A Love Letter to The Writers' Block
I think I’m a pretty decent guy. I have my own kind of warts, sure. But overall, I try to be as beneficial to humanity as I can.
Yesterday, I stepped up to help 
Today I am scarred for life. I will get my pound of flesh, Writers’ Block. So, start working it off in upvotes. That’s the least you can do, after what I went through to make sure your peeps have a nice place to trash around in Gatlinburg, come the end of June.
I had never used Airbnb. Had never heard of that company. Wish that were still the case. It’s supposed to be one of the top accommodations and hosting sites on the internet. If that’s true, I’d hate to see the bottom of that particular barrel.
Here’s how things went down. Warning: it ain’t pretty.
Step One: Does She Ever Freakin’ Sleep?
2 a.m.:
Wife sends link via Facebook. Says it will take me directly to the cabin of choice on a site that promises to make renting the thing super easy! Yay! I like easy. Slap the red button and done. Right?
6 a.m.:
Scowl at the link hanging about in my message inbox. Easy, it says. Easy is good. I close out the screen and save it for later.
Step Two: Hijacking Gainful Employment
12.pm.:
At work, field phone calls from said wife every fifteen minutes to see if I’ve reserved said cabin. Wonder if she realizes I actually have a job.
Step Three: Saving the World
2:00 p.m.:
Wait. What? Airbnb? Am I renting a cabin or booking a flight? Or commandeering the cabin of a plane? What the hell was going on here? Should I pack a parachute?
Eh, no time to worry about it now. Back to work for three more hours.
Click Goes the Link.
6:00 p.m:
Thanks to my wife, all fields are pre-filled with number of occupants, dates, everything that should make this simple. There is a nice, handy little button that says “reserve this cabin.” Niiice. It even brings up a screen to create my account.
Oh, look—choices! I can log in with Facebook, or Google, or start from scratch. To keep things moving, I choose Facebook. I use it to log in and read this reassuring little warning that Zuckerberg is about to give all my personal information to Airbnb. This means my name. My friends’ names. Where I live. Where they live. Who they’re dating. Where their parents live. Where I like to shop. How to find my great, great, great, great grandparents on Ancestry.com .
Fine.
Having forfeited my right to privacy for the rest of my life, I accept and click past that screen. Then Airbnb tells me, “Even though we have enough information to torment you and your family’s progeny until the end of time, we still don’t know who you are. We need a picture of your driver’s license. Front and back. How would you like to send the information? Upload from this computer, or use our handy, dandy little app, which we recommend?”
I decide to use their handy, dandy little app. When I click next, I receive a text with a link to download the app. The link sends me to an error page. I go back to the website and click again, only to rinse, lather, and repeat at least four more times. I finally see what’s happening—the script for the proper link is only on screen for point-two seconds, so I have to click fast! Faster than that! Still not fast enough! Finally, success! I said yes to download the app.
Now I get a message from my phone. Apparently, it doesn’t have enough memory. I have to delete another app to download this app. Really? Fine. I close my eyes and point. Open them and peek. That looks like a good app to delete. Done. I download Airbnb with all their promises of account security and no spam. Like I’d believe that. Whatever. Eventually the new app takes control of my screen and suggests I now photograph my driver’s license. Good. Looks like we’re getting somewhere.
First attempt fails. Not enough light, according to Airbnb’s handy, dandy little app. I try again. Still no luck. I move to a different room. Nope. I change sides of the room. Still nope. Ten minutes later, I get a, “well that will work, but now we need the back side of your driver’s license.” Here we go again. Change room. Change sides of room. Fire up the arc welder to see if that helps the lighting situation any. At long last, mission accomplished.
At least I’m finished with the hard stuff, right? Wrong! Next, I get a message from the app telling me to take a photo of myself so that Airbnb can compare me to my driver’s license. Seriously? Hell’s bells— I’m 51. I’m well past the selfie stage. But since I have no choice, I comply…only to click the next button so the app tells me they still can’t determine if I am who I say I am, so would I please take a photo of my driver’s license, front and back?
Well, That Was an Hour of my Life I’ll Never Get Back
7:00 p.m.:
Wife arrives home. So help me God—if she asks me if I’ve booked that cabin, I’m going to need a wood chipper to destroy the evidence.
After five loops through the driver’s license/selfie cycle, somebody at Airbnb decided I had shown enough dedication to the cause and approved my account. Hallelujah! Persistence pays off.
Or not.
Now they need my credit card info. You mean to tell me they got all my info from Facebook including my blood type and fingerprints, but I still have to punch in those numbers? Fine. I whip out my trusty VISA and give ‘em what they need. Click the “reserve now” button, and watch that little wheel spin.
Message from Airbnb: “You know that cabin you’ve spent the last several hours trying to rent? Well, we don’t even know if it’s still available. Give us 48 hours and we’ll check on that for you.”
Here’s An Idea . . .
You Airbnb jackasses – why didn’t you start with that part first?!
7:30 p.m.:
Now I get an email from the owner of the cabin. “Thank you for your interest,” she says. “But that cabin is already rented for those dates.”
I head to the living room to break it to my wife that the cabin is not available. As usual, she’s pecking about on her phone. She doesn’t look up when I tell her the sad news.
“That’s because she’s holding it for me,” the wife says. “I’m talking to her right now.”
There is not an emoji in the world that could capture my facial expression at that moment.
“Hang on,” I say. I retreat to my office and Google the price of wood chippers. Decide that murder is too expensive to cover up. I take a deep breath and resolve to deal with this like a non-homicidal, reasonably sane adult.
She’s Lucky She’s Alive
8:00 p.m.:
Back in the living room with my still-breathing wife, I wait as the owner sends a special link with a special deal and they need my card number again. By this time, I’ve pulled that card out of my pocket so many times the numbers have worn off and we have to make a pencil rubbing just to read them. I call out the numbers, wife puts them in. We watch as the little wheel spins.
Aaaand. . .credit card declined.
Whaaaaat…?
The three hairs left on my head stand straight up. My cards don’t get declined. Ooooh, no. I reconsider the wood chipper.
My cell phone beeps. A message from my bank’s fraud alert team. Oh, wonderful! That’s always a good sign. Along with the text is a phone number. I call it. I punch all the buttons required by the pre-recorded message, which of course asks for the same reams of information Zuckerberg has leveraged. I input my name, birthdate, card number, cousins’ middle names, cousins’s kids’ middle names…
When I reach an operator, his first question is, “What is your card number?”
You mean he doesn’t have it in front of him? After I keyed it into his little system thingie there? Clearly the agent and his little system thingie are on the outs. They must no longer be speaking to each other. Bad breakup? Whatever the case, I rattle off my account number which I really should have memorized by now and proceed to staple my credit card to my hand.
The agent removes the fraud block from my card. The wife resubmits, and on confirmation I discover that the cabin now costs seventy dollars more than it did 18 hours ago when I started this process. Inflation? Oh, hell no. “Pet fee,” she says, as I wonder what barbequed dog chips would taste like.
Not to fear, though, brave Writers’ Block—your cabin is reserved. I’ll pull the staples out of my palm and put my card back in my wallet, then sit here and wait for the next message from Airbnb. They’ll probably tell me I have to submit a DNA profile now, since I’m no longer sure if I just rented a cabin or if I'm being investigated by the FBI.
images from pixabay