“Southern regrets to inform you that their 11:45 Gatwick Express has been delayed.”
“Uh oh.” We hadn’t left much room for error that morning.
“Southern regrets to inform you that their 12:15 Gatwick Express has been delayed.”
“Now it’s at 12:15?” Luke and I were watching the London Overground timetables in Victoria Station. Every one of them flashed “DELAYED” in an evil shade of orange.
“Southern regrets to inform you that their Gatwick Express has been cancelled.”
Our flight was at 1:30.
“Southern is sorry for any delay this may cause your travel plans.”
“Delay? Delay!? Missing our flight’s not a goddamn delay!” I yelled at a loudspeaker.
“We’ll have to take a cab,” Luke said.
We ran out to the taxi line. “How much to London-Gatwick?”
“A hundred quid at least.”
“A hundred?”
“We don’t have that kind of money.”
“Ninety’s as low as I can go. Gatwick’s far.”
“No,” said Luke, “that’s gotta be a ripoff. Let’s ask someone else.”
“Excuse me, how much to London Gatwick?”
“Hunnerd twenny.”
“Shit. Nevermind.”
We ran to a tourist booth, shoving aside a young couple to ask a surprised attendant how we could get to the airport.
“Well, there’s a bus,” she said, “but it takes an hour and forty-five minutes.”
Our plane left in an hour and forty-five minutes. We had no choice but to cab it.
“I think they may be charging us more ‘cause we’re American,” said Luke.
I thought for a moment, hailed another cab: “Cheerio, old chap! The bloody Southern’s gone rotten on us. How much for a ride to London-Gatwick?”
“Ninety quid.”
“Get there by one and I’ll raise you twenty,” I said, dropping the accent and climbing in. Before we could buckle our seatbelts the cabbie had pulled out into traffic and was swerving from lane to lane.
“We might make it!” he shouted.
“On time or alive?” I whispered.
London was choked with traffic, and I had a lot of urine to hold in. Driving in the bus lane, we ran two cyclists off the road and just missed a head-on with a double decker before we made it to the highway. Luke was calling the airport, calling the airline, calling his mother; I was muttering incantations. We dodged around an SUV, taking the Gatwick exit. I checked my watch: one o’clock. “We might actually make it,” I said.
“We might,” said Luke, unconvinced.
The cabbie pulled up at the South Terminal. While Luke went ahead to check the baggage, I whipped out my credit card to fund the ride.
“It’s cash only,” the cabbie said.
“Cash only? Shit!” I’d spent my last pound on teacakes with Hyams.
“Can you go get it?” the cabbie asked. He had the look of a mother whose five year old has decided to take up sword-swallowing.
“Okay!” I raced up the stairs.
Do I ditch the cabbie? I’ll save precious money, and even more precious time, but it’s my duty to represent my country with integrity. What’s the etymology of the word livery? I have honor, but damn it – I also have a plane to catch!
I found an ATM, withdrew the cash, and ran back downstairs to pay the piper. I’ve done some bad deeds in my time, but I didn’t need that black mark on my karma card. When he saw me, the cabbie looked like a man whose five year old has decided to be not a sword-swallower but a pediatrician.
“Thanks, mate!” He drove off and I ran back up, sprinting through the terminal past a slow stream of relaxed travelers, jumping over their rolling suitcases like hurdles. My chest was pounding when I reached the check-in counter, where Luke’s face told me everything I’d feared.
It was 1:10. The plane was closed. We’d missed our flight.
Addendum: At the airport about an hour later, an ATM ate Luke’s credit card. He now has no access to his money.
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