Vintage Joshua

Since television is all in re-runs, I thought I would put my site into re-runs as well. Actually, I was just reading through some of my work from years ago and thought I should share it with all my new readers (seeing as when I originally wrote this, I had about 3 readers total). They seemed to enjoy it then, so here it goes:

The Greatest Story Ever Told

(Originally published on November 11th, 2005)

Ok, that title is a little over the top, but this story I am going to share with you was one of the most stressful/ exciting I have had in all my days…

The day was Thurdsay and I spent the day as I do most days- online doing design work to make ends. I was looking forward to my flight later that night that would not only take me away from the city for a weekend, but also to my girlfriend so we may attend the final wedding of our very busy wedding season.

My flight was scheduled for approx. 11:00pm that night so knowing I needed to use New York City Transit and get through the highly trained professionals working JFK Security, I planned to leave my apartment about three hours early. For those of you who drive places, leaving so early simply seems crazy. For those of you that ride subways, that seems like I am cutting it a little too close- and you’ve never been more right.

It’s a 10 minute walk to the train I need to ride, so I arrived somerwhere between 8:30 and 9pm – already running a little behind. The train’s weren’t running on schedule so I waited for about 20 minutes. Eventually my train came and rushed me to my next stop. I get off the train and have to leave the station to go to the other station for the transfer. Apparently, I was walking in the wrong direction, so insert a 10 minute “Totally Lost” delay. Then, I find the station and guess what – that train isn’t running either. So I wait and wait and wait for about 20 more minutes until it arrives…

SIDEBAR - There’s one certain homeless guy that sleeps on the E train who always has an EXTREMELY PUNGENT smell of urine. So much so that whenever he is on a train, I can tell without getting on board because I see FULL CAR – FULL CAR – EMPTY CAR – FULL CAR. People cannot even ride in the same car as him. I call him ‘Lil Louie Piddles.

So the packed E train arrives, I see an empty car and think to myself, “Just you and Piddles for a while, Grosvent. Tough out the smell for the beauty of a seat.” I sat as far as I could from him with a glove over my nose and rode.

The train finally arrives in Jamacia where us poor folk catch the Airtrain since we can’t afford the cabs. It’s about 10pm by now and I think “as long as the train gets here soon, I’ll be able to get on the plane in time.” 5 minutes. 10 minutes. 15 minutes pass.

“Excuse me, totally personable, polite Airtrain employee *(sarcasm)*-
When will the next Airtrain be here?”

“Ooooooh, shoot. Train’s broken.”

Thanks for posting a sign or something.

“Well, what should I do? My plane is boarding now!”

“Hmm, I dunno? Go grab a Gypsy Cab? Not my problem…”

That, my friends, is a busted train HAT TRICK!

SIDEBAR 2 – Gypsy Cab’s for those of you lucky, non-city residents are not the classic yellow cabs you might know with meters and what not. Gypsy Cabs are usually just cars driven by dudes. Average cars with average dudes. They are regulated, but NOT like Taxi’s. They have no meter and the drivers usually have nooooo idea what is going on, BUT they are all flat fees. No meter.

I run out of the Airtrain station and litterally into the street. The story so far has been pretty boring, yes? This is where it gets awesome.

I run into the street with my arms flailing like a crazy man. Anywhere else in the country, people would stear clear of someone like this. Here in New York, five gypsy cabs all cut eachother off like drunks driving bumper cars for my business. I run to the closest one, peek in the window and see the darkest black man I have ever seen. It was night, so if it wasn’t for the glowing red tip of his joint, I would have never seen the driver…

Yes, I said joint.

I hurriedly ask “I need to get to the airport right now! My plane leaves in 10 minutes, but I need to stop and get cash for you first. Can we do this?”

He dramatically turns his head, gives me a nod, smokes an almost sexual puff off his fatty and says in his thick Jamaican accent “Shit yes, brotha.”

I think to myself, “You sir, are about to become my hero.”

I jump into this 1980′s Buick as he zips the wrong way down a one way and pulls out in front of a truck, jumps a curb and skids into a gas station parking lot while pointing and shouting out “ATM, brotha!” I go “FUCK YES!” and literally jump out of this moving car, run into this gas station Bonnie and Clyde style, use the ATM and jump into the car as he’s pulling out.

“Hold on, you son of a bitch!” he yells as he laughs. I laugh back, lean on the back of his seat and realize that what is about to happen will be something to bond two men forever.

The time is 10:32. Plane leaving at 10:55. Airport is a 10 minute drive from where we were. He gets this car up to – I kid you not – 96 miles an hour in a 45. He is bombing in and out of traffic and I am in the back seat yelling “we’re gonna do it! we’re gonna do it, you mother fucker!” He and I continually laughing in what was the face of death. He drove 96 on the shoulder. He drove 96 in the wrong lane. He politely slowed down to 88 as we passed a speeding ambulance. The exact speed Doc Brown and Marty McFly needed to go Back To The Future. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

We pull into the airport at 10:35pm, 1982… Ok, I am kidding about the year obviously, but the time was 10:35 – 3 minutes total. The airline urges cars to keep a speed of 25mph, and my driver urges we keep the speed of 90mph. We were reaching 3 G’s are we took hairpin turns, his ganja burning softly like the single broken Christmas Tree light on the strand of steady lights. It was relaxing. It was reassuring. It was… well, I guess it was a contact high.

He’s shouts “what Terminal, brotha?”

I stutter “SIX! JETBLUE!”

We pull up just before 10:45 and I yell out “We did it!”

He is laughing and I am laughing. I throw at him the fresh 20 dollars bill I extracted from the gas station ATM only minutes ago. An ATM which, I am sure, was still in the process of printing my receipt as we rocketed into my terminal. I grab his hand, wipe a tear from my face and just give him a whole hearted “Thank You!”

“Have a safe trip, brotha! Ha Ha!” he shouts as I leave the car, leaving him with a very exciting drive under his hat and a very healthy tip.

I run to one of those “self check in” things thinking it would help me avoid a line. It rejects me. I run to the counter and out of breath and say “I need to get on this plane now! It’s leaving in minutes!” They call up to the gate and I hear over the phone:

“Sorry, plane is closed.”

“What do you mean the plane is closed? It doesn’t leave for 10 more minutes!” I shout.

“It’s closed, sir. Everyone is on the plane- they closed it early” she said.

“Fuck you, ‘everyone is on board’- I’m not onboard!” I reply.

They call back up to the gate and decide to “expedite?” me to the gate which means some poor JetBlue employee has to litterally run me to the gate. I run through security where kind young woman takes some time away from her cell phone chat to check a few costumers through her security check point- of course making me remove my shoes in this crazy post 9/11 world. I get through finally and am running all the way through the terminal with my shoes in my hand, backpack around my head and jacket flapping in the wind. I keep hearing “paging Joshua Graaas-vaahnt, to gate 6 please – final boarding call…”

- it’s not a hard last name, people. Gross-Vent -

I board the plane, sit in my seat, put on my shoes and breathe. I look around and laugh – perhaps coming down off my adreneline/ jamacian grass buzz. It’s been a son of a bitch these past few months with a lot of black clouds lately, but I guess I should consider the fact that they actually got me on the plane was a silver lining. I gained a story to share for years. I had a little excitement in my otherwise boring life. And I got to enjoy speeds in a car that I have only ever achieved once before and that was the time I got home to Syracuse from a gig in Philidelphia in just over an hour and a half while chasing a tricked out car from “2 Fast 2 Furious” in my purple ’95 Chevy Cavalier at 100mph- but that’s a whole different story…