Jack Ensor

I had difficulty waking up at 0445 to make it to the airport on time for the stupid-thirty flight from Phoenix to Denver. I didn’t do myself any favors; mind you, last night I went to the semi-finals of the Phoenix roller derby. I can’t quite recall it was the Coffin Draggers, the Beauties, the Schoolyard Scrappers, or the Runaway Brides who will go to the finals, and quite frankly I don’t care. But to be sure, there were many scantily clad, tattooed women beating the tar out of each other for my amusement. Well worth the ten bucks.

Leaving the fair grounds at ten-thirty I got a call from one of my perpetually drunken friends who had just left the Chargers v. Cardinals game with her boyfriend. She asked me to come out for a beer with her and her guy, and I heartily agreed for two reasons: 1) Beer is beer. 2) You can’t say no to her when she’s been drinking. Well you can, but you’ll spend so much time arguing with her that you may as well just do what she wants and save yourself the hassle. Yeah. My friends.

Anyway, I finally got home at five minutes till midnight (great song by the way). Yesterday was a big day for me. If you recall I went to the gym for the first time in months and then swam. Then I went to work and flew a day-trip complete with maintenance delays, then I packed, then I watched some hot chicks beat each other up, then I drank beer with my friend and her boyfriend. It was a full day.

I brushed my teeth and walked back into my room. In the relative darkness I tripped over my open suitcase that I had freshly packed for my trip to see the kids, and then I collapsed on my bed.

In my final moments of consciousness, I looked at my bedroom door. It was open just a crack, not even an inch, and a thought ran through my mind, ‘perhaps I should get up and close the door so Moose, my housemate’s cat, won’t get in.’ It was a fleeting thought because it was followed with, ‘So what? He wakes me up? I’m getting up in a few hours anyway.’

Anyway, this morning, it was difficult to get out of bed to say the least. Luckily, a friend sent me a text message this morning shortly after I had turned off my alarm clock and had rolled over, decidedly, for a few more hours sleep. I cracked one eye open noticing that my door was opened about six inches.

I glanced at the clock. I remembered my departure time and did some math. I calculated how long it would take me to get to the airport through security, check in and get on the flight. I needed to leave in precisely four minutes.

I sprung out of bed. And by “sprung,” I mean fell out of bed and landed heavily on my left shoulder, head and neck. Then I swore mildly, and then got up to go to the shower. Arriving to the bathroom I remembered that we don’t have any hot water this week and I stood there, half naked, with my morning issues, contemplating if I really wanted a shower. I decided against the shower.

I put on my uniform and grabbed a few last-items to make sure my suitcase would be complete. Tucking a pair of socks and a stick of deodorant in the side, I noticed the contents of my bag—clean clothes—were all wet. Puzzled, I looked up at the ceiling looking for a leak then recalled that I live in the desert and a leak is about as likely as a tidal wave. Then I did something I’ve come to regret the rest of the day: I smelled my wet hand. It was a familiar smell. Putrid and pungent, my hands reeked of cat urine. Let me speak plainly: THE CAT PISSED IN MY FUCKING SUITCASE!

After the deafening realization that a cat named Moose, had taken a wizz in my portable home, I stood there stunned. Should I find Moose and kick him? No. No time for that. Re-pack? In what? My one and only suitcase has been used as a litter box. Ugh. I need to be out of the house ten minutes ago! So did what I could do. I emptied a bottle of apple cinnamon Febreeze into, on and over my suitcase and it’s contents. I chucked my bags in the back of my Mazda all the while yelling at Moose that he had lost all cool points and that I would never trust a cat again! “Kiss my ass Moose!” I yelled from outside the house, as if the cat could hear or understand me, “you’re not worthy of your name! Bastard.”

I got to the airport in record time. Apparently, the fifty-one has light traffic on a Sunday morning before the sun comes up. I made it to the airport in under ten minutes; an impressive record for sure.

Going through security proved to be quite embarrassing. I slung my bag up on the table in preparation for x-ray screening. It wafted a noticeable odor of cider and, well, pee. The some guy in the line behind me made a comment to his wife. “uh, what is that smell?” I chimed in, as not to be the guilty party, “Yeah, really, that’s a terrible smell. You know some people don’t even shower before the come to the airport? Believe me,” I said with a hearty, contrived laugh,” I’ve seen it all.” People at the airport will believe the moon is made of cheese if a pilot says so.

I finally boarded my flight. I hoisted my bag high and hid it in row four, just behind first class and closed the bin. Then I went and hid in a seat back in the twentieth row. From my seat far behind I watched as passengers opened the compartment looking for a place to store their bags. Their faces would sour and their heads would turn and they would close the compartment containing my bag no sooner than they opened it. For the first time this morning I chuckled.

When you think about it, it’s funny. A cat pissed in my luggage and I had no other choice but to lug it all over the country. The joke’s on me, and if I can’t take a joke, then screw me.