Real Cute

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Let me describe the New York Book Festival Awards Show for you.

I got to the airport in Buffalo, made it successfully through security, waited an hour to board the plane, successfully boarded the plane, had a nice chat with the guy next to me about life, and then the plane backed away from the gate.

And sat there.

For an hour.

"There are thunderstorms in New York. Sit back, watch the television and we'll update you in 55 minutes."

"I can still make it," I said cheerfully.

My new friend and I chatted about the award and the fact that it was Jeff's birthday. He took down my number and promised to order a book.

I watched Everybody Loves Raymond.

Then I watched another one.

The pilot came back over the speaker.

"We're gonna' reassess in a half an hour."

I turned off Raymond. Another half an hour passed.

"How long does it take to go from JFK to the Grolier Club?" I asked the guy.

"45 minutes."

I figured that my drop dead time was about 5. Hell, I'd even leave by 7 and make it to the end of the ceremony.

"We're gonna' take you back to the gate, but don't wander too far. We may load up quickly."

We buckled our seat belts.

I had about an hour left.

Nearly two hours later I went to the gate. I recognized the pilot eating a sandwich.

"Any news?"

"We most likely leave until around 7," the guy I now hated behind the desk said.

Done.

Anger. Rage. Extreme disappointment.

In the back of my mind I started the pep talk. I'd give the speech in Hollywood when the book wins there.

My heart wanted no part of the pep talk.

Jeff's birthday. An acceptance speech in a city I love. An Italian meal in a five-star joint. A raised glass.

My brothers and sisters texted and called.

All disappointed.

I got in my car, paid for parking, and headed for home.

The Promised Land was the first song out of the I-pod.

I looked up.

"Cute."

"F*&King cute!" I yelled.

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