Just before I woke up this morning, I had a dream that I had been found guilty of murder, and I was going to jail for 50 years.
I remember Scott visiting me in prison, and me saying to him, “50 years! If I don’t find some kind of way out of this, I’m screwed!” Then he shook his head sadly, agreeing that I was screwed.
Things that I do not remember:
- Anyone coming up with a brilliant plan to save me
- A trial, or anything prior to finding out the length of my sentence
- The feeling that I was particularly innocent of the crime
Worse yet, what I do remember:
- The only thought on my mind after waking being: “50 years? That means a double life sentence… I wonder how many people I killed?”, and
- not feeling especially bad about that either
I think that perhaps I’m suffering from a little post-travel stress disorder, exascerbated by the fact that United Airlines has lost my luggage on me. I have stretched every courteous, Canadian muscle in my body to be patient on this subject, politely calling my contact at the airline three or four times a day since I got back to see where my suitcase and all of my belongings might have trotted off to.
So far, I’ve been told that it might still be in Chicago, that it might be in another terminal in Toronto, that it was accidentally picked up by the courier while he was returning other luggage to other people, that the tag might have fallen off of the bag, and that it might have gone to luggage inspection and never made its way out. My smaller bag, the one that I got at the conference I was attending, and which was full of crap I don’t care about, that one made it Toronto the day after my flight; the bag with all of my clothes and personal belongings, however, that bag is still out there somewhere, cold and alone and containing the majority of my pants.
Considering that I am a complete mess if I misplace the remote control for my television, I think I’m doing pretty well with this whole situation. I limit myself to three or four phone calls per day to the United rep, always very polite and sunny, though I think she can tell that I’m starting to lose my patience. I have not yelled or even become agitated with her even once, despite the fact that it is apparently the only thing I can talk about with my friends or co-workers.
Friend: Did you hear about Jean Chretien? He’s hired a lawyer to get rid of the judge who’s heading up the Sponsorship inquiry, because he’s “not impartial” enough. What a crook, eh?
Me: Yeah, almost as much of a crook as that fucking airline who stole my bags!
Friend: Yawn.
Right now I’m having fantasies about how I’m going to demand all kinds of money to replace my office clothes, how I’m not even all that broken up about the Old Navy tee shirts or the crummy underwear — even my precious, irreplacable Canadian flag boxer briefs with the maple leaf right over the genital zone, just like Adam and Eve only more patriotic — but who knows how I’ll actually react when it’s go time. I like to think that I’m going to get on the phone with customer service people and be one of those customers who’s implacable and demanding, but I’ll probably just be sympathetic to their woes and take whatever they give me, so that nobody gets in trouble.
Seriously, that’s all it takes. I’ve let cashiers short-change me before because they look like they’d start crying if I pointed out the error. If I think I’m going to make someone else’s life more difficult, I end up going all mushy and apologetic and compromising.
“Well, if paying the outrageous late fee on a porno movie I didn’t rent will get you through this line faster, Ms. Video Store Clerk, I guess I can help out.”
“Well, if paying full price on this item that was marked as 90% off on the shelf will save us both time, Future Shop Employee, then I guess that’s okay. If I really wanted it, I’d pay full price anyway, right?”
“Well, if you estimate that I’m going to use 175,000,000 kilowatt hours of electricity this winter, Hydro company, then I guess you’re the expert. I’m sure I’ll eventually use four hundred thousand dollars worth of hydro anyway.”
It’s not that I’m a pushover, exactly, it’s just that if you give me enough reasons, my natural helpfulness will kick in and I will help you rationalize exactly why you’re screwing me over. I understand why you gave me this crappy evaluation, boss! You had no choice! I get why you raised my rates, insurance company! It’s just the demands of the business! I see why you pushed your snow onto my driveway, neighbor! You wanted to get to work quickly!
Okay, so I’m a pushover. But I’m also a compulsive, and so I’m caught between the two great titanic forces in my personality — my eagerness to please, and my twisted need for order. I don’t want to cause anyone any trouble, but I’m outraged at the thought of some baggage handlers wearing my pants on the weekend. It’s a troubling dichotomy to live with, but I am at the point now where it is threatening very clearly to crystallize in one direction or another, depending on how things go in the next day or two with United.
And I can say this for sure: If I do find my bags are gone, and I don’t get something to make up for it, then 50 years will be a light sentence for what I will want to do.