Christmas Night in North Carolina

Christmas Night in North Carolina
by Live Music Head

Arriving at Toronto Pearson International airport
three hours before our flight was to depart
didn’t seem to matter.
We still found ourselves running for the gate,
and running at record speed,
which also didn’t seem to matter.
By the time we got there,
our plane was already taxiing down the runway
on its way to Costa Rica, leaving us behind!
Tears instantly sprung from my eyes and poured down my face.
Doesn’t this only happen in the movies?
People don’t actually run to the gate and
miss their flight in real life, do they?
Apparently they do.
The lady at the American Airlines counter told me,
“We’re very sorry,
but the next flight out to Costa Rica is not until tomorrow”.
A short-staffed airline was the cause of our missed flight,
and the anger in me was more than apparent when I replied,
“This is totally unacceptable.
I am not going home now,
only to come back here and do this all over again tomorrow!
I want another flight,
and I want one right now!”
Looking straight into the eyes of my tear-streaked face,
the fingers of American Airlines suddenly began flying
rapidly all over the desktop keyboard.
And in what seemed like minutes,
the clicking and tapping informed us
another flight departing Toronto for Costa Rica
had indeed been found.
Imagine that.
"But the thing is...
the flight will only bring you to North Carolina
where you’ll have to spend the night.
From there we’ll put you on another flight
bound for Costa Rica”.
“As long as we get the hell out of Toronto today,
I don't care”, I said.
After spending another few hours
eating ridiculously over-priced
Terminal 1 junk food,
we finally got to board the plane.
I breathed a bloated sigh of relief,
knowing I'd soon be safely far enough away
from all the phony Christmas bullshit
that was no doubt piling up
in every North American household far and wide.
Fastening the belt and sitting back in my seat,
I then began wondering how I was going to manage
the other anxiety.
If it meant going someplace cool like Costa Rica,
I’ll get on an airplane anytime, anywhere.
But the truth is, I hate flying!
I pulled the window blind down
and paid the five bucks for headphones,
hoping the movie would help distract.
But noooooo.
The space between my ears was given the jolt.
Why does the manly voice always have to inform
“we’re now flying at an altitude of 30,000 feet..."
Miss American Airlines was right on time though,
with another gin and tonic.
I did remarkably well for the duration of the flight
and I thank the pilot behind the manly voice
for landing us at our destination in one piece.
But arriving at the complimentary North Carolina hotel,
I soon had that feeling of being in a soul-sucking suburb
similar to Scarborough or Mississauga.
Except for the 24-hour gas station across the street,
directly beside what appeared to be a 50s-style diner,
there was simply nothing else around.
A lifeless winter’s night carrying the weight
of ten lonely Sundays.
Ugh.
And to make it worse, it was Christmas night.
Dropping our luggage off, I said...
“50s-style diners can be cool, so let’s go there”.
Swivelling on the chrome and cracked lime green vinyl
of a retro stool at the counter,
I tried not to bump elbows with my partner
as I surveyed the diner's decor.
What a trailer trash nightmare.
Hanging off everything from
the cash register to the jukebox
were the tackiest seasonal decorations
of the dollar-store-kind I'd ever seen.
Outstanding was the silver and red tinsel
that was wrapped around
a cheesy wooden frame of The Last Supper,
which was nailed to the wall above the cook's head.
Ugh.
I wonder if that Last Supper
was purchased from a vendor
that could only be found in the centre
of a suburban Easter-time shopping mall.
Prob'ly.
The cook was standing over a sweaty grill
flippin' Oscar Meyer bacon, sausage and burger grease
all over his dingy white smock,
the stench of which drifted over to greet
my unusually clear nasal passages.
The fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling above
threw down a ghastly glow
that illuminated the laminated place mat menu.
I realized I had a tough decision to make.
Should I order the $1.99 iceberg lettuce salad,
which would likely be served with a sliver of radish
and a package of Italian dressing on the side, or
should I throw my vegetarianism out the window
and order the $2.99 bologna and mustard sandwich?
As an 8-year old kid I loved nothing more
than a tall glass of iced Coca Cola to wash down
a bologna and mustard sandwhich.
But now I'm all growed up and haired over.
So I ordered coffee instead.
My eyes then fell upon the ceramic Elvis bust
who's eyes seemed to be looking down upon
the decrepit fake Christmas tree
that was jammed crookedly into the corner
beside the grease-spattered cook.
The bells hanging from the front door
soon jangled me from my annoyance
as folks strolled merrily in
from the cold of someplace else.
Even though the diner was full,
locals kept cramming in.
This really must be the only place open in town,
except of course for that 24-hour gas station next door.
A thick layer of grey cigarette smoke circled my head
as I squinted at the busty, gum-snapping waitress
standing before me.
With her left hand placed on a curvy hip,
and her right hand pouring from a pot of hot coffee,
I shit you not,
she really was a busty gum-snappin' waitress.
I finally had to crack a smile
when she said in a southern drawl...
“Would you like cream and sugar with that, darlin’?”
North or South,
the Carolina waitress was very good
at servin' up the hospitality.
I began to daydream about Tom Waits
suddenly appearing in that booth fit for four;
sitting all alone under an Andy Capp flat cap,
scribbling a new song on a tea-stained napkin.
But then my imagination got jangled again,
when the diner got jolly.
Someone decided to coin-up the jukebox
and now the red, white and blue Americans
were startin' a sing-a-long of
Here Comes Santa Claus, Here Comes Santa Claus.
Taking the last gulp of my lukewarm coffee,
the face of Charles Emerson Winchester
suddenly popped into my mind.
Somehow right then, at that very moment,
I could totally relate with the snobby
Boston, Massachusetts surgeon,
when he found himself dumped in the swamp
of the 4077th, M*A*S*H.
God dammit, we should be spending Christmas night
tucked away in the rolling hills of Monteverde!
Had it not been for incompetence,
we'd be surrounded by
lush rainforests and Spanish accents right about then.
But noooooo,
I was in hell.