Yesterday’s airport run quickly turned from sunny jaunt to frustrating mess. A trip that by all accounts should have taken no more than ninety minutes ended up lasting four-and-a-half hours. I left my house to pick up Ilya in Clifton at 2pm; his flight was scheduled to depart from JFK at 6:20. What time did he exit the car? 6:05. I don’t know how he did it, but he managed to make his plane. The ride was pretty comical, which made up for the mounting sense of impending doom that slowly built up as minutes and hours ticked off the clock.
Of course, I’ve neglected to mention that I had to piss the entire time we were sitting in traffic. In fact, I remember sitting in a gas station a few minutes after I picked up Ilya, saying something like, “Man, I shouldn’t have downed that bottle of water so fast.” Ilya sat idly by, rolling a funny cigarette. By 6:30 I was driving back down the Van Wyck with my pants around my ankles, trying to piss into said bottle of water. My efforts proved fruitless, as it was nearly impossible to simultaneously hold the bottle of water in place, position my cock in such a way as to ensure accurate urination, and navigate the car. I took the Midtown tunnel and sped down 2nd Avenue until I found suitable parking. I Entered the first fast food joint I could find, purchased a soda and asked for a bathroom key.
I stayed in the city ambling around for a while trying to figure out what to do. Naturally, the moment I decided to start making my home, I got a text message as I was exiting the Holland Tunnel informing me that Molly had just arrived in town for the weekend. I called her up to see where she was, but she said she was going to bed. Temporary Sunday morning plans were made. And That was my night.
