I pull my tablet out of my roller back pack, as I’m sure the gate attendant is going to tell me that I have to do a jetway tag of my bag. They never believe me that the thing fits easily under the seat on the Canadair 200/700/900 series regional jets. However, he passes me through on the early boarding, as it looks like I’m finally going to get home after a couple of long days in what is normally my favorite city, Chicago. His bad attitude doesn’t exist as I had it amplified in my mind, which tells me I’m running out of reserves quickly.

Since I don’t do cocaine or amphetamines anymore, I am running on pure adrenaline and caffeine, with a slight undercurrent of lorazepam, as I fall into the seat on the plane. First class on this leg, so I almost instantly get more coffee, as if my thinking about it was enough for it to happen. The flight attendant is really tall, which I oddly associate with the idea that the coffee may be stronger as a result. The final threads of synapses connecting and dying with exhaustion and a manic pulse for 36 hours no doubt.

Hunter S. Thompson once said the difference between traveling with Nixon and McGovern was like the difference between traveling with the Pope and the Grateful Dead. It seems apropos of a comparison between O’Hare airport and Midway airport in Chicago, with Midway more along the lines of the papacy in its relative calm. At my gate, I’m instantly annoyed by one of those people who walk around wearing their neck pillows-it’s as if they have discovered some secret fountain of pillow wisdom in their smugness around those who just head flop around during flight naps. They have to show off their special pillow for all to see in action, as if we don’t know how it works. Go buy some $20 headphones for $60 bucks at the same kiosk, you schmuck.

Of course, my bag is separated from me, off on his own trip, probably hitting on some Coach bag way out of his league. He never sleeps, so I imagine he took the 1:14AM flight home, probably waiting at the bar for me at the Fargo airport. Wow, I am losing it as I imagine the folds of my brain collapsing.

I quickly flip mental channels, thinking of how getting to Fargo yesterday was doomed from the start. Almost upon my arrival at the airport, flights were being cancelled right and left due to bad weather other places and what O’Hare calls “air traffic control issues”, which is code for “we don’t have nearly enough goddam controllers to handle this shitstorm of stacked up planes” which I imagine to be like turtles all the way down at this point. As each flight cancels, smiles turn to blank stares, then a full gate of hapless people start flying down the large hallways to the “service desk”- it’s almost as if the expanse was designed for this purpose. I saw one lady run of out of a shoe, screaming something unintelligible back to her husband, which really seemed out of proportion for a flight reschedule, especially as many of us were getting rebooking texts on our phones after a minute or so.

South Chicago turns below me as we ascend heading toward my final destination of Fargo. Maybe I will take a nap. I’ve given up on trying to make my original meeting in Florida, as a flight there was 2 days away. One of the neck pillow people is asleep next to me- maybe I can slip it out by creating a diversion, like breaking their foot with my cane. Another time, perhaps.