Non-Fiction

Monday, January 29, 2007

(6 Days to Kickoff)

I’m sitting in the first class cabin of a Delta 767 that I’ve probably been in before, which is an odd feeling. My stomach is filled with an uncomfortable mix of anticipation and stress. Super Bowl, after all, is the king of corporate events. There isn’t enough time to do it all, and nobody ever has. Even the most interesting and incomparable story on an average day seems almost trivial during Super Bowl week. You can almost hear two people’s voices from Detroit 12 months ago,

“I can’t believe that we just had a beer with Elton John!”

“That was Elton John? I agreed to go horseback riding later with him, and he told me his name was Eleanor. Forget about that, is that Dennis Hopper steering that riverboat?”

Not that I actually overheard that conversation, but I think you get my point. Anything can happen and usually does.

I look up from my book as the plane is loading and I’m shot back 8 years to the Hyatt Kauai and my first experience with the NFL on a personal level. I was having drinks at Sullivan’s Library, the world’s greatest hotel bar, when the NFL Player’s Association checked in to the hotel for the week. It was obvious something was going on; I think I felt the room list a little to the left when these guys walked through the door. After each drink I got a little closer trying to hear conversations and maybe work my way into the billiard rotation. That night I ended up playing chess with Robert Smith, who played for the Vikings for awhile, but more importantly for the Ohio State Buckeyes in the 80’s. He spent most of the night whipping my ass across the chess board and talking down about Auburn and the SEC. I wonder how he felt about that National Championship game (Ohio State losing to Florida in 2007).

I’d like to say that I’m taken back because I see Robert Smith coming through the jet way.  But I also met Shannon Sharpe during that trip to Kauai, and he’s staring right back at me now, 8 years later. I’m not going to bother him even though he’s right across the aisle from me. Shannon Sharpe doesn’t hold the celebrity that my readers are looking for. My nephew Chase is going to hate this decision.

Touchdown in Ft. Lauderdale, and I am following Shannon and his driver down the escalator and there she is…my driver. A girl from Samsung with a cowboy hat on and a sign that reads…wait a minute…not close enough yet. Perfect!

T. Gilbert~Hot Dog King 

Paparazzi is minimal. 

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

(5 Days to Kickoff)

Traffic couldn’t be worse. I’m running a golf tournament at Doral Resort and Spa on Friday and am on my way to the hotel to do a walkthrough. Upon my arrival I’m informed that the resort is a little crazy today because Jim Brown is hosting a celebrity golf tournament. Again, there couldn’t be more going on. Jim Brown…nothing irregular about that.

I get a call on my way out.  My new assignment is to go to South Beach and pick up “some” Super Bowl tickets. The next thing I know, I’m driving in bumper to bumper traffic with 80 Super Bowl tickets in the passenger seat.

My phone is ringing again and it’s a call I’ve been expecting. It’s my assignment for Friday Night’s “Player of the Year” dinner. Earlier, I received the final list of attendees for the dinner. The event is the biggest thing our team does during the week. Various sports and entertainment celebrities attend and the NFL Alumni Organization presents their “Player of the Year” awards. This year the hostess of the event is Samantha Harris from E! Entertainment and the co-host of “Dancing with the Stars”. This worries me a little because I’m confident that I’ll be enamored with her. Anyway, Todd Heap is the Tight End of the Year and I’m being told that I will be his handler. Basically this means that I will have to go up to his room and escort him down the red carpet to his seat in the dinner. I chuckle a little because he was my fantasy football tight end and I have a bone to pick with him: I finished in 5^th place. That reminds me, I owe several people a lot of money. If they only knew exactly where I was on I-95 rolling along at 2 miles an hour with my doors unlocked and $250,000 worth of Super Bowl tickets on the seat beside me.

Wednesday, January 31, 2007

(4 Days to Kickoff)

It has started already. The no-sleep thing. Last night I was in bed at 3:30 AM and up this morning at 7. I decided to stay until Tuesday morning after the game to take advantage of Monday and the beach. I will probably sleep all day.

I plan to spend the entire day in our makeshift office inside the Hard Rock preparing for my golf tournament on Friday. I’m unbelievably stressed and need sleep. There are so many names, times, phone numbers, schedules, etc. racing through my head. I hate this part of the job.

I decide to walk around a little and settle for a few minutes at the hospitality desk in the Conference-Center foyer. I’m looking at my computer screen when I hear a faint voice announcing her name and that she needs to check in. The name sounds familiar but it isn’t until after I tell her she is in the wrong place that I really focus. I’m staring straight at Mrs. Cunningham from “Happy Days”. How strange is this? Marion Ross, alive and well. She actually looks really good. Maybe there’s been a little work done.

~

It’s late in the night now and we’re all still working. I get up to take another little walk and decide to go to the bathroom. Stefanie, a girl I work with, stops me in the hallway and we chat a little. She turns to walk away and as I turn the opposite way and start walking with my head down I run right into Prince. Now, Prince is about four-feet tall, so I’m surprised he didn’t hit the deck after even this small blow. I know that he is known for requesting that no one look at him, which is more than odd needless to say.  I wonder how he feels about being physically knocked down? He’s performing at Hard Rock Live tonight and in another example of random things happening at the Super Bowl, I was handed three tickets to his show. The face value of the tickets is $300 and they are on the front row on one side of the stage upper deck. The venue is small, so we’re talking close.

A few hours go by and we’re still working. The show has started and I’m starting to get nervous. I saw Prince at Atlanta’s Fox Theater about seven years ago and he was amazing. Such an unbelievable entertainer. It has come to a choice. If I am going to see any of this show, I have to go now. I lie and say that I am running to my room for something and I dash through the casino and to Hard Rock Live instead. Just as I cross the threshold, I hear those unforgettable words from the 80’s: “Dearly Beloved…we are gathered here today to get through this thing called life.” Perfect timing.  I stay for two songs and think about the days when a four-foot black man changed the face of music in “Purple Rain”. Two unused tickets are burning a hole in my pocket as I make my way back to the office. After a few more hours of work, I head up the elevator and prepare for another solid three hours of sleep.

Thursday, February 1, 2007

(3 Days to Kickoff)

Today’s a pretty important day for me. My main function at this event is serving as the tournament manager for the NFL Alumni Golf Tournament at Doral. Basically, current and ex-NFL players litter themselves across the Super Bowl Host City each year to get paid for appearances at parties, events, autograph sessions, and the like. This tournament is for a second client I have on site that has decided to entertain their customers with a golf tournament in which they have the opportunity to play with some NFL greats. All week I have been getting calls from various players and organizers either signing up or dropping out of this event. It’s a tumultuous carnival of changes and has been the source of my stress for the last few months.

Today I have packed a bag to last me two full days and nights and have bid a farewell to my room at the Hard Rock for at least the next 36 hours.

On my way down to Doral with Stefanie, who is assisting me with the set-up for tomorrow, I get the call that I had been hoping for. Actually, Stef gets the call. It seems that once the game tickets were sorted out and divided up among the attendees, there were a few left. They were given to her for the work she had put in throughout the year (much more than me seeing as her office is just down the road in Palm Beach), and she could give the 2^nd one to whomever she wanted. She just couldn’t sell it. Tempting, seeing as it could bring in several thousand dollars.

She hangs up the phone, looks at me, smiles and says “we’re going to the game…and this year we have seats.”

She was referring to last year’s frigid fiasco in Detroit…my first Super Bowl experience. We were working together there as well and although we were given credentials to be in the stadium to assist with a lot of what was going on internally, we were only able to access certain areas. We weren’t assigned to an actual seat which meant that we wouldn’t be seeing any of the game or ever find ourselves comfortable.

I refused that fate and climbed onto a railing to peer over various Seahawk and Steeler fans to see anything I could. That ended up vaulting me involuntarily into one of the most elaborate lies ever crafted. The architect was supermodel Niki Taylor.

20 minutes prior to climbing up that railing, Niki was standing in the concession line behind me getting a beer of all things. I recognized her and we started talking about how it seemed we were the only Seahawk fans in the entire area around our level (I was wearing a small Seattle pin on my shirt). We talked a little while longer about trivial things, she got her beer, saluted me with a “Cheers” gesture and moved on to her seat.

Now, I was a few rows behind her, balancing on a railing and trying to see over her 6-foot head.

The events that ultimately led to me having one of the best seats at Super Bowl XL in Detroit started with a jackass Steeler fan that had snuck into the box where Niki, her father, and a friend were sitting. He had situated himself in the seat right next to Mr. Taylor who was being very patient with the unruly fan. The guy was being obnoxious and on top of that didn’t belong there. People were getting annoyed by his barrage of shouted obscenities and his refusal to go back to his actual seat. When the guy said something rude in the direction of her dad, Niki lost it.

The first thing that was distracting was that she stood up, and she’s got a pretty intimidating stature. She gently pushed her father to the back of his seat and yelled something to this effect…

“Listen you little bastard. Nobody wants you here; you’re not supposed to be here and I’m getting the usher to haul you out of here.”

The guy looked up at her and said, “Lady, no one is sitting here. What does it matter if I’m here?”

Just then I noticed her catch a faint glimpse of me out of the corner of her eye. A chill ran down my back because, let’s face it, I wasn’t supposed to be here either. And then she pointed in my direction as she continued to stare him down. I froze…and she yelled.

“This is my best friend from high school, and because of your fat ass in this seat, he has nowhere to sit! He’s standing back here on this railing and the rest of us have to sit here listening to you. I haven’t seen him in years, and you’re in his seat! Now move!”

Then, she extended her hand and took mine ushering me over the rail. The guy tucked his tail between his legs, left, and the section started to applaud. Nervous that the oncoming usher was going to realize that I didn’t even have a ticket, I pleaded with her to let it go because I wasn’t supposed to be there either. She ignored me, moved her dad a seat down, slapped the seat next to her and said,

“I don’t care, you’re supposed to be here now.”

The rest of the game we all drank beers, rooted for the Hawks, and danced to the Rolling Stones at the half. I spent what seemed like an eternity talking to the guys around us about what Niki was like back in high school and recounting old stories that I simply made up on the fly. What did I care? I was sitting next to a supermodel at the Super Bowl, listening to the Rolling Stones with a beer in hand. Not a bad day.

I haven’t seen her since, but a few emails have gone back and forth. She is an avid motorcyclist and I have tried a few times to join her and Robin, her friend at the game, on a charity ride they do each year. Unfortunately it hasn’t worked out.

Friday, February 2, 2007

(2 Days to Kickoff)

Yesterday is sort of a blur. After a meeting at Doral, the site of my NFL Alumni Golf Tournament, Michele Skolnick comp’d me a room for the night and Stefanie and I got about an hour of sleep – she on a down feather bed and me on a five-foot sofa. Michele is an old friend in the hotel business that is currently stationed at Doral, lucky for me.

It’s 4:45 AM on Friday morning and my alarm is ringing incessantly.  Breakfast for the group starts at 6:00 AM and registration at 7:00 AM. The shotgun goes off at 8:00 AM. Lunch is at 12:30 PM, the NFL Parade of Legends and the awards show begins at 1:15 PM. I have a car waiting to take me back to the Hard Rock at 2:30 PM. In the back of the car is my suit for tonight. I’ll change in the car and be dumped off to work the red carpet. My Todd Heap assignment has changed about twenty times and now I am the floating celebrity escort. That always leads to random situations.

~

Errict Rhett is on the player list today and I’m looking forward to talking to him. He was Emmitt Smith’s back up at the University of Florida and he gave me a few fits while I was in school. I see him open the lunch room door just off the course and he comes right up to me.

“Thanks for everything,” he says, “I had a really good time.”

I ask him what years he played at UF to confirm and after the confirmation exclaim, “You bastard!” I feared him for a few years while I was at Auburn. “Yeah, but you got us,” he replied. Auburn beat #1 ranked Florida 2 years in a row during the 1993 and 1994 seasons. Errict Rhett was the running back in both of those games. He reminds me that the guys that played for Auburn at the time including Calvin Jackson and Frank Sanders, all went to Dillard High School. He informs me that those same guys did the “same damn thing” to him during the Florida State High School Football Championship Game. He couldn’t be a nicer guy. He takes my cell number, we take a picture, and I move on to the sedan that’s waiting for me.

~

I’m asleep in the back of a sedan and my suit is riding up all over my body. Golf went well, and I was given tons of compliments on the fluid registration, play and program. That always relieves you.

A faint noise outside the car becomes louder and louder until it demands a reaction. I slowly sit up, look out the window and witness a frenzy of lights, sounds and attitude. It seems that Henry, the driver, has pulled me up to the red carpet instead of the hotel’s front entrance. The door is opened by the valet just in time for me to scramble upright and throw my legs out without looking too foolish. It was insanity in its purest form. Cameras, screams, and it all ended abruptly when my face was focused on. You can hear the inner minds asking, “Who the hell is this guy?” I had a very brief moment of celebrity until I saw one of the girls we hired to help with escorting on the side of the stanchion ropes near the VIP make-up and staging area. We rented one of the bars in the outside mall to set up hair and make-up so everyone looks in tiptop shape on their way down the red wave of chaos.

Various sports and entertainment celebrities have already made their way into Hard Rock Live for the dinner so the paparazzi and fans are well primed. I’m in the staging area long enough to catch a quick glimpse of Lesley Visser getting freshened up. She’s one of my favorite regular attendees at these events. She was a pioneer for women in sports broadcasting and continues to be a force in the world of overall media. I believe I’m correct to say that she is the only woman ever to be inducted into the NFL Football Hall of Fame.

I met her last June in New York at the Four Seasons of Hope charity dinner at Tavern on the Green. She had a few too many margaritas and came weaving out of the show. I hustled over to her and she grabbed my arm to take advantage of an escort to the bathroom. She told me a great story about covering the Auburn-Alabama game in Birmingham back in the 80’s. She said that in the frenzy of an Auburn victory, she drove back to Auburn with David Housel, the Athletic Director at the time. They were so wrapped up in the moment that she packed up her camera crew and drove the 2 hours to join the fans in rolling Toomer’s Corner. I loved that story. She shouted a “War Eagle” in my direction as she got into her limo that evening in New York.

I walk back to the reception and catch my first glimpse of Samantha Harris, who is quite striking and cute at the same time. She looks like a million bucks. She will be m.c.’ing the event tonight. Her husband played college basketball at Ithaca in Upstate New York, which I know because I read it somewhere. They make a great couple.

I say a brief hello and prepare for what has become my first job of the evening: escorting Troy Aikman through the “back of the house” and into the pre-dinner reception. I’m excited because Jordan Bazant, Troy’s agent, will be with him. I met Jordan and his partners a few years ago now and we always have an opportunity to hang out a little when their clients are doing appearances. I can hear Troy speaking in the reception room so I sneak in and get myself ready. I shake a few hands and wait for my signal from Jordan.

~

The door forcefully opens wide and the light from a Fox TV camera blinds us as we exit. I’m on Troy’s right and Jordan’s on his left. We are whisked into the back of the house through 2 swinging catering doors and our parade to the dinner begins. To our surprise, the hotel staff has lined the back hallway to give Troy a quick ovation as he walks by. The scene is rather remarkable and if I stay a few inches ahead I find I can pretend that this circus is for me. The camera light is still lingering like a supernova over my shoulder and now Jordan starts handing him footballs. A pen appears in his hand as if it sprouted from beneath his tailored sleeve. I guess he’s done this enough to know never to be without a pen.  As we walk, Troy signs a ball and tosses a perfect spiral toward the hotel’s head chef who brings it down with a Franco Harris-like immaculate reception. What takes only about 30 seconds seems to go on forever as we rush along the camera-filled hallway with Troy hurling signed balls to and fro. At the end of the tunnel, a door opens and leads us directly onto the end of the Red Carpet and the gathered crowd I witnessed a little earlier goes crazy. It’s hard to feel sorry for the guy; a lot of people would give anything to live like this just once. I find a way to though. I’ve seen him step away from a crowd and just stand for a few seconds by himself staring at the ground. I always wonder what he’s thinking.

We make our way into the reception and I need a few minutes to rest. I feel like I’m going to pass out in the middle of this event. I make my way through the crowd, past security and toward the Green Room. Just outside the door I run into Samantha and her husband, Michael. This is the first chance I have gotten to meet him. We talk a little while she leaves us to go to the bathroom. He is an interesting guy but also very normal. Normal in a good way. When she returns, we make our way to the Green Room.

Inside the room there are several NFL Alumnus including Don Shula and Mike Singletary. Mike has been with us all week attending dinners and receptions. He looks like he could still play on Sunday and help the Bears out a bit. I briefly met Shula last year but didn’t strike up a conversation with him again fearing that my Auburn roots would become exposed. His son was recently fired from the University of Alabama and I’m not sure how he feels about my state as a result.

It’s quite humbling to see all these great players huddled together giggling and punching each other playfully as if they just left the schoolyard. I just stand next to Terry the bartender and keep quiet.

The room pretty much clears out just before the dinner starts and I’m left to chat with Terry. I have him pour me a drink and tell him to keep it hidden behind the bar. I’ll be back, and I feel like I may need it.

I make my way behind the main stage, through a black curtain and onto the fiasco of the dinner floor. A sea of people have gathered around the tables talking and mingling with players and celebrities. Just before dinner is served I catch a few pictures. One with an old friend from Happier Days and one with the Incredible Hulk.

I decide that I would rather watch the show from behind the stage and see the back of the house action rather than sit at one of the tables behind the production team. After taking another sip from my drink that Terry is hiding for me, I make my way from the Green Room and to the side of the stage. Presenters and award winners are being guided up the stairs in front of me. Samantha sits on a folding chair being briefed by the production crew. These shows really are interesting from this point of view. I watch a few presentations and then settle back into the Green Room.

Suddenly a frenzy of activity comes through the backstage door. Lights, cameras and an entourage come through followed by Nicolette Sheridan of “Desperate Housewives”. This is a little random. I never saw her name on any of our lists. Samantha comes through the door with quite a determined look on her face. I hear her explain to the B-Roll camera crew that they need to send all the Nicolette footage to “E!” by 8:00 AM on Monday morning to have it included in their Super Bowl summary.  This B-Roll camera crew belongs to the Hard Rock and they evidently will be taping an actual interview with Nicolette Sheridan for “E!”.  Samantha asks me if I would try to keep everyone out and quiet. Suddenly I’m standing behind the camera directing the very small crowd. The interview concludes without incident. As the room clears, Samantha hangs back for a quick drink before going back out on the stage. She makes a few jokes with Terry and me and then strikes a quick conversation about my role and where I’m from. She tells me that she would like to leave her agent’s number with me in the event I would ever like to bring her in for an appearance or another hosting gig. She doesn’t give it to me right there because, as she explains, “The last thing I need is for a B-Roll crew to capture me writing my phone number on a napkin at a bar and giving it to some unknown man in a suit”. That’s kind of funny I think.

She leaves and following a security guard, I make my way to Hank Williams Jr.’s tour bus just parked outside to ask them if we could have about 10 minutes of meet and greet for some of the Samsung executives. As I enter the bus, the first person I see is Kid Rock. Another unexpected encounter. He approaches me and introduces himself as Bobby. 2 girls emerge from the rear of the bus and a few things become crystal clear: 1) These girls are strippers, and 2) These girls are “Bobby’s” girlfriends. There are brief introductions and Hank appears. His manager is close behind. I get confirmation and I’m off as fast as I was on. I’m thinking to myself, “How do I end up on this bus after the show?”

Later, as the show starts, I slip out from behind the backstage curtain and make my way to the front of the stage. Hank wails away, Kid Rock joins him on stage and the show is actually quite entertaining. Marian Ross is actually still here. She is right beside me and we make a visual acknowledgement just before we start dancing a little. My surreal alarm goes off in my head once again as I bump hips with Mrs. Cunningham during “Family Tradition”. How many original hips does this lady have, and am I about to crack one of them?

I walk through the crowd and nod recognition here and there. I shake hands with Doug Flutie who is standing just next to…it can’t be. It is. Vanilla Ice.  Vanilla and I “rap” a little and I learn that he actually lives just down the road. He’s friends with Hank and Kid Rock and so we go backstage together to get a different look. He’s actually a really nice guy. I felt a little weird admitting to him that one of my high school girlfriends was in love with him and I split with her in a rage of jealousy. “Let me buy you a drink for that,” he concedes. I think he also asked me if she was here tonight. She would have liked to be.

Saturday, February 4

(1 Day to Super Bowl)

Last night was unbelievable and quite the pressure releaser. My official duties here in Miami are over and it’s time for me to enjoy and embrace the event that is the Super Bowl. After all, the Colts are playing and I’m from Indiana. Doesn’t it only make sense that I’m a fan because of geography? The only problem with that is that I’m not sure they were actually in Indianapolis when I was born. That’s something I’ll have to look up.

As I walk through the corridor leading to the lobby and my cup of Starbucks life, one of the doors to the elaborate pool area opens and the wind ushers in the smell of an open charbroil flame and cooking hamburgers. I make a fairly quick and abrupt right and let the sun and heat slowly drape over me.

Lying too close to the grill for it not to be intentional, I find Samantha and her husband Michael relaxing in a few of the deck chairs. She was truly an excellent hostess at the event last night and was intensely charming to boot. Michael was a little quieter but I was able to loosen him up a bit as the night wore on. I decide to sit next to them while I wait for my fix off the grill. Like me, her commitments are over. She admittedly is waiting for the Prince halftime show and nothing else. Prince…it’s entertaining to think about what he might be doing right now. We decide that will be our conversational topic for the next 10 minutes or so. Little does anyone know that his concert the other night came close to being cancelled as a result of my near full body take down outside the spa. We laugh.

~

It’s later in the day now and once again I’m handed tickets to an evening event that I have no business attending. This one reads “Ocean Drive Beach Party” and has a face value on the ticket of $1,500. Where do people get this kind of money? I am truly out of my league here. I spring to life a little as my head rests on the bus window heading into South Beach and fireworks start exploding to the right over the water. The traffic is unbearable, but I’m finished and I’m going to relax. I open the bottle of wine I snuck onto the bus and share a little with Stefanie.

Once the bus stops, we fight the rest of the way down Ocean Drive on foot. It looks like a snapshot of my 1995 Mardi Gras trip to New Orleans. I still think I might be the only person in history asked to leave a bar’s terrace because they were afraid I might actually fall off, but that’s a story for another time.

The crowd thins as we reach the beach and the security station. Once again I’m whisked through untouched and without question or waiting. These credentials I seem to find dangling from my neck on a daily basis sure do make these things seem a lot less impenetrable than they always have been in the past.

I hit the bar and then glance toward the stage which has been constructed on the beach. The entire area is fenced and no one from the outside can even catch a glimpse of what’s going on inside this VIP fortress. Only the pounding music and electricity make their way over the walls. The bars are giant ice blocks. And fireworks begin exploding over the water. To my left is the VVIP Island that has a separate security entrance, is railed off and lifted maybe 3 feet higher than the sand I’m balancing on. Along the perimeter of the fence are a few unmistakable characters. Hulk Hogan and his daughter Brooke are in a conversation with Scotty Pippen who looks pretty cozy with Nelly Furtado. I hadn’t heard they were an item, and maybe they’re not, but there she is and I’m having a hard time looking anywhere else. I just heard the other day that he was planning an NBA comeback. Carl Lewis passes across my line of sight and breaks my Furtado stare down. He’s moving a little slower than he was in the 92 Olympics, but I decide not to challenge him to a quick 100 across the beach. He says a quick hello to A-Rod on his way up the stairs and into the depth of celebrity central. My eyes are averted back toward the stage where Fergie is belting out a tune and gyrating as only she can do. Wait a minute…look at this girl with A-Rod. A-Rod and A-Bod.

A tap on my shoulder and suddenly I’m looking at Jon, one of the sports agents in a friend’s agency I have worked with a few times in the last couple of years. He introduces me to Nick Mangold, his client for the night. Nick is a mammoth offensive lineman for the Jets and is incessantly bugging Jon about leaving so they can get to the Penthouse Magazine party over at the Mansion on Collins. He asks me if I want to come along, and it’s tempting, but I just arrived here so I politely decline.

As they walk away there is some commotion around the stage. As my eyes adjust to the rising smoke and electric lightshow I am able to catch a glimpse of the new act on stage…J-Lo. The crowd goes nuts as she is joined by her husband, Marc Anthony. This shift in celebrity gears has brought some of the VVIPs down into the peon area. Tara Reid stumbles through the sand trying to convince the world she isn’t loser drunk and Tom Cruise graces the front left of the stage dancing with his latest contract wife trying to convince the world he’s heterosexual. This makes me laugh a little and I need another drink.

Tomorrow is going to be a long day so I decide after a few hours of partying on South Beach sand that it’s time for me to head back. My phone rings. Dallas Roberts, a family friend who finds himself in these circles more often than I do, is hanging on the other end.

“Am I getting correct information that you are in Miami?” he asks.

“That’s right, where are you?” I reply a little puzzled. I even give my perimeter a glance feeling I’m being watched.

“I’m in Miami on my way to the Playboy party in Ft. Lauderdale. Come meet me,” he offers.

I can’t do it. I’m exhausted, so I let that opportunity slip through my fingers like a lock of platinum blond hair slips through the hand of Hef himself.

Goodnight.

Super Bowl Sunday

~ 2007 ~

Miami, FL

An epic day…

The sun rises and I’m wide awake. If you’re a sports fan, this is the day. Super Bowl Sunday is the ultimate crescendo of the sports hurricane. There’s a buzz this morning that you can feel but not yet hear. I spring to life, shower, get dressed and into the chaos.

Although my job is officially over, my client is taking three buses into the mess and I have volunteered to help with that transfer. It’s the least I can do to pay them back for my end zone ticket.

I’m mesmerized by the activity along the entrance road to the stadium zone and my forehead is glued to the bus window like a child on his first day of school. The bus comes to a stop in front of a police barricade and our driver cracks his window. A flood of sounds avalanche through the opening and amp up everyone’s anticipation about 5 levels. As our driver argues with one of the police guards outside of the NFL Experience my phone vibrates in my hands. I look down to find a message from Dallas. He is on his way toward the stadium in a police escorted motorcade. I laugh to myself as I look around the crowded bus I’m on. Our driver wins the argument with the barricade guard, however, and the door to the football kingdom is slid open long enough for our chariot to pass. Dallas seems to be in another world right now, but I decide we’ll be able to find each other and make a plan.

My client has access to a tailgate party in a large circus tent that features a rotation of musical acts, a never ending buffet line, and a ton of NFL players you may or may not have ever heard of signing autographs and taking pictures. As I walk in only one thing floods my mind…beer. I have been so stressed the last few months getting ready for this trip that a beer might just set me free.

I look at Stef as I take my first drink and all we can do is smile. It’s a mixture of exhaustion, delirium and wonder as we take a look around on a daily basis at this unbelievable world that seems to exist on a different plane than the one most of us usually inhabit. It’s all pretty surreal and now I can finally enjoy it. My phone rings…it’s Dallas.

“Where are you?” he inquires, his voice somewhat muffled by sounds of furious activity.

“I’m under a giant white tent in the Coke Pavilion,” I explain. “That’s about as much as I know.”

“I think you’re right beside us. We’re in the Cadillac tent,” he returns.

I walk outside and through the security gate in the front of our tent. Dallas is right; the Cadillac tent is right beside me. This entire time we have been about 20 yards apart. I decide to test my “All Access Working Pass” even further and walk right through the security gate at Cadillac. I’m amazed as no one even bats an eye. I’m in.

The scene inside the Cadillac tent rivals that of the Coke Pavilion. I don’t see Dallas, but I do see a bar in every corner. That’s my cue. As I wiggle through the crowd toward the back of the tent, I notice an entourage of about 6 guys heading in my direction. The crowd seems to part in their wake which I envy a bit. As they pass me by I catch a brief glimpse of Nick Lachey in the middle of the pack. I could stand here and try to figure out exactly why he’s famous, but I don’t have the time. I need to find Dallas and make friends with the bartender now in my sights.

Just as I reach the bar I notice Paul Rudd standing to the right of it. We make eye contact and I see recognition in his face. Paul and I met briefly at Dallas’s 40th birthday surprise for his girlfriend Christine in New York City. Before I met him, I liked him. After learning that he is a down to earth guy, I love him. As I know that they’re friends, I assume that Paul and Dallas are together. I walk over to him and we reminisce a while about the surprise in New York. He explains that Dallas is around somewhere and then introduces me to 2 more of their friends. 1 beer down and thanks to Paul, 1 more on deck in my hand. This is starting to get good.

Once Dallas arrives, the five of us start talking at an alarming rate. I think that we’re all equally excited about the fact that we’re going to the Super Bowl and things couldn’t be more lined up in our favor. We’re drinking free booze, eating free food, littered with credentials and now, as I glance in front of us, 2 girls are gushing and on their way toward us. This is where hanging out with Paul Rudd is going to pay off.

Surprisingly, the girls don’t go right up to Paul. He’s been in several movies and let’s face it, he married Phoebe on “Friends”. Who’s been alive in the 90’s that wouldn’t recognize him for that alone? They don’t go right up to Dallas either, which could have also been a possibility. He gets recognized every once in awhile for parts he’s played in movies and TV shows. They address all of us together which threw me off a bit.

“Who are you guys? You guys are famous aren’t you? We recognize you,” they ramble in an embarrassing tone.

Without getting a straight answer from any of us, they just continue their line of questioning slowly starting to focus on Paul. Once the “Friends” association comes out, the floodgates open. They treat us all like we had been friends for years. We all take pictures and beer number three is popped. Dallas looks at me and says he wants to go outside for a cigarette. We tell the girls goodbye and move to the courtyard.

People must have noticed the pictures being taken just minutes ago on the inside because now people are coming at us left and right. Most of them recognize Paul specifically and a few people are talking to Dallas with some interest. The odd thing at this point is that people are also asking to have their picture taken with me. By association I assume, they think I am somebody worth showing their friends as well. It briefly enters my mind to set them straight but then that moronic idea shoots out of my head like a cannonball. I think the summit of the scene has to be the moment that a girl asks Paul to take a picture of her with me. “Say Superbowl!”

The time comes for us to make our way to the stadium so we grab some road beers and start the long walk into the mess. We’re running a little late so our pace quickens through various barricades and security lines. Our credentials seem to be the golden ticket as we hustle on without anyone questioning us. I start to notice people looking at us as we walk by and even hear some comments, mostly about Paul. It starts to get a little comedic as I take in the situation as a whole. We’re almost running now and people are noticing us in every direction. We all laugh at the various comments and Paul starts exclaiming, “I was in Anchorman people, we need to get through.” All of us are giggling uncontrollably now.

When we finally reach the security line for entrance to the stadium, our bags are checked and Dallas is stopped because he has a video camera in his bag. The security guard is refusing his entry with the camera and we all look at each other questioning what to do. Something comes over me and I decide once again to test my magic all access pass. I step forward and explain to the guard that we were unaware of the no video rule and that the car was too far to go back. I continue to explain that this is a VIP group as I point at Paul and that I have been assigned to escort them to their box in the stadium. I assure him that the camera will never be used. Put delicately, bs is rolling off my tongue like a waterfall. He takes another look at my credentials and at our group and then let’s us pass. Once we’re clear of the security area, I say goodbye to the guys and head toward my seat.

I’m in awe of my seat. Last year I had to sneak into a club level box and get pulled into a giant lie crafted by Niki Taylor which resulted in a very nice position flanked by a supermodel and her dad (this is another story completely). However, the seat was in the upper level. Right now, I’m looking over a railing right into the Colts’ entrance tunnel. Helmets are gathering beneath me like shining marbles of war. Beers are flowing freely now and I’m not sure I’ve ever felt happier or more at peace. The Air Force sends a fly over causing temporary deafness as I look over my right shoulder to give Samantha Harris and her husband Michael a quick acknowledgment. They are sitting directly behind me. We are all wearing trash bags as it has begun to sprinkle and we have prepared for the worst.

The last few days I’ve been working with Samantha, the current host of Dancing with the Stars, who hosted an award show on Friday night that I helped put on. I’ve never watched Dancing with the Stars, but know what it is, and I took to her immediately.

I quickly learn that it hardly matters who you are rooting for at the Super Bowl. About 1% of the attendees are there because they are actually fans of either team. Corporate fat cats have taken over the event much like The Masters at Augusta. Because of this, most everyone seems to be cheering for a good game no matter the result. As halftime approaches, people are getting excited to see Prince. Samantha has grabbed me more than once to make sure that I’m ready to dance during the Prince show. “My own personal Dancing with the Stars” is what I’m thinking.

It’s raining pretty hard at this point as I run up to get a few beers before the halftime show. I run into Michael on my way back down to the seats and he leans in to warn me that we’re going to lose Samantha after halftime because of the rain unless we think of something. I pause for a second letting that turn over in my head and then tell him that I’ll handle it. I retreat up to the concession level and grab another beer. Samantha doesn’t drink beer, but I figure I’ll give it a shot.

As I get back to our section, I notice that Michael is gone. Samantha’s standing there looking like a wet rat staring intently at the field which has become a circus of activity since the halftime buzzer rang a few minutes ago.

“This is for you and you don’t have a choice,” I tell her as I hand her the beer. “You and I are going to make a little wager.”

I continue to explain to her that at the end of the game we are going to add up the total score of both teams and that one of us is going to bet on that number being odd and the other even.

“What are the terms?” she asked.

I thought for a second and came up with a definitive answer. I was feeling the beers at this point and it never occurred to me that there was any chance in the world that I was going to lose this bet. In my mind, it was just a matter of coming up with something I could make her do that would make a good story. It wasn’t going to be money, that’s boring. It had to be something memorable.

“The winner gets to choose the song that the loser then has to sing to the entire casino bar back at the Hard Rock,” I stated without a hesitation.

“Done,” she returns.

~ Indianapolis 29 – Chicago 17 ~

As you have probably guessed, I took odd. I think I was caught up in the Prince show and jumping up and down singing with Samantha. I did keep her entertained. I did keep her there. I did do my job. But I lost the bet.

I think to myself, “She’ll be asleep before we get anywhere near that bar, so I’ll escape with a little dignity on this one.” There’s a feather in my cap.

Stef, Michael, Samantha and I all make our way through the exiting crowd when we pass a beer garden.

“Todd!” I hear Samantha exclaim. “I’m not going to make you sing back at the hotel.” I think my relief could be heard over the over served crowd in the garden. “Here’s as good a place as any.” Damn.

She lasers through the crowd to the front of the bar area and pulls up a bunch of chairs. Unfortunately for me, this looks like it’s really going to happen. She makes us all sit down as Stefanie goes up to the bar for beers. It’s almost as if this has been planned for days. Am I the only one who was convinced that I was going to win this bet?

With the star quality she possesses, she summons everyone in the immediate area to gather for a special performance.

“My friend Todd here has lost a bet with me tonight and to settle that debt he will be performing a song of my choosing for you this evening.”

She looks around at the crowd and then at me. The song hits her suddenly and like an evil genius she gives me one last devilish smirk.

“Tonight, Todd will be giving us his rendition of Kanye West’s ‘Gold Digger’.”

Monday, February 6 (The Day After)

I’m sitting at a bar next to the Hard Rock Hotel’s pool drinking a beer and thinking about yesterday’s activities when my phone rings. Looking at the number on the screen I know by the area code that it’s from L.A. but I didn’t recognize it. When I answer, a familiar voice speaks back to me. It’s Samantha Harris.

“Todd, how’s it going?” she asks.

Quickly dismissing the possibility that this is a call to inform me that she has decided that it’s over between her and Michael and it’s me that she wants, I go on with the conversation in a normal fashion.

“I’m doing alright I guess, kind of a long night.”

She asks me to do her a favor by following up with the camera crew from Friday night regarding the interview she conducted with Nicolette Sheridan. Evidently it never made it to the cutting room floor at E! Television. I promise her I will, we say a few parting words and we say goodbye.

I have my bags packed for my flight home and they are at my feet. I stare into my beer glass one last time and continue thinking of not only the events of yesterday, but the entire week. I pay my bill, collect my bags, and walk around the pool and into lobby area to check out. As the pool door slams behind me I see one last entourage heading for the elevators to my left. In the middle of the pack I see a beaming head of blonde hair. I heard through the hotel grapevine that Anna Nicole was checking in today. It must be her heading to her room. “It’s an odd time to check in,” I think to myself as her elevator opens and they all get in. The day after the Super Bowl? She was going to be in a suite just down the hall from the room I am checking out of. She seems to have really turned herself around, thin and seemingly clean for a change. Good for her.

Afterword

Several things have happened since this Super Bowl trip. My friend and fellow staff member, Stefanie, quit working for the firm that hired me to help with Super Bowl programs in both 2006 and 2007. Stefanie is currently working for the Breeder’s Cup planning and executing programs surrounding the Derby, The Preakness, and the Belmont. We have kept in touch and talk often.

I haven’t heard from Samantha in a while. She texted me last year to tell me that I would be hearing the news that she was pregnant. She also wanted to bet on the sex of the baby, which I now know I have also lost. She sent me a text around Christmas in 2007 to say happy holidays. I haven’t heard from her or seen her since. Her career has taken off as co-host of Dancing With The Stars and she’s doing fantastic I understand.

As I was leaving the Hard Rock, I passed close enough to Anna Nicole and her entourage to smell her perfume. She went in as I went out. That night she proceeded up to her room and never came out. An overdose of prescription drugs ended her tumultuous life that very night just 6 rooms down from the room I had been living in the past 7 nights.

March, 1993 ~ The Struttin’ Duck ~ Auburn, AL

I’m sitting here reflecting on one of the most creative Spring Break trips I’ve ever crafted. The Duck isn’t the best atmosphere for heavy thinking, but this might be the first time I’m not dizzy within these walls and I need to take advantage. I suppose I shouldn’t complain about the place; they do allow me to sit in here with a beer sweating through a plastic 12 oz cup and I’m only 20 years old. It’s only fitting anyway seeing as my adventure started here 10 days ago…

I’m as broke as any college student is I suppose. One of those “keep the atm receipt that says ‘Balance: $6′ in case you’re ever rich for novelty” kinds of broke. My job leasing apartments at College Park is steady enough, but when it starts getting warm again in Auburn expenses just start going up. It can’t really be explained. There’s gym memberships, tanning bed sessions, and too many road trips to count. Same old story short: I had a $100 check from the parents to my name and Spring Break was a week away. There wasn’t anything in my pantry to even get through the week before the break and the crew was heading to the Keys. All this was manageable with $100. That’s a king’s ransom to a college kid. The big challenge was my exam schedule. Everyone was leaving on Wednesday and I couldn’t leave until Friday night. I wouldn’t trust my car, “Rosie”, to make it to Atlanta; much less the most southern point of the States. So I was faced with feeding myself for a week, passing an exam, and getting to the Keys with no car and no ride. What did I do? I came to the Duck.

I formulated a plan that I knew was a longshot, but I had no choice. I had to make it work. I went to Kroger and bought $70 worth of  food which was meant to get me through not only the week prior to the break, but the break as well. I figured that most of your expenses during a road trip are on food and gas. I had nowhere to put gas, so I loaded up on food. I bought as many non-perishable goods as I could fit in a backpack. I threw in a bowl, a spoon, a fork, and a can opener and then set it next to the front door. I had $30 left.

I lived that week pretty thin. I never touched the $30. I waved everyone goodbye on Wednesday and promised them they would see me in the Keys.

“I can’t promise when, and I don’t know how, but I’ll be there. By bus, boat, or B52 Bomber…watch for me in every direction including up.”

My test on Friday went as well as could be expected with nothing more than palm trees and sunsets floating around in my mind. But I was present, and they received a scantron with my name on it. That’s all that really mattered. I sat on the couch and burned a hole in that backpack staring through it blankly. I really had no ideas. Auburn was a ghost town. Everyone had left me behind. It occurred to me briefly that I could just let it go and relax in town while waiting for others to bring the stories home. But that wasn’t my style. I threw some clothes in a bag, snatched up my ration pack and fired Rosie up in the parking lot. When Auburn appears to be hibernating, there’s only one place to find any action…Wire Road.

I pulled up to the Struttin’ Duck and parked with about 7 other cars. Inside I found a plethora of personalities, but oddly no one that I recognized. After a few beers I started talking to two girls at the bar. Standard procedure I realize, but I had an ulterior motive. I overheard them talking about driving to Orlando that night. It was a rare and lucky strike, so I jumped on it. an hour later my food, my clothes, my $27 (beers at the Duck) and I were all stuffed in the back seat of a car rolling south out of Alabama.

The girls were more than accommodating. They didn’t even ask for gas money. I didn’t really have a plan once we reached Orlando, but all I cared about was that it landed me south of where I started. One of my friends from high school is in school at the University of Central Florida and he was in the back of my head. I had no idea whether he was even in town; for all I knew he was on break himself. We hadn’t really talked lately, but I did know what fraternity he was in. That was the best clue I had.

I was dumped on the OBT or Orange Blossom Trail for those not familiar with the strip bar/corner hooker scene in Orlando. I looked a lot like Axel Rose as he stepped off the bus in the beginning of the “Welcome To The Jungle” video. I found a pay phone that still had a functioning receiver and a phonebook. After a few calls to the university lines, I finally had the phone at his frat house ringing. Whoever answered informed me that there was an event that he would definitely be attending in an hour or so, but he had no idea where Chad was at the time. I got an address and hopped in a cab. Luckily I wasn’t far from where I needed to be and didn’t have to dip too far into my limited funds.

After a surprise reunion of sorts, partying a little with his fraternity brothers, and hitting on every girl that looked in my direction, the night abruptly ended. “Whack”, Chad’s little brother in the frat affectionately dubbed because he was not quite white or black, lifted his glass in the air in a toast directed toward no one in particular. After finishing a swig from his solo cup, incidentally his last one of the night, Whack slowly toppled forward and face first through the glass coffee table like something out of a movie. Chad and I took that as our cue and before long I was sleeping with a roof over my head and $20 still in my pocket.

The next part of my plan had a huge hole. I had a solid lead on a car coming out of Merritt Island, Florida and heading to Key West. Catherine Crisafulli’s family lives on the island and she was a “maybe” for Key West the last time I saw her in Auburn. I wasn’t sure when she would be leaving or if she even would, but I figured I could talk her into the idea if I got her on the phone. I had her family’s home number and planned on using it, but there wasn’t much reason for me to call if I couldn’t find myself situated in her line of fire. Therein lies the hole. I was still a little hung over and in Orlando.

I got another huge break when Chad rolled out of bed to tell me that he didn’t mind driving me over to Titusville. Titusville is the home of Florida Tech and we have another high school buddy playing baseball for the Panthers. Shoultz was surely in town because the season was in full swing. Titusville is situated just south of Merritt Island and Catherine would have to drive past the small town on her way to the Keys if she hadn’t already left.

About 3 hours later I was standing outside Shoultz’s apartment with my fingers crossed. My face was itchy as a bead of sweat made its way slowly down my cheek. I knocked and thankfully, a friendly face answered. I exhaled a burst of relief air and explained my situation. It took us about 20 minutes before we were at a local bar laughing over a beer. Before we left the house, I did have the presence of mind to use Shoultz’s phone for an all-important call. The answering machine picked up, so I left a desperate message.

When Shoultz and I returned to his apartment, my heart skipped a beat when I saw his answering machine light blinking red through the darkness. I had missed a call from Catherine, which was disappointing, but contact had been made and that was crucial. And the biggest unknown was brought to light…she was still home and was planning on driving as far as Coral Gables the next morning. She wouldn’t be home the rest of the night, but she would try to reach me in the morning. Not wanting to take the chance of missing her call, I called the family home back and left what has to be one of the oddest messages her parents, whom I’ve never met, have ever heard. It went something like this:

“Mr. and Mrs. Crisafulli, I’m a friend of your daughter’s from Auburn. I didn’t want to miss her in the morning, so please tell her that I am planning on joining her for the ride to the Keys. And since I’m not sure of her exact schedule, I will just start walking south on I-95 from Melbourne until she spots and picks me up or I reach Islamorada, whichever comes first. Tell her to watch for me on the right side of the highway…she’ll know it when she sees me.”

Catherine knew me well enough to see me from about a mile away. I would be strikingly apparent with a bandana on my head and a bag over my shoulder. With that as the plan I caught some sleep and then had Shoultz drop me off along the highway west of Titusville early in the morning. I don’t own a watch, but I estimate that I was walking about 2 hours before I felt the rapid slowing of her little sports car brush the hairs on my left side. Dust rose through the air as she rolled to a stop about 100 yards in front of me on the shoulder. I was too tired and hot to sprint in her direction so I continued at my leisurely pace. When I reached her car we hugged and laughed but she never said a word. She just had a “this doesn’t surprise me a bit” smirk on her face.

After a brief gas stop where I purchased a $5 six-pack, we were off for south Florida. We stayed with some friends of hers in Coral Gables that night, leaving on the final leg early that next morning.

The bridge ride from key to key just past Miami was more than relaxing. I had that low buzz from the beers and the sun beat down on the water with white-hot intensity. Every aspect of that ride screamed vacation.

We reached the condo just after sunset. I sat in the car for a few minutes ripe with the anticipation of walking through that door and seeing the surprised looks on everyone’s faces. I had accomplished something. It took me 3 days from the night I was standing without a plan right where I sit today. The Duck was my launching point and the Keys my landing strip. I had touched down safely with a lot of help from friends and I felt like I deserved the next 5 days.

“Who likes to party!”

I stayed committed to my $30 believe it or not. I had enough food to cover me, even though I ended up eating like a refugee. I’m not a huge drinker, so I bought a case of beer with the rest of my money to cover my stay. I refused anyone that offered to buy me a drink, although I did give in to one offer from Rebel at the Tiki Bar in Islamorada only because I couldn’t bring in my own beer. Our friend Jen Meilan allowed me to stay without rent for the five days which was part of the deal if I actually made it. So, I had everything covered. As if the trip down and the stay wasn’t enough, I took a bet in the waning moments of the break. Someone brought up a question…

“I wonder what the record for riding naked in a car is?”

“I don’t know, but let’s find out if it’s more than 12 hours,” I replied.

And with that I rode 12 hours back to College Park in Auburn with no clothes on trading a unique form of entertainment for everyone for my portion of the gas money which I obviously didn’t have. I was even sitting shotgun through one of the toll booths which raised some heads. The only thing I refused to do was Rebel’s dare of getting out of the car and pumping gas.

As we rolled into Auburn, they made me run from the car to my apartment without my clothes, but I had enough stuff in my hands to cover all the important areas. The other thing I still had in my hands was a $1 bill, making it the best $29 Spring Break ever.

When I was in school at Auburn University in the early 90s, Wire Road was known primarily for the high tally of DUI arrests occuring along its corridor. It made sense, I suppose. New Fraternity Row lies just off its curves and the campus itself within a few hundred yards. Most avoided it altogether in those days.

If you chose to risk its winding path away from campus, you eventually reached a part of the Auburn area that a majority of students never saw. To anyone whose primary focus was supposed to be fixed on academics, the clubs on the outskirts of town spelled nothing but trouble. They were locally driven and very blue collar. They existed on a different plane than the soft, trendy bars that catered to the youthful population. They trudged on night after night trading large crowds and certain profits for specific after hours clientele at home with aimless drifting in western ghost town ambiance. Names like Champs, the Struttin’ Duck, Pourhouse, and Fat Daddy’s would sully an otherwise refined conversation in mixed company. Patrons had to be able to thrive in dark, smoke-filled rooms where loud live music and bar fights were commonplace. No one was wearing their sorority letters without having them strung up with their bra on the rack of a deer head, likely mounted after a violent death at the hands of someone who now shoots pool in its shadow.

A lot of underappreciated musical talents strolled through those doors. Adam Hood, Tony Brook, and Justin Johnson still appear from time to time, never completely severing ties with Wire Road. The band Alabama Union was formed some years ago in a fateful gelling of local talent including Hood, Brook and occasionally Johnson. You can have a beer today with Joe Bagley or Chris Posey on any number of nights along Wire. They were also on and off members of the Union. The band could have easily been called “The Wire Road Boys”.

Champs, The Struttin’ Duck, and Pourhouse are all gone, but Fat Daddy’s currently carries the late night torch and I’m there three times a week even today. After renewing my bartender lifestyle, and with the late night cash counting procedure I described in the “Today’s Schedule” entry changing over the years, I felt obliged to dust off my late night card and get it punched once again. And until I can’t do it anymore, I’ll see to it that the Wire Road flame never burns out.

Sometimes when you bring the late night Wire Road thunder, you get lost in the storm.

The incessant roar of turbine jet engines has almost a calming effect that lulls me in and out of consciousness, even though I fight it. I can’t peacefully sleep on planes because I’m far too nervous, especially during the takeoff and landing. Somehow I feel like if anything is going to go wrong it will most likely happen then. When I boarded I was relieved to see that an off-duty commercial pilot was sitting across the aisle from me more than likely in transit to his assignment flight in Chicago, my destination. Now we were covered if one of those out of the ordinary movie scenarios should go down in the cockpit where both pilots are rendered unconscious by the mysterious gas that has leaked in through the ventilation system requiring someone like me to take over and be guided through a safe landing by Robert Loggia. We were 15 minutes into the flight, so I’d started to relax. It’s odd really. I’m less on edge the higher we climb.

Just before I drifted off uncontrollably, one of the flight attendant’s brisk movement through the coach section toward my general area snapped me back into an alerted state. The spirited smile that greeted me as I boarded had been replaced by a desperate aura of controlled concern as she fumbled her way along the aisle and around the outstretched legs of unaware passengers just slipping into their own airborne comfort zones. She was quickly approaching my area as I used my hands to push myself up into a more upright, at attention position.

My heart skipped a beat as she started to slow down just before reaching my row. I was relieved that her eyes weren’t focused directly on me; I have a tendency to be guilty of something in these situations. My relief catapulted into grave concern as I watched her stop next to me, squat down in front of the pilot to my right, and start to whisper something in his ear. I took a quick look around to gauge whether or not anyone else in my vicinity was also witnessing this cryptic scene that in my mind couldn’t lead to anything resembling good news. As if that wasn’t enough, the pilot slowly pulled away from the flight attendant’s whispered message and said something I can hear vividly to this day.

“You’ve got to be kidding me?”

I chose to break my silence with a quick, “you’ve got to be kidding ME,” quietly sent in their direction. But neither one of them heard me. Or perhaps they did and had no time to react. My aisle seat partner was already fumbling through the latch on his seat belt and was up and quickly moving along the aisle toward the front of the plane. I couldn’t breathe. I looked at the man to my left and envied him as he was peacefully snoring with his head resting against the fuselage. After a quick look around I realized that I was the only person who had witnessed the event. It was a cold and solemn feeling. I was packed together with several strangers, and I’d never felt so alone.

After what seemed like an eternity, a low cracked static broke through the silence like a punch to the face. Something was coming; I knew that much. But until that microphone popped back to life, there was no official word. Now, it was going to be official, and I’d have to live with whatever they said. Dammit I missed that silence.

“Ladies and gentleman,” a direct voice began. “I am going to need everyone’s absolute and undivided attention.”

It was the same man’s voice that greeted us at the beginning of the flight, and I took that as a good sign. At least he wasn’t unconscious. He was alive! That’s good news, right?

“I don’t know how to even begin to tell you this,” he continued, “so I’m just going to come out honest and direct with it.”

And with that, my heart hit the floor.

Every time I tell this story I find myself relaying things that we now know were happening at roughly the same time. A lot of the things took place behind the scenes of government corridors only some of which were reported as they happened. Others were based on eyewitness accounts. Either way, the chaotic events of September 11 as they happened were anything but clear. And there wasn’t anyplace less clear than onboard an airborne liner that day. I added a timeline in orange of happenings we now know to be true. How they were passed along and leaked that day is a different story all together.

9:45: United States airspace is shut down. No civilian aircraft are allowed to take off, and all aircraft in flight are ordered to land at the nearest airport as soon as possible. All international flights headed for the U.S. are redirected to Canada.

“Let me first clarify that what I’m about to tell you is not directly affecting this aircraft,” he continued as low murmurs broke through the stunned silence.

In retrospect, I have to commend the guy for the way he handled the situation. Things were very tense, and I’m not sure anyone would have fully heard what he said next had he not first made that clarification. Now everyone was at attention.

“We have been notified that 2 commercial flights have been hijacked. A plane has crashed into the World Trade Center in New York City, and there are reports of smoke billowing out of the White House. I’ve been flying commercially for 32 years and for the first time in history as I know it, the F.A.A. has ordered all airborne flights discontinued and grounded immediately. I know this is a lot to process, but let me emphasize again. Other than being ordered down, this flight is not currently affected by what I’m telling you. This flight has not been hijacked. Air traffic control in Nashville is currently trying to fit us in to land, but as you can imagine, they’re pretty busy there on the ground. As we find out more information, I will update you. What I need everyone to do at this point is to remain in your seats and calm until we have word from Nashville. Thanks for your attention, and we’ll be right back with you as soon as we know something.”

He was right, that was a lot to process. I turned to make a comment to the guy beside me, but he was still asleep. I looked at my watch. It was 9:51 am.

9:52: The National Security Agency intercepts a phone call between a known associate of Osama bin Laden in Afghanistan and someone in the Republic of Georgia, announcing that he had heard “good news”, and that another target was still to be hit.

What happened inside that cabin moving forward from there has been hard for me to describe over the years. The details sounded so murky that there was an air of unreality behind the message. For someone who is on edge in planes, I would have to describe myself as uncharacteristically calm in those first few minutes. I can’t say the same of my fellow passengers. The pilot handled that initial announcement very professionally exuding a tone of control over the situation. I have to give him lower marks for the next 20 minutes of airtime, however. Hindsight being 20-20, it would have been an excellent time to shut down the onboard Airfone system. Once hysterical and often misinformed voices from home entered the mix, that plane became a flying tube of chaos hurtling forward with no real known destination.

9:57: Passenger revolt begins on Flight 93.

The load was light that day. So light in fact that as we taxied out I remember being surprised the flight wasn’t cancelled because of lower than expected revenue. The fact that there weren’t that many passengers was probably a good thing. What we didn’t need at that point were more people reporting from the ground. Only so many Airfones could be used at any one time, so people were starting to get irritated that they couldn’t get through to loved ones on the ground. Hysterics hadn’t kicked in just yet, but with every phone clicked back into its casing a new piece of intel from folks 30,000 feet below us filtered through the cabin:

“My husband said they weren’t positive it was a plane that crashed in New York, it might have just been an explosion.”

“My friend’s building in Manhattan was just evacuated because of a fire.”

“My wife is watching the news and they are showing the World Trade Center. It’s definitely on fire. She says there was just another explosion or something happened. Also, it wasn’t one plane, it was two.”

“The Pentagon is on fire.”

“My wife said they are talking about the Sears Tower in Chicago on TV. She thinks a plane has crashed into it. It’s definitely being evacuated.”

A lot of these comments were misinformation, but we had no way of knowing that. It was like the most serious game of telephone you’ve ever played and it was frustrating as hell. By the time something from the front row got to the back of the plane, it may as well have been tossed. But those phones were our only link. As the minutes ticked along and the information started to congeal into a less convoluted storyline, tensions started to escalate.

9:59: The South Tower of the World Trade Center begins to collapse, 55 minutes 53 seconds after the impact of Flight 175. Its destruction is viewed and heard by a vast television and radio audience. As the roar of the collapse goes silent, tremendous gray-white clouds of pulverized concrete and gypsum rush through the streets. Most observers think a new explosion or impact has produced smoke and debris that now obscures the South Tower. ABC is the first to get word of the building’s collapse as reporter Don Dahler tells Peter Jennings of the collapse, which he had witnessed from his apartment overlooking the site. When the wind finally clears the immediate space, it is plain to see that the tower is gone. Even so, CNN continued to believe, even long after the collapse, that some kind of third explosion had caused the collapse rather than structural failure.

“Folks, let me have your attention for a minute,” the captain started again. “I’m sorry to report that not much progress has been made up here to get us worked into the landing rotation in Nashville. We’re circling now waiting for direction. We’re not sure what they’re going to tell us. We may be headed back to Atlanta or we may try our luck in Knoxville. Rest assured that we want to get on the ground just as quickly as you do and we’re doing what we can up here to make that happen. I’ll make another announcement when we’re instructed to leave this holding pattern.”

Oddly enough, this bit of non-information was the catalyst for the troubled environment that we would all endure for the next few hours. The reports were coming in, incorrect or not. We still hadn’t landed, and most of what we started to hear concerned airborne flights.

10:03: United Airlines Flight 93 is crashed by its hijackers and passengers, due to fighting in the cockpit 80 miles (129 km) southeast of Pittsburgh in Somerset County, Pennsylvania. Later reports indicate that passengers had learned about the World Trade Center and Pentagon crashes on cell phones and at least three were planning on resisting the hijackers; the resistance was confirmed by Flight 93’s cockpit voice recording, on which the hijackers are heard making their decision to down the plane before the passengers succeed in breaching the cockpit door.

10:20: President Bush, aboard Air Force One, tells Vice President Cheney that he has authorized a shoot down of aircraft if necessary.

Then a guy a few rows up from me, who later became one of our leaders that day, actually stood up and announced what he had just learned from his phone conversation with his wife.

“My wife says that the news is reporting that the military is going after a plane in Texas that has been hijacked or at least isn’t responding. They’re talking about shooting it down.”

And then things got strange. Everyone stared at him blankly, and then at each other. Then all heads turned toward the windows with desperate eyes gazing at the ground still thousands of feet below us. Everyone remained silent as they peered outward. Some kept focused on the ground wishing for that feeling of descent to come over their stomachs. Others scanned the horizon hoping that we were in fact as alone up there as we felt.

Silence ruled for what seemed like about 30 seconds. When it finally broke, it was an escalating panic that set in. There was no word from the cockpit and the flight attendants had disappeared for the most part.

10:37: Associated Press reports that officials at the Somerset County airport confirm that a large plane has crashed in western Pennsylvania. CNN’s Aaron Brown passes along reports that a 747 is “down” in Pennsylvania. He stresses these reports are unconfirmed. At 10:50, this report is updated: A 767 has “crashed this morning, north of the Somerset County Airport”.

Everyone, including myself, started to look at everyone around them seemingly studying faces and moods. The guy beside me dozed on but 2 gentlemen behind me were speaking furiously in a foreign language. It surprised me that I hadn’t noticed it until that moment. Highly suspicious, I leaned backward as far as I could to gauge the context of their conversation. I was relieved to hear a few words and phrases I recognized as French. I’m not sure why that settled me at the time, but the fact that I didn’t hear “Allah” at any point probably had something to do with it.

10:39: Another hijacked jumbo jet is claimed to be headed for Washington, D.C. F-15s are scrambled and patrol the airspace above Washington, D.C. while other fighter jets sweep the airspace above New York City. They have orders, first issued by Vice President Cheney and later confirmed by President Bush, to shoot down any potentially dangerous planes that do not comply with orders given to them via radio. Eventually, the aircraft is revealed to be a medevac helicopter on its way to the Pentagon.

The guy who had stood up to announce the latest news got fed up with the waiting and decided to head toward the front of the cabin. His desperate attitude didn’t help the intensity onboard which was becoming palpable at that point. But we all wanted answers so no one tried to calm him down. This was the first instance that I noticed someone crying. She was behind me a few rows on the opposite aisle. She was leaning over her tray table with one hand covering the side of her face blocking all sound to her left ear while the other hand pressed her Airfone against her right ear. I couldn’t make out the conversation, but she was gently weeping and that wasn’t helping me.

11:05: The FAA confirms that several planes have been hijacked in addition to American Airlines Flight 11.

11:16: American Airlines confirms the loss of its two aircraft.

As Mr. Desperate reached the front of the plane one of the flight attendants stepped out to block his passage. He was out of my range but his hand gestures and facial expressions allowed me enough translation to get a fix on the exchange. She was doing her best to calm him down and get him to return to his seat. As he complied, she stuck her head into the cockpit for a moment presumably communicating to the pilots that an as yet reserved panic had begun to set in with the passengers regarding the lack of descent and overall confusion with the things that were reportedly happening on the ground.

11:26: United Airlines confirms the loss of Flight 93 and states that it is “deeply concerned” about Flight 175.

It prompted another announcement from the captain, which I was thankful for. And even though it was another report of “no new news”, it did contain information that was weighing on everyone’s mind at that point.

“It seems that a lot of you are in touch with friends and family on the ground and obtaining information about some of the events happening this morning. A lot of the things that are being reported have come back as misinformation already, so I wouldn’t hang my hat on many of these reports. From what we’ve gathered in our communication with the FAA and the ground towers is that there’s a lot of confusion down there. There have been multiple hijackings, that has been confirmed. The validity of anything else I can’t comment on at this point. We are one of the few planes still in the air, and that is due to traffic backups at the airports. The logistics of grounding every aircraft is overwhelming to say the least. We are in direct contact with the ground and the FAA. They are tracking us in the air and trying to find a home for us. We are not one of the planes they are listing as ‘no response’ which seems to be the subject making everyone a little uneasy. Please bear with us.”

Everyone’s fears had slowly shifted over the last few hours from “are we hijacked” to “do they know we’re not hijacked”. So, the captain’s words were assuring.

11:53: United Airlines confirms the loss of its two aircraft.

Thankfully, not much time passed at all between the captain’s reassurance announcement and his return to the mic to pass on news of our clearance to land in Knoxville. The cheers from the passengers were the first positive energy I had felt since shortly after take off. It was also enough to jar the slumbering man next to me to a brief moment of attention before he snuggled back into his spot against the window.

The plane dropped out of the clouds and we were careening over Knoxville in what seemed just a matter of seconds. As we approached the runway I remember being more nervous than normal about landing safely. It was an odd thing to worry about at the time, but I had a lot of negative thoughts bouncing around in my head.

It wasn’t until we actually touched down that I noticed the emergency vehicles lining various sections of the runway. Elation was contagious and echoed through the fuselage as we raced along and felt the jerk of the brakes being applied by someone in the front. We slowly wheeled to a stop just before reaching the terminal and emergency vehicles parked on all sides. A stairway on wheels appeared from behind the jetway we would have been using under normal circumstances, which I guess we had strayed away from a few hours ago.

12:16 p.m.: The FAA says all aircraft ordered to land at 9:40 have landed.

As we deplaned, we were directed to a stairway that led us to the main terminal area. When I entered the terminal, the silence was overwhelming. There was no one there. No passengers waiting on flights, no gate agents arguing with weary travelers, and even the TVs were turned off. It was an eerie experience. Terminal security escorted everyone in a single file line to the baggage claim area and anyone that didn’t have checked bags, which included me, was directed into a small room with several tables. Blinded by the confusion of the last few hours, we simply did what we were told without an explanation.

As I waited patiently with the rest of my fellow passengers, the flourescent lights and metal tables filling the room cast an aura of formality that caused a sense of wrongdoing in a way. We were being held without instruction and it was starting to wear on everyone.

Just then I remembered my phone. With the commotion of the landing and the distractions of the airport it had slipped my mind. I reached in my bag and powered it up just as the monotony of the cold waiting room was compromised by furious action through the only door linking us to the rest of the terminal. Our “checked bag” colleagues were joining us with all their luggage and a small team of airport security employees.

We were asked to gather in a line shoulder to shoulder. There were several passengers that began asking questions but the staff stifled all inquiries with their own admittance of confusion. They were armed with clipboards and started to make their way down the line completing a sort of mangled, disorganized roll call. They checked our names, our reason for flying, our final destinations…basically a list of random questions. Just as they reached me, my phone came to life beeping incessantly. I glanced at it quick and saw that there were nineteen messages waiting for my retrieval. I immediately thought of my mother who was certainly worried I was traveling – I keep my family generally apprised of my schedule, but the exact days and the destinations of my movements aren’t discussed in detail. I would need to call as soon as I could.

I answered the questions they asked and waiting for the next direction. Then, in came the dogs.

1:00 p.m. (approximately): At the Pentagon, fire crews are still fighting fires. The early response to the attack had been coordinated from the National Military Command Center, but that had to be evacuated when it began to fill with smoke.

1:04 p.m.: President Bush puts the U.S. military on high alert worldwide (known as Force Protection Condition Delta). Taped remarks from the President were aired from Barksdale Air Force Base, stating that “freedom itself was attacked this morning by a faceless coward and freedom will be defended.” He also said that the “United States will hunt down and punish those responsible for these cowardly acts.” He then leaves for a U.S. Strategic Command bunker located at Offutt Air Force Base in Bellevue, Nebraska.

I’m still not sure what the dogs were looking for; I assume they were bomb-sniffers. After the dogs were done with us they were led out into the terminal and we were asked to follow them. The skeleton security staff marched us in single file through the barren baggage claim and outside the terminal. A bus pulled up seemingly from nowhere – the usual traffic jam outside of airports was missing – and we were told to board after the dogs checked it for explosives. Comforting.

2:39 p.m.: At a press conference New York Mayor Rudy Giuliani is asked to estimate the number of casualties at the World Trade Center. He replies, “More than any of us can bear.”

We were given a choice. There was a rental car company in town that might have cars left and we were shown a direction to walk. Otherwise, we could board the bus and be transported back to Atlanta. A few hardcore businessmen chose to walk away from the airport and I assume made it to a rental car company with the intent of driving to Chicago. I chose to join the majority and board the bus to Atlanta.

It was a solemn ride. The reality of the day was lost at 30,000 feet because the lack of accurate communication made our day into the worst game of telephone ever. As phone call chatter bounced around the walls of the bus, details of the day became clearer. We rolled south never able to process fully what everyone else had experienced on the ground. Ours was a different experience – one I’d rather not relive.

I stayed up all night that evening at my aunt’s home in Atlanta. My car was stuck in airport parking for three days and I spent the majority of that time lying on the floor in front of her tv watching constant coverage of a day that in a sense I missed, but experienced all the same. I cried at times like everyone I suppose, but a lot of my time was spent reflecting on how little we believed up there. It’s a true testament to the severity of that day. It was truly something you had to see to believe.

7:00 p.m.: Efforts to locate survivors in the rubble that had been the twin towers continue. Fleets of ambulances are lined up to transport the injured to nearby hospitals, but they stand empty. “Ground Zero”, as the site of the WTC collapse becomes known henceforth, is the exclusive domain of New York City’s Fire Department and Police Department, despite volunteer steel and construction workers who stand ready to move large quantities of debris quickly. Relatives and friends of victims or likely victims, many displaying enlarged photographs of the missing printed on home computer printers, have appeared around New York. The New York Armory at Lexington Avenue and 26th Street and Union Square Park at 14th Street and Broadway become centers of vigil.