I arrive in Albuquerque. The plane arrives on time. And, Lady Lucy won my heart. I asked her to like my blog, all she did was lick my cheek. How can a guy push away a girl with brown eyes as deep and rich as Lady Lucy’s eyes? Impossible (Lady Lucy’s selfie below – she was using a selfie stick – eat your heart out guys).
Sante Fe is 60 miles north of Albuquerque. The wedding is at 4 p.m. I took a photo of the invitation so I can Google the address when I drive to the wedding. Wait a minute, I need to get my reserved rental car. I got a good deal online when I purchased my airline ticket – that’s the last time I fall for that pitch.
Let put it this way, there’s a reason they call it Budget Rental. The person at the counter greeted me as if were her ex and was behind on child support. Honest, it’s the first time I ever saw her. It got worse as I declined additional coverage, promised to fill the tank, and not surrender my first born as collateral. Our conversation ends with me asking, “Where do I get my car.”
She shook her beehive hairdo toward the right. I was too frightened to look, my mind told me to duck if killer bees swarmed out of her hair. I mustered my courage and said, “Do I have time to go to the restroom?” She laughed and said, “Oh yes, take your time.”
I didn’t care for her tone. My bladder empty, hands washed. I was ready. I walked past her counter and she glared at me. I felt her eyes following me as if she were a sniper. I hope she didn’t have a gun with a laser site. I kept looking for a red dot on my clothes.
I made it safely outside and waited, and waited and waited. After fifteen minutes, I asked someone about my car. She had to consult with another person who has to make a phone call. I can see inside the building. I see beehive pick up a phone. Lots of nodding heads and heads turning toward me. I’m ready to scream, “I’ll give a DNA sample, I’m not your ex. I don’t owe child support. I’ll go on Judge Judy. Just give me my car.” Ten more minutes a black Jeep Patriot pull in. I give it the once over and pull out. My cell battery is nearly empty. I’m down to six percent. I don’t know exactly where the Residence Inn is located. The car they gave me doesn’t have a USB port. I quickly check my iPhone and the year. I was under the impression it was 2017, not 1997. I use one percent of battery life to log into my Marriot app and check in. The app promises me my room will be waiting for me.
I glad I didn’t ask the room to the prom. When I arrive at the Residence Inn, the clerk tells me I’m not in the system. Surely, I was.
“No, sorry.”
“Did you spell my name correctly? It’s Ray. One vowel, two consonants.”
“Oh yes, there it is. No, nothing is ready.”
I say, “I have a wedding in three hours. I’m a first born Italian male, it’s in my DNA to look good. I haven’t shaved since 3 a.m. Can you help me?”
“No sorry, come back in an hour or so? If everything goes right, you should be in your room by 3:30.”
I shrugged and said, “Do you mind if I call my Uncle Tony and he calls your manager? What is your name?”
The clerk gets a worried look, and said, “Where does your Uncle Tony live?”
I said, “I’m family, I can’t tell you.”
The clerk said, “Let me see what I can do.”
I had two uncle Tony’s, one on each side. One is in heaven and the other in witness protection (only kidding). Ten minutes later, I’m in my room. I charge my iPhone. I’ll need Apple or Google maps to get me to the wedding. I leave at 2:15, I want to schmooze with family and snack on any available finger foods. I hope they have Perrier.
You’d think my misadventures were over, but they were only beginning. Stop by tomorrow to discover if I even make it to the wedding. And, if I did, what were Vince Vaughn and Owen Wilson doing there?