It’s Thursday afternoon, and I’m coming back from a short trip to Indy. For once, the flight to Atlanta is on time, with none of the usual late-afternoon thunderstorm activity kicking up to snarl the airline schedules. (Damn, how I love Convection Season!)
I get off the plane. I walk to the center of the concourse to catch the Underground Airport Choo-Choo to the main terminal, then it’s up the escalator, through the terminal and out the door.
It’s a seven-minute jitney ride to the offsite parking lot where the nice, shiny new Vehicle d’Elisson is parked. Once there, I have to wait for almost everyone else to get off…because I am parked in North Bumfuck. The curse of the Midweek Traveler: you miss the horrendous Monday-morning crowds, but you get shithammered at the parking lots, where all the good spaces get snapped up Monday morning by the same Road Warriors who choke the airport with their heaving, pulsating bodies.
But finally, I am deposited at my car. The jitney drives away, and I extract the keys from my garment bag. I push the button…
…and nothing happens. Nada. Zip. Zilch.
At first I think, Damn, the batteries in this remote entry dingus sure didn’t last long – I’ve had the car only a month! I use the key to open the door, and when I push the unlock switch to open the rear door for the bags, nothing happens.
That’s when the little light bulb goes on over my head. The battery is dead! Sure enough, I’ve left the headlights on, and now I know with the bitter knowledge that comes from experience that this new car does not, unlike our sedan, shut the lights off automatically.
Shit.
It takes a grand total of twenty minutes to flag down another jitney and have the parking lot folks come out with a booster pack. Twenty sweaty minutes.
Damn you, Mr. Smart-Brains Elisson! Damn you, I say!
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment