“Maintenance issue,” they said.

Which is airport for:
      start doing math.

Puerto Vallarta gave me
       an 11 a.m. flight…

       that became a 1 p.m. flight.

Because somewhere inside the machine
              something had opinions.

Fine.

At least the plane had the decency
   to leave me rows of empty seats,
   which is not quite an apology,
   but does make a man more willing

   to be lied to gently by a boarding screen.

DFW gave me five hours.

Five whole hours,
     which sounds like a gift
     until you remember

     I am apparently the kind of person
       who sees spare time
        and immediately turns it
         into logistics.

So I drove Nero—
   my Purple Reign Wrangler
   back to Ava’s apartment
   and swapped him for Orcus,
   her Purple Reign Gladiator

   because my travel days now include a small purple motorcade.

I looked for warm-weather clothes.

Any warm-weather clothes.

Nothing.

Curious.

Somewhere between Atlanta,
                 Vallarta,
              Ava’s place,

              and whatever version of packing
              I thought I had accomplished,

              the pants had entered witness protection.

So I grabbed my beach bag,
     accepted the mystery,
  and went to Oscar’s Pub

                  for one. (Or two)

Then back to DFW
     for the 9 p.m. hop to Atlanta,
     because the real plan was still intact:

     ATL to YUL
     with Mari
     and two of her BFFs,

     then Montreal,
         Formula 1,
           engines,
       grandstands,

     the whole bucket-list machine finally roaring to life.

And then that plane broke too.

Not cute broke.

Not “we found a thing and we’re being cautious” broke.

Broke broke.

Boarded,
        settled,
                ready enough to start believing.

Then off the plane again
     for two more hours of airport theater.

They were finding another plane.

Then this plane was fixed, but needed a pilot.

Then pilots appeared,
     like a miracle with roller bags.

Then we needed cabin crew.

Then the delay got so long the pilots had to leave.

Then cabin crew arrived,
     with no pilots to fly them anywhere,
     which is a sentence
     that should come with a complimentary drink coupon

     and an apology from the concept of aviation.

Finally, a full crew.

Finally, maybe.

Except the Tower
       would not clear the airplane

       because there was no maintenance supervisor to sign off on it.

Two in the morning.

Connection math turning mean.

I needed to be in the air by five
  to have any real chance
  at the nine o’clock join-up

  with the Yellowjacket Crew,
  all those Georgia Tech people
  already pointed toward Montreal
  while I stood there

  watching the plane shed parts on the floor.

Needless to say: I had to act.

All the airlines.
All the last-minute sites.
All the tabs.

The kind of browser session
        that makes a laptop
        look like it’s also

   having a personal crisis.

At one point,
   I had Burlington, Vermont
                 in the cart.

Not as a joke.

Not as metaphor.

Burlington.

Fly there,
    rent something with wheels,
    drive to Montreal

    like a man trying to outrun a spreadsheet.

I stared at it long enough
  for it to become reasonable,
  which tells you _exactly_

  how ugly the board had gotten.

Then: one cancellation.

Air Canada.

One business-class seat
    appearing out of the smoke
    like the travel gods
    had finally stopped laughing

    long enough to misclick in my favor.

I grabbed it.

Cancelled the other routes.

Let Mari know,
    which was its own little turbulence,
    because she had already been dragged
    through enough of the flight path

    to hate the sky.

Then I went back to the apartment
            to collect what sleep
            could still be stolen.

It didn’t happen until about 6 a.m.

But I got three good hours.

Three good hours is not rest,
                     exactly,
      but it’s enough
      to keep a body

      from filing paperwork against the soul.

And now I’m here.

Montreal.

Holiday Inn Suites.

Waiting on the ’Jackets,
        waiting on Mike
        from Ohio by way of Vallarta,

        waiting for the whole strange convoy
                         to become a weekend.

One broken wing behind me.

One prayer answered sideways.

And somewhere not far from here,
           the track is waiting
          to make all this math

             sound like engines.