Lambert - St Louis

I am sitting in Lambert - St. Louis International as I compose this post, waiting for my homeward flight to start boarding. I have an hour to burn, so I am watching people going to and from their flights. A lady just walked by with one of those roller suitcases, with the handle and the two wheels on the bottom, but it had a broken wheel that laid out sideways, so it didn’t roll very well. It just drew a scratch in the tile behind her. If she gets lost, she can do the Hansel and Gretel thing by following all the chipped floor tiles back to her car.

When nobody interesting walks by, I am thinking of all the ways I didn’t work out the past few days. I didn’t lift or run or walk or do much of anything during my visit to St. Louis, and, while I feel bad about it, I have my reasons. It was a bad trip. (That sounds like a line off of a cheech and chong record, huh?) It was a really bad trip.

Things started off bad when I arrived three days ago. It was a bumpy flight because the pilots had to dodge thunderstorms on the way in. I assume they were pilots anyway. Nobody knows for sure. They might have been thrill seekers or maybe they were the guys on that TV show where they intentionally fly through thunderstorms to gather weather data. Anyway, it was bumpy.

I am thinking now that the third diet coke before takeoff was a mistake. I sat in the window seat and I didn’t think I needed to disturb the guy next to me in 27E during the flight so I could get to the lavatory. He was a bigger guy and seemed to have trouble getting his seatbelt on. He needed a couple seatbelt extensions to get it to snap shut. His right hip, thigh and generously proportioned waist were in my lap for the duration of the flight. I guess he thought that since I wasn’t using my lap for anything productive, it was available as a parking garage for use at his discretion.  That was my fault, I should have explained the whole personal space thing upfront when they forklifted him in.

After we landed, three things made me forget to stop off in the mens room at the airport;

  First, I was dizzy from the flight. Like I said it was bumpy.

  Second, I was carrying my two, non-wheeled bags and they were getting a little heavy which made me forget the pain in my bladder. I was going to bring a wheeled bag, but before I left home, I noticed one of the wheels on my bag was broken so I left it there. Maybe that was a mistake.  I guess its common practice to use your broken wheeler bag as a plow at Lambert - St Louis International.

  And last, as I walked to the car rental shuttle, I was trying to air-dry all the man-sweat on my shirt deposited by my 27E buddy and I just forgot to stop because I was busy tugging at the collar of my shirt and waving it around like a madman.

Anyway, I get to the car rental place, get in my rental car, which, apropos of nothing, smelled like bananas. Ripe bananas.  So then I take off in fruity smelling car and I get lost trying to get to my hotel. I always get lost driving. A three minute trip turned into thirty minutes of bladder pain. I get to the hotel, check in with the Mensa member masquerading as a hotel desk clerk, she gives me my room key and I sprint across the lobby to the ultra-slow elevator, ride up one flight, and walk down the mile long corridor to my room. Ms. Mensa wrote room 220 on the folded key holder paper. I checked. 220. I compared the number on the door, 220, with the number on the folded piece of paper, 220, and I try the key. It doesn’t work. I am doing the two-step dance while I try the key ten different ways in the lock, it doesn’t work. So I run back down the hall, get in the elevator, because this hotel doesn’t own stairs between the lobby and the second floor, run back to the desk, and ask for a new key. Ms. Mensa looks at my folded key holder paper and types it into the machine, then she frowns. That’s never good. My bladder asks politely if she can speed it up. So Ms. Mensa shrugs, types some stuff into the machine and a new key card pops out. I grab and run across the lobby, ride back up one flight, hop on one leg down the hall and try the key in room 220. It works. I go in, throw my stuff down, and look for the bathroom.

At that point, the guy on the bed wearing the Hawaii shirt jumps up while the lady not wearing the Hawaii shirt scrambles to hide her exposed self behind the curtain.  I don't remember what Mr. Hawaii shirt looked like, but his bed mate was quite fetching.  Quite fetching.  I said “what are you doing in my room” at the same time Mr. Hawaii shirt said "what are you doing in my room?".  We stare at each other, then doubt starts to creep into my rather slow cerebellum. He explains to me why I need to leave, while I try to explain about the three diet cokes and the bumpy flight with the guy in my lap and the lady with the suitcase plow and the smelly car and the Mensa lady, but somehow, it just doesn't seem to register with Mr. Hawaii.  He was nice enough about it when he asked me to leave for a second time.  I made a weak attempt to again assert my claim on the room, but I couldn't find fault with his logic and I sort of lost my will to fight it out, so I gave up the room.  I shook Mr. Hawaii's hand and waved at Mrs. Hawaii's seriously enraged purple face peering out from behind the curtain.  She didn't wave back.

That was three days ago.  Ms. Mensa assigned me another room, but this time without roommates.  I never saw Mr Hawaii or Mrs. Hawaii again.  The furrows at Lambert - St Louis International have been repaired and the banana smell faded away in my rented car. I only hope Mr. Hawaii was able to coax Mrs. Hawaii out from behind the curtain before he went home.