"After Christmas, Part II" (Or, "The Other Jamaica")

Here we are on the 8th day of the New Year, and already I think I’ve suffered every recoverable illness known to man. But I’m still alive and kicking. The reason I know this is because I managed to buy groceries today and later heard myself screaming in agony when reviewing the receipt. $3.19 for 12 oz. of Ken Somebody’s Chunky Blue Cheese Dressing?! $4.95 for 3/4 lb. of strawberries? $3.99 for 9 oz. of Nacho Cheese Chips? $3.08 for one turkey burger at the deli (just the patty, that is)? The roll was 89 cents, and I was actually pleased with that price. I'd just spent forty-one bucks for two and a half meals. So, yes I’m alive and complaining about the price of groceries in NY. :)

Let’s get back to where I left off last time when I was flying home from Atlanta the day after Christmas. I had a nasty head cold and had just hurled into every spare barf bag on the airplane. We disembarked onto the JFK tarmac into swirling snow, finally having landed after a long delay on an insufferably hot airplane. I was burning up with sweat on the inside, and freezing on the outside. As all the passengers waited just inside the glass doors for our carry-ons (that we were forbidden to carry on to the small plane) to be delivered to us, I tried to hide in the corner so nobody could see “the woman who threw up” on the plane. I called my sister’s cell phone and left some garbled message about this being the most embarrassing plane ride of my life.

After a few minutes (that seemed like hours), a baggage guy rolled our luggage over to us through the snow, and we all furiously grabbed for our bags—only to make a mad dash for the real baggage carousel at the other end of the airport.

By now it was 10pm, and all I wanted was to get my other bag, get on the subway, and go HOME. I felt so ill. But the baggage wait dragged on forever. I stood there trying to be invisible amongst my fellow passengers. Forty five miserable minutes later, the bags started to come out of the chute. I grabbed my heavy bag full of Christmas presents (mostly books I’d requested) and headed toward Air Train, the monorail that would take me to the subway.

I accidentally missed the turn for Air Train and doubled back to the escalator that would take me up to the monorail platform. I didn’t think I’d be successful navigating the escalator with two rolly bags and one tote, so I found an elevator and pushed the Up button. I waited and waited. The elevator seemed to be stuck just one floor away. Finally it came, and another girl and I got on. When the door opened, she stepped out in front of me. I awkwardly got my bags out and rolling again when I noticed the girl had taken off running toward the monorail. The train was there! Oh, goody!

I too, began to run. The girl just made it inside the closing doors ahead of me. I’d missed the train to Howard Beach by one second. Some uniformed lady saw me and callously commented “You missed it by one second!” No duh, Ms. Scrooge, I thought to myself before informing her, “I’m going to cry. I just want to go home,” in my best Dorothy voice. She cautioned me not to do that and walked away.

Missing that train was all I could take. The tears gushed forth involuntarily from my eyes. The uniformed lady must’ve felt sorry for me. She came back and suggested that I take the next train to Jamaica instead of waiting for the HB train. She said I could get on the E express (subway) all the way to midtown. A profound idea! Yes. Within a few minutes, the monorail arrived, and I was on my way to Jamaica. Jamaica, Queens, that is--a place I never knew existed until that night.

As soon as I sat down in the car, I dialed up my girlfriend Vonceil. (She and I have a rule that we don’t call one another after 9pm except in the case of emotional or other crisis. This not being able to get home thing was definitely a crisis.)

Vonceil picked up, and I blubbered, “I hate Christmas! Every year it’s something else! All I want to do is get home, and I can’t! I want to go HOME!!” Poor V. This was an unexpected late-night call. She consoled me, and I blubbered on and on like this for a few minutes before I finally realized I was talking to dead air. We’d been disconnected at some point minutes earlier. Ergh. She’d missed out on all of my eloquent “wanna go home” dialog.

I finally got Vonceil back on the line, and we agreed I’d call her when I got home, despite the late hour. Good thing she’s on Central time.

The monorail arrived at Jamaica and I lumbered off with all my bags.

I followed signs to the subway. But when I got to the exit leading outside to the subway station, it was roped off as if under construction. I found a uniformed person who pointed to a door, telling me to turn left outside that door. I stepped out into the windy, freezing snow. In all my scurrying, I hadn’t put on my gloves or scarf or zipped up my coat. A black car was there at the curb blowing its horn. The driver leaned over and yelled out the open passenger window to me, “Taxi! Taxi! Taxi!” Yeh, right. I don’t get into a cab unless it’s yellow.

This man continued blowing his horn and yelling at me, which compelled me to move faster away toward the subway station. Once far enough away from the black car, I stopped to zip up my coat and try to figure out the signs. Where the heck was the E train?? Ahead of me was a bunch of construction work and scaffolding surrounding the sidewalk. I didn’t know where I was, other than Jamaica, Queens.

I saw signs for several different tracks. None of the first three were going in the right direction. But Track 4, yes, that was going to Penn Station! Yay! I would get on that train and transfer to the subway from Penn Station. I followed the sign to Track 4. Unfortunately, the platform was 2 or 3 flights up. Ugh. Where the heck was the elevator? The sign said the train left at 11:05pm, and I knew it was close to that time, so I grabbed my heavy bags and hauled them up several flights. There was the train! Yay! It was covered with ice. I ran up to it on the platform, and just as I got close, it began to move.

I’d missed this train by one minute.

It was dark. It was cold. It was Jamaica. I had a cold and some bizarre stomach flu. By now I was no longer sad; I was pissed.

Would I ever make it home?

The next several minutes of climbing up and down stairs and escalators in search of the evasive E train are mostly a blur. I do remember one poor woman standing alone who said she’d been waiting on this outdoor platform for an hour. We commiserated our stories, each leaving out no expletives. After a minute of that much-needed empathizing, I wished her good luck and went on to find my E train. I finally found an elevator that appeared would take me to a subway station. I hit the Down button. This was a glass elevator so I could see the two cars a couple floors down. They didn't move. I pressed the lit Down button again. (Like that’s going to help.) Still nothing. Finally, I balled up my frozen fist and pounded on the Down button, screaming violently that I just want the elevator to come so I could go home!

I took the stairs.

At some point in all of this, I felt a muscle pull in my neck. This was not a good thing. I knew this meant several days of neck pain. Somehow, I finally found the E platform. Trying to pass through the turnstile with my bags, I was nothing short of silently raging mad. A very diverse group of people stood in wait on the platform. I plopped my bags down, and when one bag fell over I just kicked it and cursed under my breath. (Actually, this fuming mad attitude is a good stance to take when standing alone on a subway platform in Jamaica around midnight, I thought later. Even the muggers wouldn’t come near me. )

Waited and waited for the E train. It came. Yay! I’m only about five or six stops from home because this is an express train. Double yay! I got on and plopped down, rossing my arms like a West Side Story character. My suit case fell over again, and I kicked it again. Nobody was going to mess with me--ha! (...she typed as she sat on her couch wearing a cervical collar.)

There were only a few other people in the train car with me. After the first stop, I became severely dismayed to hear the conductor announce, “This train is making local stops. This train will make all local stops.” “Noooooooooo!” I said and slammed down my precious lamenated subway map. No one even looked at me. Finally, at that point, I surrendered. Nothing else could go wrong this night, short of the subway breaking down or me herniating a disk.

Twenty-two stops later I gratefully got off at 50th St., hauled my heavy bags up another couple flights of stairs, and walked home. The concierge took one look at me when I came through the revolving door and immediately expressed condolences. I said something about it taking twelve hours for me to get home from Atlanta and how I could’ve flown to Seattle and back in the time it took me to get home.

Back in my apartment, I dropped my bags in the foyer and immediately picked up my beloved kitty (whom I missed terribly), held him tight and just cried tears of joy into his fur, going on and on about good it was to be home. Martin didn’t seem to mind. I was just happy to be home. And he was happy to have me there.

I was sick in bed with the flu the next 48 hours and missed two days of work. Believe it or not, it gets worse from there. Stay tuned for the conclusion of "After Christmas."