How (Not) To Pre-Pay A Rental Car

As far as my job is concerned, the SXSW Music Festival in Austin is arguably the least important thing that happens every year. But it happens every year, and every year we scramble to have our bands accepted, get good slots at showcases that involve free beer and pulled meat, and someone usually takes his pants off in an airport. I don't know that we've ever gotten a band signed as a result of SXSW. Or that anyone from my office who goes actually remembers anything that happens. And every year something - often more than one thing - goes wrong. This year was no exception.

I should mention: I've been awake since 5:30AM this morning. So was Leslie. She had to organize a rally against the governor's proposed health care cuts. I had to go to the doctor. Leslie has a real job. I burn CDs and make sure the drummer will show up on time to his meet & greet at the go-cart track. Perspective is everything.

There were 4 missed calls on my cell phone when I finally got to work around 11:00AM. One of my bands was flying out to Austin this morning, and I had a suspicion that all would not be well. Because, well, I have travelled before. And because putting any band on a plane unattended by a tour manager, mother or other supervisory figure of some sort generally guarantees that it will be delayed, hijacked, diverted or run out of kosher vegan meals. No one in a band is equipped for these kind of crises, except maybe Henry Rollins. He seems resourceful.

Three of the missed calls were from Mark, my lead singer - he never leaves a message, which I find both irritating and a general indication that whatever he wants isn't that important. One was from Jenny, our online coordinator, who happened to be on the same flight as the band. She did leave the following message: "Hey, we're in San Antonio. They might be letting us off the plane. Call me back."

San Antonio was not on the itinerary. The flight was supposed to connect in Houston before going on to Austin. Simple. Mark's band had a gig tonight, which was why I put them on an ungodly early flight in the first place. But nevertheless, ATA had made the executive decision to divert the flight into San Antonio. Due to "low cloud cover." This sounds suspect, even to me, and I've had flights delayed for everything from "broken plane" to "missing flight attendant" to the Continental Airlines specialty "You're going to board like everything is fine and then sit on the tarmac for 3 hours."

"They might be letting us off here," Jenny told me. "Can you book us a rental car? I guess we can just drive to Austin."

Not a bad solution, considering. It's only about a 90 minute drive. The band would still make their 5:00PM gig, assuming they managed to collect all their gear off the flight in one piece and in a relatively timely manner. Yeah, I know, I said I'd travelled before, but bear with me. It was still early in the day. I reserved a mini-van on Expedia and emailed Jenny the confirmation.

Jenny called me back 15 minutes later. "Never mind. They say they can't let us off the plane. It would be illegal." Oh, ATA! You kidders! You certainly had us going there for a second! So it seemed they were all doomed to linger in the purgatory of San Antonio until the vicious assault of cumulus clouds abated. However long that might take.

Still holding out hope they might make their connecting Southwest flight in Houston, I called ATA Customer Service, which routed me (naturally) to India. India did not help me. India put me on hold for 3 to 5 minutes every time I asked a question. India was really not the right way to go at this point. Both India and Texas were slowly working their way off my list of places near and dear to my heart.

Next I called Southwest Customer Service, which connected me to a very nice woman who probably wasn't working in a windowless room in Asia Minor. I explained the situation and asked what was up with the weather in Texas. "That's really strange," she said. "I mean, we had some fog issues around 7:00AM this morning, but everything should be fine now." But Southwest wasn't going to hold the connecting flight. Clearly they're well aware of the general importance of SXSW to any of our bands' careers.

It was just after lunch. Jenny called. They had made it to Houston, but there were no flights available to Austin until 8:00PM that night. If they rented a car and hauled major ass, there was still a chance that Mark would make his gig. That is, if the band could find their gear. Which wasn't happening at that precise moment. ATA had apparently eaten some guitars and possibly a set of cymbals. It seemed par for the course. Maybe India has a racket going on "misplaced" band equipment. I made the reservation on Expedia for another mini-van, not thinking that someone who was physically in Houston was going to have to pay for it. This became an issue rather quickly.

At this point, it had become a little hard to contain that something is wrong and that I was having trouble fixing it. I have a corporate American Express card with an insane credit limit that is essentially useless to anyone in this situation. People in the office are yelling at me. The fundamental lesson that I learned from this entire episode is this: you cannot pre-pay a rental car as a third party. No way, no how. Unless your ass is physically sitting in the motherfucker in some capacity, you cannot pay for it. I tried. I almost cursed out the woman at Alamo. I even called our trusty travel agent to see if she knew any super-secret backdoor trickery that could be used (she didn't). It became clear that my only option was to somehow get money from me to Jenny, so she could pay for the rental car. This meant going to Gina.

Gina never wants to hear that you need money. Especially not emergency money.

"I need to transfer $850 into Jenny's bank account, right now," I explained, which - to the already beleaguered CFO of a small company - sounds sort of like "I want to set fire to your dog." She reacted accordingly.

The next thing I know, I am RUNNING IN THE RAIN up 6th Avenue to the closest Bank of America. It's very cinematic. Someone somewhere ought to be playing "Chariots of Fire." After barreling 2 blocks at full speed, I had an uncontrollable coughing fit during which I'm fairly certain I lost control of my bladder. Yes, I have pissed myself in the line of duty. I have had better days, to be sure. Bank of America, fortunately, was deserted and the very nice teller very pleasantly took $850 in cash off my hands without commenting on the fact that I looked quite deranged and couldn't breathe. I suppose had the transaction been reversed, it probably wouldn't have gone as smoothly.

Jenny called me 5 minutes after I got back to the office.

"Please tell me that you're in the car," I said.

"...can I get a strawberry margarita...?" she said to someone other than me. "Hey, hi. So let me start at the beginning and just tell you the whole thing." The beginning, as far as I was concerned at this point, was not a very good place to start. And yet. Previously on...Hipsters In Houston:

As it turns out, they missed their connection in Houston by all of 13 minutes, which is enough For the love of Christ! to be irritating but a long enough time not to conjure images a la Home Alone of a rag-tag bunch of New Yorkers tearing through the Houston Hobby airport on their way to the gate, only to left behind, dejected.

"And then Mark left his boarding pass and luggage claim stub on the plane," Jenny continued. Oh, of course. Mark is a lot of things. Excellent front man. Undercover metrosexual. Armenian. And not least of all sort of useless in times of stress. Which, I suppose, is where I come in. Or where I would come in, if I wasn't saddled with the black death and 1500 miles away.

As it turned out, Alamo didn't have any mini-vans at all, despite letting me make a reservation online. Oh, ha ha! Joke's on me! They did, however, have an SUV that Mark was able to rent and get the band on the road. Immediately after he found out that his gig was cancelled anyway. Jenny managed to negotiate her way onto another Southwest flight into Austin.

"So I'm just going to sit here and get drunk and wait for my flight at 6:00PM," Jenny concluded. "I'll get the car receipts from Mark tomorrow and give him cash for the car."

I would very much like to get very drunk as well - in triumph as well as in solidarity with my wards, who I doubt are going to know their own names in a few hours. But I'm still heavily medicated for another few days.

For the moment, though, all seems well on the SXSW front. Or at least as good as it's going to get.

As for me, I'm going to go home and change my pants.