At this point, I’m wondering if I’m the only person who finds it weird that I had to go through this ordeal to find an Enterprise car depot, but all seems well to the staff who are standing outside as if they are expecting me to arrive. They are all smiles as I pull up to the curb. As I get out, I notice I’m sweating a bit…I think my body is more anxious than my brain, which is still telling me I have time to make the flight.

“Hello, sir, welcome to Enterprise. How was your drive?” the young male attendant says. He looks like he’s about 12 years old.

“Fine, thanks,” I say…it’s all I’ve got. “Why are there no signs to tell me where this depot is? I’m running late and thought it would be with all the other rental car companies?”

He actually giggles and says, “Yeah, sir, a lot of people ask me that.” And then he starts walking around the car and checking things off on his list. “Looks great sir, have a great day.”

He looks smart and friendly enough but I’m seriously questioning his common sense.

“How do I get to the airport from here?” I ask.

“Oh sure, sir, you just go around the other side of the building and wait for the airport shuttle.”

“Wait? I don’t have time to wait.” At this point, I have about 30 minutes before the aircraft boards. “Can someone from here drive me? I’m late for my flight.”

“Oh no, sorry sir, you’ll have to wait for the shuttle, we’re not allowed to do that.”

Now I am convinced this is The Shoeman Curse in full effect. “How long before the shuttle arrives?” I ask.

“It usually comes every 15 minutes or so, sir.”

“Listen, I’ve got twenty dollars cash for you if you can get someone to drive me.”

He looks at the money, looks around, and says, “Gee, sir, I don’t know.”

“What would make you know?” I ask. “I’ve gotta get there now. I have to go through security still.” I reach into my wallet and pull out another twenty. “Here, take it, please.”

“Okay, sir, give me a minute.” He runs in the building, runs back out, and says, “Okay, follow me.”

He leads me to the back of the building and we jump in a nice canary-yellow, convertible Ford Mustang. He drives faster than anyone I’ve ever driven with and I wonder if I’ll get to the terminal alive.

“What airline?” he yells.

I can hardly hear him with the wind. “What?”

“Who are you flying with?”

“Oh, Delta,” I reply.

He kicks it into a higher gear and we’re almost flying as fast as an airplane. Why don’t we just go all the way home like this? Seconds later, he drops me off at Terminal 3. I jump out, grab my bags out of the back seat, and run into the terminal.

There are a crap-ton of people, and I see lineups everywhere. I spot an attendant, who’s about three feet tall, and she’s wearing a bright red jacket that says, “Ask me for help – I know everything”. So, I run up to her and say, “Hey, can you take a look at my ticket and tell me where I need to be, my plane’s going to leave without me.”

“Why, yes I can, sir, I’d be pleased to assist you today,” she says. I swear to god that felt like it took her three years to say.

“Thanks.”

She’s looking at the ticket and I’m ready to run in any direction she points.

“Oh sir,” she says, still looking at the ticket.

“What? What’s that?” I ask.

“You’re flying Delta, but Delta moved to Terminal 5. ‘They over there now. You in the wrong Terminal.”