Jamal

Continued from Flying...

My cab driver's name was Jamal. He had long beads hanging from the rearview mirror of his mini-van cab. He was originally from Sudan and had left a wife and family there several years ago to come to the United States. He smoked, but was considerate enough to stick his cigarette out of a crack in his window when I told him I was allergic. I fell asleep in the backseat for what was supposed to be at most a 45-minute drive across town. When I woke up, we were stuck in traffic on an exit ramp. A car in front of us was floating down the street.

The cross street in front of us was flooded, so no cars could move. The rain was still falling hard. Jamal turned on a little black-and-white antenna tv and pointed to the map on the news station. "That's where we are!" he said as he pointed to the worst spot on the map. (I found this article about the flood - 6 inches fell in 75 minutes.) He pulled into a gas station parking lot to get to the highest ground possible. Eventually it became clear I was going to miss my 8 am flight, so I borrowed Jamal's cell phone to call Clint. He was now on his way back to Nashville, and called to get me on the 10:00 flight instead.

Jamal quickly got bored, or worried that he wasn't making money unless the meter was running up miles, and decided to try to escape the waters through a flooded back alley. The van crawled through the river, and we emerged in a residential neighborhood. The steep driveways meant that the houses were flood-free, but the streets were covered in several feet of water that quickly became too much for the minivan cab. It died. Jamal tried to start it to no avail and looked back at me helplessly. From years of four-wheeler riding, I knew that if you try to start the engine with the tailpipe under water, you will flood the engine. I told him this. He opened the driver's door, and water was touching the bottom. The rain was still falling hard, and I knew we couldn't stay there. I told him we needed to put the cab in neutral and push it up one of the driveways to get it out of the water. I jumped in the driver's seat, and Jamal got out to push the cab. Once we got it out of the water, I turned the key. Sure enough, the tailpipe coughed out water, and the engine roared to life. "You were right!" Jamal said. Thanks. He took off wading down the street to gauge how deep the water was and motioned for me to follow him. I quickly called Clint on Jamal's cell phone: How do you release the parking break? Oh, never mind. Clint: What are you doing?!

I slowly drove the van through the flooded streets as Jamal walked in front of me. After a few minutes we made it to higher ground, and Jamal came and jumped in the passenger's seat. While I drove the cab. For an extended period of time. I cannot express how much I wish I had a picture of this.

We made it back to a normal street, but traffic remained at a standstill. Jamal got back in the driver's seat, I moved to the back, and crashed. When I woke up who knows how much later, the cab was empty. Jamal was gone, as were his keys. Fortunately, traffic still was not moving, and Jamal had left his cell phone. I called both Clint and my mom to give them an update on the situation.

As it turns out, Jamal had gone to buy cigarettes. Wonderful. He had also gotten the scoop. A few cars behind us, a lady had just had a baby !

Once again, Jamal got antsy and turned off into an alley that led to another neighborhood. Since that had worked so well for us last time. Somehow, someway, we stumbled onto a back entrance to Hobby Airport. I paid him what seemed like an enormous sum of money given my ride and grabbed my bags.

Inside, my primary goal was sustenance. I waited in an hour-long line and paid $10 for a bagel (these may be slight exaggerations; who remembers these kinds of details?). Once I wasn't quite as delusional and famished, I ventured out into the main area and finally noticed the line of people that literally wrapped all the way around the entire airport. And no one was moving.

Apparently, although hundreds of passengers had arrived at the airport, none of the staff had been able to make it. There was nobody at the check-in counters, no security guards, no gate attendants, and definitely no pilots. No planes were going to be leaving for several hours.

It was another long day, but one dramatically less eventful. After more waiting and more delays, I finally boarded a Southwest airplane that afternoon, and Clint picked up an exhausted me in Nashville that evening.

Later that night, an unknown number called Clint's cell phone. He didn't answer. The voicemail was from Jamal, who was calling to see if I made it home okay.