is part of the job description. No, I haven’t exactly skipped through the war-torn streets of Idlib yet, but I’ve slept in my junker in pursuit of a story on more than a few occasions. And I’ve ventured into places that most people with a modicum of self-preservation would never step foot into.
That said, heading back to Lake Placid for an undetermined amount of time has me raw to the bone and feeling not at all forgiving of my liberties being infringed.
It’s not like my loathing of my hometown is baseless. I have my reasons. Lake Placid is trapped in a time warp for me. Everything about it triggers all the awful feelings that I’ve worked hard to leave behind. Which is why I don’t allow myself to think about it for more than a nanosecond. When I left for college, that part of my life died, and I’d like for it to stay that way.
Almost on cue, the number one reason for all my problems appears on the small TV screen embedded in the seat before me. God has a sick sense of humor.
CNN is on and the volume is off, but Dr. Zelda Anderson is flapping her lips and smiling at Chris Cuomo like she’s planning to eat him alive. And that’s not hyperbole; the woman is a super-predator. My mother is one of those celebrity therapist that writes books and makes TV appearances. I’m pretty sure she’s never had any legit patients that she’s cared for because that would require the ability to empathize. No, Zelda is content with spouting words of wisdom she doesn’t live by and getting her hair and makeup done.
I can’t press the button fast enough, and heave a sigh of relief when the screen goes dark.
The plane ride from hell ends around 10 pm with a bumpy landing and a kick to the back of my seat hard enough to displace the last vertebra of my spine. This happens second from me standing and screaming, “Will somebody get this child a fucking grilled cheese!”
The bone-jarring landing is followed up by a foot race to the car rental counters when we’re informed by loudspeaker that all connecting flights are canceled due to the mother-of-all-storms gathering along the East coast. With two large and overstuffed suitcases dragging behind me, running fast is a relative term.
When I finally get there, I’m the umpteenth person in line. I pull out my phone while I wait and check my Twitter feed. 1,038 new alerts to my tweet, which I refuse to delete out of principal.
Most of them are suggesting I do things to the orifices of my body that would end my life. One threatens to doxx me. For those of you unfamiliar with this practice, it means to post personal information like an address of where you live and work online for public consumption, quite possibly putting someone in harm’s way.
For the first time since I was fired, I’m grateful that I’m homeless and unemployed.
Turning off my phone, I shove it in the back pocket of my jeans. An excruciating half an hour later, it’s finally my turn. The woman working the car rental desk looks ready to quit. Late sixties, judging by the frizzy cloud of gray hair and slight hang of her jowls. The name tag on her red long sleeve polo shirt reads, Delores.
Delores is not a happy camper. Her thin lips are pinched, accenting the smoker’s lines around them, and she has the vacant stare of a person who has dealt with way too much BS for one day. Whoever came before me has obviously given this poor woman a hard time so I decide to kill Delores with kindness and slap a smile on my face. It always pays to be kind.
“Hi. Hello, Delores. I need a car, the cheapest you’ve got please.”
No surprise, Delores is not charmed by my forced cheerfulness. She sighs tiredly and looks down at her computer screen. “Don’t have much left. And I should warn ya, storm’s coming. You won’t get far.”
My temper is on a hair trigger and it comes up quickly. It’s close to midnight, I haven’t eaten anything outside of a free bag of potato chips in ten hours, and I know I have a two-and-a-half-hour drive ahead of me. A debate is not what I’m looking for right now.
“I’ll take my chances,” I tell her, my perkiness and fake smile fading along with my patience.
“They’re sayin’ a nor’easter––a bad one.”
My smile drops