It’s the most important day of my life and I can’t seem to find my wallet. The taxi is already outside and the driver is honking again. I walk to the front door, doesn’t he realize this wastes more time, open my imitation steel door and yell, “Please, just wait another minute.” My words seem to soothe him, or perhaps he is glancing at the meter that is accumulating more numbers. I take a deep breath as I take my hair down from the scrunchie holding it hostage. My reflection is grinning at me for making such a mistake.
Today could be my beginning in a great career. I graduate from Syracuse University in three months and I have been applying for jobs like crazy. During this recession everyone, especially in my field, art history, has emphasized the importance of landing a job before graduating college. I have slaved over my books for four years in order to be the most knowledgeable individual on DaVinci and Rembrandt.
I have landed an interview with the California Museum in Sacramento, California. I slept a full eight hours last night, ate a balanced breakfast, grabbed my bag that had been packed since last week and ran out the door. The taxi driver kindly listened to me ramble on about how amazing the museum was and how it was my first location choice. He is a smiling old man with white hair that contrasts his mahogany skin. He blows his horn again, reminding me that my flight leaves in an hour, and I continue my rummaging through my couch cushions. I smirk at the fact I won’t be home when my neat freak roommate gets home.
“YES!” I exclaim as I find the little square of leather that constitutes as a wallet. If it weren’t for the fact it said Coach across the front people would think it belonged to a man. I run out the door and jump into my yellow chariot.
“I thought you weren’t gonna find it.” He chuckles as we speed off. Screeching tires break the silence of my suburban neighborhood, but luckily the majority of the inhabitants are already at work. “We still have time.” He states as I glance down at my watch. It’s like he keeps reading my mind.
As he hurries back to the airport I have to close my eyes to keep from getting carsick. The flash of gleaming blurs of colors doesn’t do well for the nerves jumbled in my stomach. When we arrive I jump out of the seat before he can come to a complete stop.
“Good luck kid!” he yells as I run into the airport. The crowd is too thick for a Monday morning, and I wonder if everyone is traveling today. When I was here twenty minutes ago there was half as many people. I haven’t been on an airplane for a few months, yet I’m not surprised by the noise. Glancing at my watch I realize I have another half hour before my flight takes off. I walk over to the Fridays and sit at the bar. The bartender sends me a wink. Returning the grin I pull out my wallet as he makes his way to me.
“Hello ma’am, what will you be having?”
“I’ll order an apply martini” he nods his approval before hurrying off to make my drink. He reminds me of my boyfriend; dark hair, blue eyes, and large biceps. My drink is placed in front of me and I take a small sip to savor the taste. I smile as the liquid slides down my throat. “Now that’s a martini”.
My boyfriend supports my decision to move away even though he will be stationed in upstate New York for at least another year. Even though we won’t be able to see each other as often as before, he understands my passion for history, specifically art. My parents, on the other hand, hate everything about me possibly changing locations. They think the west coast is full of pompous movie stars and socialites with too much money. I always remind them that New York is the same except for the fact we get snow.
“Flight 8791”
“That’s me.” I tell my bartender as I hand him the cash for the drink.
“Have a safe trip”
“Thank you.” I reply as I hop off the barstool and hurry to the gate. I’ll only be gone a few days so my luggage is a medium duffel bag. My purse begins to jingle but I don’t have time to answer as I rush to the front of the line. The flight attendant asks for my boarding pass and I reach into my bag. When I don’t feel the paper envelope I allow the people behind me to go on as I rummage through my bag. My face and heart sinks as I realize I left the folder containing my boarding pass, hotel confirmation, and directions to my interview on the coffee table in front of my couch.
“Forgot your ticket huh?” the flight attendant asks me.
“Talk about uh oh.”
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