Mustang!

 

The line was a mass of static disgruntlement. Packed into the stuffy waiting room of the Dollar Rent-a-Car at Honolulu airport were at least a hundred travelers, their luggage stuffed, their phones in hand, their children running and jumping underneath the useless line markers, their faces full of resignation and frustration.

            “This can’t be right!” I exclaimed to Ian. “We’re going to be here all afternoon!” I’d had visions of landing at Honolulu airport at 12:05 pm, taking the rental car shuttle and then whisking away 20 minutes later to Kalama Beach where the warm embrace of the Hawaii’s sea awaited me.

            Talk about a fantasy!

            “I think we should try to call Dollar and find out if we’re in the right place,” I said to Ian.

            “I think this is right,” he said, squeezing into the stuffy too-lit room for a place in line.

            “But where are the cars? Shouldn’t there be a garage where the cars are?” I stared at the 2 beleaguered clerks at computers, blocked by the black mass of travelers. No way could I walk up and ask one of them.

            A couple behind us shook their heads, the man muttered, “She thinks were in the wrong place too.” He pointed to a pale, blue slacked older woman on the phone outside the waiting room. “She’s calling now.”

            “I think I should call, too,” I say to Ian, the claustrophobia hitting me hard suddenly. Between the too early wake up at 5 am and the long flight with only a strange sausage sandwich for a snack, I was starting to feel peckish.

            “I need to get out of here,” I said, staggering through the crowd and out into the bright Honolulu sunshine.

            “Hello, Dollar Rent a Car—How may I help today?” I’d waited for 10 minutes to talk to a person after finally finding the 800 number on the website.

            “Hello, yes, a person…. thanks…. I just wondered if you can tell me if I’m in the right place to pick up my rental car?”

            “Yes, Ma’am, of course. Where are you?”

            Here was a question. I knew I was at the Honolulu airport, but where exactly? I had no clue. I told her how we’d taken a shuttle. How it’d dropped us off at this structure. How the line for getting our car was enormous and non-moving.

            “Can you tell me if the structure is facing east?”

            I am so tired and cranky. I can’t tell what direction is east on the best of days when I’m able to orient myself. Now? No way.

            “No, I can’t. Can you just tell me if it’s normal to have 100 people in line to pick up a car?

            “Today is a holiday, Ma’am. There is a higher percentage of travelers.”

            I could tell that this phone call was going to get me nowhere. “Okay, thanks for your help.”

            “Thank you for choosing Dolar Rent a Car. Have a nice day.”

            I head back into the 9^th circle of hell. “Did you get ahold of someone?” Ian asks.

            “Yes, but she was no help.”

            “I think we’re in the right place.”

            “Well, I guess we’ll find out in 2 hours.”

            The White man behind us, (oh the entitlement of the Patriarchy!) was now crinkling and uncrinkling a plastic snack bag of granola. Then chomping on it with his mouth open. Needless to say, he had no mask on. In fact, no one did except for me and Ian.

            I was near a nervous breakdown. With hours to go before we got our car.

            “MOM! I’m hungry!”

            “Okay, baby, me too. Can you find your daddy and see if he can buy us some snacks?”
            “I have to go to the bathroom too!”

            Mom rolled her eyes, pushed a lank curl out of her eyes. Earlier she’d been near a nervous breakdown too. In the shuttle. Asking if she could borrow a fellow traveler’s cell phone.  “We got separated from my husband. He has my phone and my wallet.”

            Evidently, the husband was still missing as the line inched forward.

            “Ian, I’m going to scream.”

            “Don’t scream.”

            I nod. Of course, I wasn’t going to scream, but I felt like it. It’s hard not to sometimes. But I try to avoid outbursts in public.

            A half hour goes by. We inch forward. An hour goes by. We’re still not at the counters.

The waiting is so boring. Do I tell instead of show? I’ll show a little: Woman behind me in line, her lank dark hair exposing a tender pink part, squats down and sighs deeply. On the verge. Three young Asian Women, huddled together in a triangle, draped with colorful beach towels, chattering for a moment, then dully silent. Two tall Black women, dressed in golden and ruby finery, animating their discussion with waves of silver pointed fingernails and spangly bracelets.

            The waiting continues. And continues. And continues. Will we ever move? Let alone speak to a clerk and get our car?

            But the line does move. Slowly oh so slowly until…. finally, after an hour and a half, we reach the clerk.

            “Wow, I never thought we’d be talking to you,” I exclaim.

            She doesn’t even crack a smile. “Name?”

            I give her the info. She types it into her computer. The rigamarole of renting takes no more than 5 minutes.

            Now what?

            “Go out and turn to the right, down the elevators to the garage to pick up your vehicle.”

            “Great!” I am so relieved. It’s now 2:30, but maybe there’s still time for a swim in the sea.

            As we step off the elevator to the vast empty garage a box of an office is in front of us. We give the young woman our info. “How long before we get a car?” Ian asks.

            “We’ll try to get one for you within an hour.”
            “An HOUR!” I can’t keep the horror out of my voice. “Do you know what we’ve been through upstairs?”

            She nods, shrugs. “Oh, yeah. Take a seat.”

            Resigned, we do. Rolling our bags over to the concrete bench. “At least we can sit down,” Ian says.

            I don’t answer. Sitting down is NOT what I want to do. I should have been in the ocean by now. Floating under the bright blue sky with puffy clouds floating overhead as the warm water embraces me with its Aloha warmth.

            I watch as the couple that had been in line behind us climbs into an oversized brown Jeep Cherokee. “Why did they get a car before us?” I ask Ian.

            “They must have ordered that car and it was available. We’ll just have to wait till our car that we ordered arrives.”

            “Minnie!!! MINNIE CHAN!!!!”  The Man in charge is striding around, waving a paper over his bald head, his wire-rimmed glasses sitting atop his bulbous nose.

            “Ian!” I whisper. “Doesn’t that guy who’s in charge look like that actor who was in that movie about the mean drum teacher?”
            Ian gives me a blank stare.

            “Do you know who I mean?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            “I can’t remember his name.” I have a phone. I have time. I google ‘mean drum teacher film’ and up pops “Whiplash” starring J.K. Simmons.

            “J.K. Simmons!” I announce, pleased to have accomplished something easily.

            “Oh, yeah, you’re right,” Ian nods.

            “Minnie Chan?” JK has found her. She’s 90 pounds in a pale green mini skirt, her frail bare legs ending in pink flip flops. “You can take this vehicle, but you’re responsible for it.”

            He points to an enormous SUV black monstrosity. Minnie nods, but I can sense her fear. Could she really drive such a vehicle?

            Yet, how long has Minnie been waiting? Hours.

            She takes it.

            JK yells for the next customer.

            A plump, exhausted woman motions at our bench. “May I?”

            Ian moves over, “Of course.”

            She plops down. “Wow. It’s a zoo here today.”

            “You can say that again,” I agree.

            “Where you from?” she asks.

            We tell her the SF Bay Area. Turns out she’s from Concord. We trade banalities about geography.

            “LAMBTON!!! IAN! LAMBTON!!!” JK bellows.

            “Here, here!” Ian rises, waving his arm.

            JK approaches. “Listen, I don’t have the economy car you ordered, but I tell you what I’m gonna do.”

            He points to a beautiful white convertible Mustang.

            “You want it?”

            We both break into big grins. “YES!!!” I cry.

            Concord Woman whoops. “Look at you! A Mustang convertible for Paradise!”

            And as we roll our bags over to the Mustang my grin grows wider and wider. My father immediately pops into my mind; he was such a Mustang man --he would have loved this car! 

          And a Mustang convertible!

            We plop our luggage in the trunk and climb into the car. Ian presses a button. The top floats up and down. And we’re off. Out of the reality of Dollar Rent a Car and into the fantasy of Hawaii!

            Alooohaaaa!