were two hundred of us, the one hundred, fifty, twenty, a dozen, a handful, then me.  My bag was fucking gone.  

I went up to the nearest American Airlines employee who used her amazing powers of ratiocination to confirm that no, my bag was not there.  I had to file a missing bag claim.  

I had lost a bag before after flying and it wasn’t very painless.  But the problem this time was that I would be in NYC for less than 24 hours.  Immediately after work, I’m leaving for Boston for my five year college reunion (or as I call it, my Five Year College Revenge).  When, exasperated, I brought this to the attention to the person working the baggage claim, she said that I could have the bag delivered to Boston.  of course, this whole process took about thirty minutes, since this woman was having problems with the computer, with the phone, understanding me, and taking simple commands and answering simple questions.  I dialed about nine Boston friends before one finally picked up her phone and gave me her address.  When located, my bag would be delivered to her.  I would get it Thursday night.  That was the plan, at least.

I was reasonably ok with the bag missing, as all I had was clothes in there.  Until I realized that I had more than clothes in there, namely my iPod charger, my cell phone charger, and my computer’s extension cord. 

This was a devastating blow.  I hadn’t used the internet all week in Jamaica and was looking forward to checking email and stalking new MySpace friends.  I also was planning on writing a mega-post about my week-long experience in Jamaica, which I had written a little of while on vacation.  Why, you ask, was I even carrying the extension cord in my checked bag to begin with, as opposed to in my laptop case?  Well, that’s because Site Guy Brendan convinced me to buy a 400-pound laptop computer.  The cord, but moreso the charger attached to the cord, is very heavy.  I didn’t feel like lugging it around on my shoulder, so I put it in the checked bag.  So no internet and no recap post.  And no MySpace stalking.  Fuck.     

I sunk into a cab, over two hours after I landed, completely fucking defeated.  That I had to pay $50 for the cab ride was only a minor kick while I was down, as I was more concerned with just getting home.  Once the hour long ride was over, I gave the man $55 and headed upstairs.  

As I mentioned, Brian moved out this weekend.  He’s gone and I’m living alone now.  Though I cherish Brian, the thought of being able to return to my empty apartment gave me a great deal of comfort on the cab ride.  

So I was saddened when I opened the door and it looked as though squatters had been living in my place in my absence.  Brian’s bedroom was cleaned out, but there were boxes lining the hallway, bags of clothes in the entrance area, and dust, dust, dust everywhere.  The kitchen was a mess: piles of dirty dishes, dirty rags, and trash on the counter.  At least there was no shit on the bathroom floor (none that I saw, at least).

I left the apartment, needing some air, and walked to get some food.  I wound up with a chicken parm sandwich, a bottle of gatorade, a pint of Haagen Dazs cookies and cream, and a $12 bottle of white wine.  I was going to sit in that filth and stuff myself, god damn it.  

I knew there was a basketball game on TV, so I plopped down on the couch with my food and flipped on the TV.  The screen was blank.  Then, a message appeared: "Your service has been discontinued.  Please call your cable operator to make a payment."  My fucking cable had been shut off in my filthy fucking apartment.  

My mailbox has been broken for about three months.  The mailman hasn’t delivered during this time, so I haven’t gotten a single piece of mail since the winter.  The cable bill is the only bill that is not automatically drawn from my bank account.  I owed three months worth of cable.  To the tune of $501.36.  

I was punch drunk by now.  Just like the $55 cab ride didn’t faze me, charging over $500 to get my cable restored didn’t either.  I was beaten.  Defeated.  Done.  Please god, let this day end.    

The cable came on and I ate.  A lot.  After the meal, my phone rang – an unfamiliar number.  I answered.  

An old Jamaican woman was on the other end of the phone.  She said that she had my bag.  Finally, some good news.  

But not really.

She asked if I had her bag and I told her I did not.  She explained that she is in a wheelchair and when the person at the airport helping her asked her which bag was hers, she pointed at a bag she thought was hers and was helped into a cab.  It was only when she got home that she realized she had the wrong bag.         

At that point she could have told me that she was raised by wolves and had both male and female reproductive organs and I wouldn’t have cared.  All I heard was "I have your bag."

I asked her where she lived, hoping it would be close by, so I could take a cab to her place.  But this just wasn’t my day.  She lived in Mt. Vernon, NY, which is outside the city in Westchester County.  To put that in perspective for non-NYC people, that’s would be a $300 cab ride for me.

Finally pushed to the breaking point, I flipped.  I told her that there was no way that I was paying for my mistake.  She offered, feebly, that she was in a wheelchair.  I told her that she still could have looked at the tags on the bag, which clearly said my name and address.  This was her fault and it was her responsibility to make it right.  She said, "Oh dear" and that she had to call her son.  

I sat down and drank the full bottle of wine in about seven minutes.  I don’t remember the next several minutes, blinded and blacked out as I was by sadness, desperation, and alcohol.  It’s all kinda blurry. 

Late last night, the resolution was that the woman got the bag back to JFK airport.  From there, American Airlines would ship the bag to Boston like I requested.  When I leave arrive tonight in Boston, my bag will (hopefully) be at my friend Danielle’s place.  Hopefully.

And now, I have to prepare, mentally, emotionally, and physically, for my reunion.  I’m looking forward to seeing a lot of people, and, more importantly, talking about how successful I am in front of a lot of people, especially girls who rebuffed my advances in college.

Me: "Hey [girl], how are you?"

Girl: "I’m doing great.  How are you?"

Me: "Pretty great, too.  I just finished writing my memoirs.  I know, it’s weird – I’m only 26 but I was paid a substantial amount of money by a major publisher to write my memoirs, but really, it’s all luck.  What do you do?"

Girl: "I’m a teacher."

Me: "That’s great.  That’s really great.  I totally support educating America’s youth.  Hey, you don’t happen to be one of the 37 million people who read People magazine, do you?  Or perhaps you’re even one of the 3.7 million people who subscribe to it?  Because if so, you may have seen me in it.  I was one of People’s ’50 Hottest Bachelors’ last summer.  Pretty crazy – all that recognition and all.  I’ve come along away from that time when said to your friends you could never hook up with me because I have bigger tits than you.  Remember that?  That was so funny.  God, we were so crazy in college.  So what do you teach?"

Girl: "Well, it’s special ed, so I teach a bunch of subjects.  Mostly we try to – "

Me: "How about TV?  Do you watch TV?  I’m developing a TV show about my life for a major network.  I don’t want to get into the details, because I can’t, but really because they’re embarrassing.  There was this big bidding war over me and I don’t know – you know how crazy Hollywood is."

Girl: "I – "

Me: "It’s all because of a blog.  Do you read blogs?  You might – there’s like 42 million of them or something.  But only two bloggers of the 42 million have both a development deal with a major network and a book deal with a major publisher.  So I guess you could say I’m more than one in a million – I’m one in 21 million!  Thousands of followers, the ability to get laid with the click of an email – at least it hasn’t gone to my head!" 

[Guy walks over]

Girl: "Jason, this is my husband, John."

[John extends hand]

Me: [breaking down] "What?  Your – your husband?" [breathes heavily, looks around] "How could you do this to me?  And here!  HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME HERE – IN FRONT OF ALL THESE PEOPLE!" [John and girl take a step back, people start looking over, getting more agitated] "You are a heartbreaker!  A stone cold heartbreaker!  And I will never forgive you!  EVER!"   

[runs away shrieking, knocking over trash cans, sobbing, and screaming about fireworks]

…

Wish me luck.