I didn’t post this before because I couldn’t quite believe I did it. Yes, it’s that weird, even for me. You, all four of you who read this blog, might have noticed that I was on a trip to Helena and spent a bit of it in the airport at Salt Lake City. Lovely place, actually, and I’m really looking forward to skiing there again, as My Former Boss invited a bunch of us there to ski in March of 2004. It was lovely. It was also the middle of tax season, so some of the invitees were back dealing with e-file. I’m not that geeky, I got to go ski.
But I digress. I flew into SLC after sitting forever and five months on a plane on the tarmac of IAH (that’s the Current President’s Father’s International Airport, in case you were wondering). I was not happy, but as it appeared that I should be ok if I hiked quickly across the entire length of the semi-circle that is the terminal in Salt Lake, I might make it on time. And by ‘on time’ I mean I wouldn’t miss the entire bit of festivities happening at my friend’s house. After all, she’s getting married, there was a rehearsal and the traditional rehearsal dinner, and then the oh-so-wonderful-yet-not-traditional-at-all-and-you-won’t-ever-order-one-for-your-mom red-headed sluts, which is a shot that involves Red Hot and Crown Royal and either gasoline or lighter fluid, whichever is handy. In other words, they are great!
And I would order one for my mom, but she wouldn’t drink it. But again, off subject.
So, I’m rushing across SLC and I’ve got my slinged backpack on, which holds my computer and a camera and some other electronic equipment. Oh, and the life-force giving iPod, of course. And I’m pulling a standard carryon wheeler that is on it’s last legs (wheels?) and I’m using the moving sidewalks to help me haul my ass over there. Thanks to whomever invented those things, by the way, they are quite good. The only malfunction you usually have to deal with is the ‘tards who, for whatever reason, can’t do the whole ‘stand on right, walk on left’ thing and this time was no different.
I was run into by a jerk who STOPPED right at the entrance to the moving walkway and then, as I moved to go around him, DRAGGED HIS LUGGAGE OVER MY EXPOSED LITTLE TOE. Which hurt, but not enough to slow me down, and I had other things on my mind. I looked down, didn’t see any blood and gave the twat a look and moved on.
So then, I got to my gate, realized I had a few minutes before boarding and I decided to hit the restroom because, well, the lavs on a plane are a bit small. And I’m not. At all.
So I go in and as I put my luggage against the wall I notice that there is blood all over my flip-flop and that my little toe is bleeding badly – enough that I look a bit and realize that I’ve left a trail of blood spots across the airport in The Land That Jesus Visited Later and that Joseph Smith Found and Named After Honeybees. Yes, I’m the Despoiler of Deseret. Look it up.
The airline I was flying was partially to blame for my discomfort and my need to rush through SLC. They are also the primary airline at SLC and most of the employees I saw worked for them. They were all too busy, and then I was too pissed, to get a first aid kit. Plus, once I was peeved, I had to not say anything to anyone. The current stupidity in the TSA prevents you from speaking your mind inside an airport, no matter how right you are, and when I’m mad, if I get started, someone else is going to be really hurt and upset, and frankly, I’m not a fan of being strip-searched anymore. So I said nothing. At all.
So when you next fly into SLC, do what I’m going to do. Look for ellipses of dark brown on the fine blue carpet leading from concourse B to concourse E. Those are my footsteps. Follow in them at your own risk.