Hurtling through the Cosmos
To me, it's a good idea to always carry two sacks of something when you walk around. That way, if anybody says, "Hey, can you give me a hand?" You can say, "Sorry, got these sacks." -- Jack Handy
In fifth grade I was the kid who memorized volumes of information and quoted it at the most inappropriate time. One factoid fascinated me, and I repeated and repeated it till everyone could say it before I finished it: "Just sitting still you're going 66,000 miles per hour!"[1]
Those days behind me, travel got real as a young adult when I got my first car. Then I discovered the joys of travel. I was so excited, one day, I just jumped in the car and drove to Mexico. I had no money to get back and had to be a street bum and get gas money to return. That taught me, that I should plan my trips, and Mexico was a long, long way away. So with this travel season of the holidays upon us, I thought I would share a series of the stranger things I've encountered.
The first was the bridge troll on the I-10 West out of New Orleans. Yes, a real life bridge troll. He was meaner and nastier than just about anything you could imagine. It was an NOPD cop, assigned bridge duty. So he sat 40 miles out of town in the middle of one of the longest causeways in the world, and would pull folks over and beat them senseless for the fun of it. Leave them bleeding near death in the middle of the bridge and drive off. Happened daily. I figured if the blue lights ever came on, I would gun it and head for the far end of the bridge at full speed and take my chances with another pissed off cop near Lafayette. He eventually beat up a federal agent. That was the end of his days on the bridge, but those legends about trolls, I learned were all too real.
There was this crazy mudman once driving along the border, who ran out of the Rio Grande into the middle of the road and flagged me to stop. I swerved and kept going. Somethings are best left undiscovered.
I once was driving with my grandmother in the car. Stopped at a gas station. Walked in, and it was a biker bar full of outlaws. They looked at my nerd ass and the room got silent. I looked around at the angry stares, and I said, "Hey, my grandmother and I need some gas." The tension melted away and directions were provided. Never hesitate to play the grandma card. Never.
There is this town in South Carolina, called Saluda. Never stop there. If you must pass through, do so with the strictest adherence to the posted signs. God, help you if you're not a pale skin. I stopped there one day, and wanted to a make a call. It was pre-cell phone days. I pulled out a $5 bill, and thought well, to get change I'll have to get a soda or gum. So I went into the quaint little store, and selected a coke that would come out just over a $1, went up and gave the lady my 5, and awaited my change. She asked for more. I said, "I gave you a 5, I need my change to make a phone call."
She looked at me and said, "You'll have to come back at closing when we count the register."
I intimidatingly said, "I'm not going to get shaken down in this little town, so you're going reach out and reach into that cash register and give me my change." To my surprise, she did.
Then I walked outside and made my phone call. I could see through the window, and there was a really fat cop eating a donut in the back. She ran back to him, her arms flailing about, her mouth hammering out the atrocities that some foreigner had committed in her store. I then began to wonder if the change was worth it. So I ended the call, went to my car and started to drive off. They ran out of the store together and wrote down my plates.
This led to me, trying to plot a drive home that didn't pass through Saluda. It would add about 150 miles to my already too long journey. So I decided, if I was lucky, I'd just slip right through. As I came over the hill top, there was a police car on the side of the road. As I passed, it pulled out on my bumper. Then another I passed did the same. At this point, I think I quit breathing. Then, just at the train tracks, there stood a black man in a tuxedo carrying a sign, "Are you ready for the coming police state?". From the other direction came two other police cars, and they converged on him. The man was surely a prophet.
Flying is where you gain some real speed, and things get stranger yet. If you've ever flown, you're cramped into a tiny little space, after being inspected and treated like cattle for a few hours. Somehow, it's usually worth it for the further you go, the less you know.
I remember landing as a tornado formed off the wing of a plane. Picked up a baggage cart, underwear swirled in a mesmerizing pattern. The violence in the cabin was soon such, that stuff was flying in all directions, and vomit mixed in and floated indiscriminately about as gravity and up and down were negotiating a truce with Navier-Stokes playing spoiler on the deal. Now that was a flight to remember. When we finally got on the ground, there were baggage handlers out, picked up dirty laundry up and down the tarmac. They apologized for losing my luggage. Yep, not one word about the near death encounter with a tornado, or the vomit all over my suit, just a "sorry sir, we can't locate your luggage, but if you could provide itemized contents, with full descriptions we'll do our best." I can imagine the guy, who's job it would be to sort that out. Hmmm, red shirt, take one off the red shirt pile, check. That pilot who landed that plane, was a miracle worker, and we all flirted with death on that flight.
There was the flight I decided to fly with some contraband. I figured, in my underwear who would notice. I arrive to discover that Flight TWA800 just went down. I'm going out of the same airport. The oh, crap moment sinks in, as I am hustled into a special queue for examination. The baggage agent, who looks like FBI in an ill fitting baggage agent uniform, types in the computer for 30 minutes, all the while staring me up and down. He finally, stares at my crotch. I wink at him, nod toward the bathroom. He goes back to typing, then thinks for a moment, and looks me straight in the eye. I figure, I'm busted, he's good at this body language thing. Then, I hear in a loud voice, "SIR DROP YOUR BAG AND STEP AWAY NOW!"
So I comply, only to turn around, and the fellow behind me has the dear in head lights look, as he's quickly surrounded by about 10 baggage handlers in ill-fitting outfits. They have all have drawn Glocks and they are pointed at him. I slowly edge away. They only yell louder at him, "WHAT IS THE CONTENTS OF YOUR BAG! EXPLAIN YOURSELF!" One opens the bag, there's cylinders, a timer. A coiled red and blue wire connecting it all. Oh crap, a bomb, I think. Or is it. My engineering training says it could be anything. I've carried crap like that.
He continues to choke. I say, "Have you got a sales pitch?" throwing him a bone, hopefully he can explain himself. Sales pitches are ground in, such that a good salesman can do it while sleeping, and probably does. I wonder how many products Morpheus himself owns.
He stammers, "I, I, I, am a plastic injection mold sales man. This is a demo model, the molten plastic comes up through the tube, and the timing and heat are carefully tuned to create a perfect product. The air...." The tension eases out of the crowd of baggage handlers.
The baggage handler I was with, wipes his forehead, goes back to typing and prints out my boarding pass. He hands it to me, and says here yah go. Never thought a bomb scare could save my day.
Then, they put marshals on planes. Anyone could be a marshal. If you fly to D.C. it's a sure thing someone is a marshal. So, one day I get on a flight. Put my little 9x12 portfolio under the seat in front of me. The flight attendant comes back and says, "You'll have to check that. It's too large to fit under the seat."
I say, "How about i just shove it with the magazines, it's about the same size."
Her eyes glaze over, and she gets right up in my face, "Are you refusing to comply with my request."
I gulp, recognizing that's the language they arrest you for. "No ma'am, it was a suggestion. Please check my bag. I hand her the portfolio." She tags it, and throws it out the side of the boarding ramp. I see it hit the concrete. The baggage guys picks it up and shrugs.
I look forward, and begin a Zen meditation. She stares at me throughout take off. I can just see, one little thing, and I'm going to get the Sandler treatment from Anger Management. She skips me for beverage service. Bumps into me going up and down the isle as roughly as possible. I never take the bait. I count to ten, over and over, breathing in and out developing a tranquil peace of mind. Ever observing, but not reacting.
She comes over and sits beside me. She says, "I'm sorry, I've treated you poorly. You look just like my ex-husband. Can I give you a free drink?"
I accept, and she proceeds to pour out the details of her divorce, followed by all the things about him she loved. Just before landing, she grabs my leg and slips me her card. It has a hotel and room number written on the back. I wink at her and blow her a kiss.
Leaving the flight, I grab my scuffed up portfolio and run like hell. Never do crazy, no matter the destination, no matter the season, especially at 66,000 miles per hour.
[1]: http://www.astrosociety.org/education/publications/tnl/71/howfast.html
Comments
Mike
Posted 1 month, 10 days ago.
Great stories. You seem to be a lucky dude!
-Mike