Sunday before last I learned a lesson: I looked so good I
was dangerous.
So I’m standing at the small local airport, head and
shoulders visible above the curtains of a “privacy” booth, a TSA agent doing
his damnedest to not let my shorts fall off as he’s running his fingers inside
my waist band. The two dozen people going through security all saw the tall guy
with the bright yellow polo holding his arms out to the side, getting some
hands-on action courtesy of the US government.
My belongings, the few that I was carrying, went through the
x-ray machine with no issue, and I had walked through the metal detector
without error… at first. But instead of the usual alarm that triggers, in
moments I had received a less urgent tone from the machine. I was the lucky
winner of a random selection for additional screening! Yay! Eliot Ness, come on
down! You’re the next contestant! But I wasn’t guaranteed a good junk groping
just yet; first I had to win the lightning round: an agent was already
snapping on blue latex gloves and had me hold my hands out, palms up, while she
swabbed them with some paper discs and sent them through the analysis machine.
When the sniffer dinged twice with a bold red screen: “Explosives detected”,
they turned to the bin of my belongings. I laughed; surely the sandals I wore
that day had soaked up some spilled gasoline the last time I mowed my lawn, and that was what triggerd the - nope,
all clean.
After I received my complimentary pat-down, I asked the
agent why my hands triggered the detector, if my clothes and belongings checked
clean. He identified that I had pomade in my hair (check), was wearing cologne
(check), and asked if I used some sort of lotion that day (just shaved my neck,
after-shave moisturizer, check). Apparently, any one of those could contain
nitro-glycerides which stayed on my skin. A good hand washing or rubbing
alcohol would take care of them next time.
Rewind 15 minutes earlier: security doors open up and I
decide to piss one more time before going through. Afterwards, I scoped myself
out in the mirror, then realized I didn’t piss all over my fingers and I didn’t
want my paperback book to get wet, so I’m not washing my hands.
***
After collecting my luggage at Lambert Airport in St. Louis,
MO, my first task was to get my rental car. The company set me up with an “intermediate”
sized car, after I specifically requested something to fit my 6’4”, 305 pound
frame. “We’ve got you in this Mazda 3” the guy said.
If my life were a sitcom, this is where the laugh track
would go.
Five minutes later I’m comfortable in a new Ford Escape at the
additional expense of $4/day. I synced my phone to the onboard computer and it
bumped some Prof from my phone automatically whenever I started the car, giving
MO a little taste of MN underground hip-hop.
***
Everyone in our Missouri branch office is super friendly.
The drawl was apparent in their voices, and the funny looks I’d get as soon as
I spoke proved that my almost-Canadian accent was giving them enjoyment in
return. A group of 9 joined me for lunch that Monday, and of course I wanted to
get a good taste of some real BBQ. I was the first to speak up to our waitress
for my drink order, and since I’m not drinking pop soda anymore, I was
proud to get water.
Everyone else: “Sweet tea.” “Unsweetened tea.” “Raspberry
sweet tea.”
I very quickly changed my order. When in Rome…
***
Every bar and restaurant with patio seating had giant metal
fans running full-blast to provide a breeze. One particular bar’s fan was
blowing the savory smell of the burger grill right at me. I laughed that by the
end of the night, I’d smell so good I’d need a cattle prod to keep hungry
people away from me.
The smell certainly didn’t make the wait for my Yogi Burger
any shorter. I was told by our waitress (who almost looks like Sweet Dee from
It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia) that the burger was huge, I’d not need
fries. After five minutes of assault with kitchen smoke, I started regretting
at least not getting the jalapeno poppers as an appetizer.
The burgers eventually did come out, though, and mine was a
sight. Sitting solitary in the basket, the burger was not diminished by the absence
of sides; it stood tall and wide like a monument. Onions drooped lazily over the
edges of the beer-battered, deep-fried patty. Thousand Island dressing oozed
out of both the top and bottom buns as I crunched through the burger with my
first bite. Imagine the largest onion ring in your life, but instead of the
sometimes-unwanted slimy bit of onion, it’s high-quality beef to be found
inside. It was a damn good burger.
***
A delayed flight from St. Louis to Minneapolis meant I wasn’t
making my connection home, so instead I took a 2 hour layover to get on a
flight to Duluth. It was during those two hours that the 60-mph-wind, rain, and
hail hit. I was already having a hard time finding a ride home from Duluth, but
as the flight status kept creeping further and further into the future, my
prospects got worse and worse.
The wind and rain was an awesome sight through
the airport observation deck windows, but the repeated severe weather alerts on
the P.A. system only got more and more on my nerves. Text messages started
coming through to my phone from work: our headquarters office was without power
and it might not be on again until Sunday or Monday. Who can go in? Who can
check these servers? Can we redirect the website to an external host so we can
communicate with our employees? I sat nursing a $7 tap beer watching these come
in, begging people for a ride home or a place to stay. Then the most stressful
event of the night occurred:
With my flight delayed til 11:40, two and half hours out
yet, the bartender said “I have to close soon. Last call.”
Great blog. This was a fun read!
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