When our friend was run over by a speedboat in the Bahamas, it took all of ten minutes before the competition for best new nickname ensued. She had escaped with relatively minor injuries so it was easy to make light of the incident. "Scuba-Lynn" or "Lynn-atee" were the clear winners. We talked about making T-shirts, or at least an oversized button to commemorate the event. Lynn was highly amused and we congratulated ourselves on being supportive and caring "in our own way."
This time around, "in our own way," was confusing. I couldn't decide if it was normal for friends to fly in for a funeral, especially if you weren't close to the family. Lilly, already in San Diego, had slipped in at the end of our conversation, "You can stay at my house if you want, Jess' room is open." The way she said it, it seemed like she assumed I would be going home.
But wait, I wanted to ask, "Is everyone else going down? Is that what we're supposed to?" I didn't realize flying home was the automatic next step. I thought maybe we would consider sending flowers, or an apologetic email, or maybe hope for voicemail. Were there other options available, or this was something you just did because it was tradition, like reluctantly standing there with all the other unmarried males, waiting for the stupid girdle to go flying by?
After getting off the phone with Lilly, I immediately consulted my other adult friends, the ones I considered mature enough to give sage advice. The consensus seemed to be, "If you're free, you should go."
Hum, well, I was unemployed, I had a general policy to never plan more than two days ahead, and I had no life. Of course I would be free. Decision made. It hadn't been as easy as that though. A wise person had told me to call around and ask for bereavement rates. I didn't even know what those were but they sounded like a great idea. Unemployed remember?
So later that night, I spent forty fear filled minutes in front of my apartment at three in the morning, checking around for the cheapest flights between SFO and SAN. I was crouched outside because the inside of my apartment lacked reliable cell phone reception. Any phone calls had to be made standing out in the street, something I generally tried to avoid past midnight because the Mission still seemed terribly sketchy to me.
The last time I had stepped outside for a four o'clock cigarette, I had turned back after eavesdropping on a conversation between someone speaking in near-tongues and her friend, who sounded exactly like Chucky. Or he maybe he was an actual six year old but anybody who let a six year old hang around on my stoop in the middle of the night probably didn't have my best interests at heart. I'd packed my cigarette away that night and headed indoors before even making it past my gate. Since then, I've totally kicked my late night cigarette and stroll habit, replacing nicotine with the soothing safety of a locked door. Now I was outside on the phone, trying to make a deal and keep an eye on both alley entrances at the same time.
The first thing I found out about bereavement rates, also known as "compassion fares," was that they required proof of death. That made business sense, I guess. Airlines would have to prevent being taken advantage of by last second travelers somehow.
Proof of death required the name and relationship of the relative, in addition to the name, address, and phone number for the funeral home, hospice, or hospital. Sometimes they needed the name of the doctor. I clearly didn't have any of those, and wasn't about to ask. Getting home immediately wasn't looking good.
Luckily, after some calling around, I secured a $39 Southwest "Wanna get away?" promotion ticket. For the record, Southwest doesn't offer bereavement rates because "our fares are already the industry's lowest." Thank you Southwest for your daily compassion.
The next afternoon, "good friends fly home" badges pinned on our hearts, my friend Adam and I flew home.
