While there’s a certain kind of strangeness in a place that’s constantly filled with people where no one actually lives, I've never had a problem with airports.
Until I meet Mr. Shot&Bud.
I was flying to Atlanta, and since I got there early, I wasn’t running around like a crazy person. Naturally, I took a seat at a bar after making it through airport security without incident.
I ordered a Yuengling and a caprese salad. Mr. Shot&Bud, of course, orders a Bud Light and a shot of Jack Daniels. Okay sure. My salad arrives and as I glance over as this guy looks at the salad, looks at me, and sneers like I’m wearing a painted on Chiquita Banana Lady costume at a Gay Pride Parade.
You know this type. This is the guy who needs to judge everyone. He will decide certain things about people based on tiny fragments of information, and use that information to make himself feel better. In this case, I assume the thought process is something along the line of “It’s okay if I’m drinking too much, because this guy is a salad eating faggot.”
Am I reading too much into this man’s sneer? Perhaps. But why sneer? I’m merely reading as much into his sneer as he has apparently read into my cuisine.
What I really found annoying is that ordering a salad is somehow like going to prison. You have to kill the first guy that fucks with you to prove that you can eat what you please.
I suppose I should just make it a habit to unload the magazine of a sub-machine gun into the toughest looking guy at the restaurant whenever I order anything less than half a cow worked over with a blowtorch.
I got on the plane without incident, and the flight to Atlanta from Baltimore is quite quick, maybe an hour and a half.
I would think that you would know that. The time it takes it get to where you’re going, and what time you have to be at the next location. Low and behold, Mr. Shot&Bud is on my plane, and he was apparently unaware of how long the flight would take.
He’s now In A Hurry. So much so that he has pushed his way up past the other rows on the plane, and will by God, get the hell off this plane faster than everyone else.
Mr. Shot&Bud does this thing where he holds his back pack out in front of him and uses that as some sort of shield against actually following the etiquette of letting people in the earlier rows get out first. It appears as though he has installed some sort of super-magnet in his back-back and it pulls him past the unwashed masses by some other magnet secreted on his person that airport security somehow missed.
Apparently, I’m dealing with a Super Villain.
I grabbed my back pack from the overhead and moved out, ignored The Evil Dr. Shot&Bud and his Magical Back Pack of Line Jumping. I’m sure this drove him crazy, but I didn’t notice because I’d stopped paying attention to him. I mean, it’s not like I need to pay attention, since the world revolves around this screwball. I’m sure he gets enough attention.
Still, with a casual slip I was ahead of him for a precious moment. Then in the circular connector of the hall way that lead us all into the terminal he got ahead of me again and charged down the terminal.
So I mosey. I’m in no particular hurry. Unlike Evil Dr. Shot&Bud I don’t have a meeting with the President or something, so I barely noticed when I miss the turn walking. Naturally, I feel sort of like and idiot as I turn around and head the tram that is the gateway to freedom at the Atlanta Airport.
Low and behold, there he is. Evil Dr. Shot&Bud has been thwarted, by the tram schedule. The schedule that I’m damn sure says “Trams to baggage and the main exit arrive every 10 minutes.”
I felt a great swell of pity at that moment. Perhaps I was a judgmental asshole. Perhaps the only English this man, an immigrant, had learned so far was “Shot and a Bud, please.”
He leaned back to another man and spat, “How in the fuck does this work?” No, that’s quite advanced. He’s been in this country long enough to add the word “fuck” into his sentences with aplomb.
I successfully fought the urge to say something quite snarky, and decided to walk halfway to the exit of the terminal, fairly sure I’d beat him his destination in several senses.