For today's therapy session...I mean blog post...I thought I would just get right down to it and talk about something that we are going to call a repressed memory of sorts. I consider it something that is embarrassing and uncomfortable to talk about, so I thought I would write about it on the internet where millions of people can see it. In reality there are about fifteen hundred clicks on the blog every month but it could be read by millions...if they wanted to.
What made me think of it was when we drove our family friend to the airport to see her off to Germany. While we were waiting for her flight to leave I needed to use the facilities. That was what reminded me of this story. Yes, an airport bathroom. But don't worry...it's not that bad. For this hidden memory there is another person involved, we'll call him the perpetrator, and he may very well be someone who reads this blog. It may reveal to him the kind of harm he inflicted and cause him to make amends. For that unknown person I would like to say that a suitcase full of money delivered to a yet to be disclosed location would be a good start...unless you are a publisher who is interested in my book. Then we can call it even.
As most unpleasant memories go (unless you are a character in a science fiction novel) this happened in the past. I have rarely, if ever, spoken of it. I was about nineteen or twenty and my friends Rachel and Mike asked me to fly out to Missouri, hang out for about a week, and then help them drive their cars and their stuff out to California where they would be living. It sounded like a great adventure and I had some vacation time coming so off I went to the travel agent. I was warned that I would need to fly to Chicago's O'Hare airport to get to Missouri from California. So that would be...San Francisco, Chicago, and then Missouri. SFO, ORD, STL. (I keep mentioning this because I couldn't believe that I needed to fly past where I wanted to go and then backtrack to get to my friends) I would also have to fly through what was the busiest and largest airports in the country, if not even the world, to get to my friends. That meant a layover...and a worry.
I was warned by seasoned travelers that I would have to run as fast as I could in order to get to my next connection. And watch my wallet because pickpockets were a real problem in the airport. The bags would make it in a transfer but I probably wouldn't. I kept telling people that I had a whole hour to get from one plane to the other. That didn't help calm anyone's fears. "I hate that place!" Another said. "It's so huge! It's ridiculous!" Still another. I was doomed! I even got warned by someone who worked at the airlines. He said, "I once got a taxi to go from one terminal to the other so I would make my flight! And that was when I had two hours! Good luck!" Great, the first time I venture out on my own and I was doomed to wander the airport aimlessly, penniless, for the rest of my days.
I started training. (yeah right) I studied the map of the airport. (nope) I figured, it'll work out. (we have a winner) But I was still a bit apprehensive. When I got to the airport in Chicago I said, "Buh bye" to the stewardess (that's what they called them back then!) and found out the number of the gate where I would need to meet my new plane! I got into the airport at gate 23 in terminal 1 and I needed to get all the way over to gate 25 in terminal 1...which meant I had to walk approximately 27 feet...in just over an hour. I put on my track shoes, I got into the starting position, I walked over and sat down.
It was at this time, when I had fifty nine and a half minutes to wait for my plane, that I got paged. "Jeff Garrett to the white courtesy phone. Jeff Garrett to the white courtesy phone please." Turns out it was nature calling so I answered the call. Lucky for me, the labyrinthical airport had a men's room right across from gate twenty five. I got out a piece of bread and started leaving breadcrumbs as I made my way over. It was your average airport facility. Mostly clean, mostly white with hints of stainless steel, and it was absolutely empty. This is where I was traumatized...kind of. I went into the stall and locked the door (pickpockets remember!) and answered the white courtesy phone call of nature. And then I saw the graffiti. It said, "If you are interested in beginning a meaningful relationship with someone of the same sex be here at 10:50 A.M. on the morning of June 25th." For graffiti aficionados you know that I cleaned up the message quite a bit, but you probably get the idea. This is where it gets weird. I said to myself, "Boy! That is oddly specific! Hey, isn't today the 25th of June? I wonder what time it is?" I looked at my watch. (this was before people had cell phones and watches were obsolete) "What do you know...10:49! Crap!"
Let me just say that I ended the call, washed my hands (because my mom told me that the whole fabric of society would fall apart if I didn't), and contacted my Sherpa to get me back to my terminal where I waited and kept a suspicious eye on everyone who went into and out of the bathroom. I have since realized that I was just the unfortunate victim of painfully coincidental vandalism, but at the time it gave me the willies. The plane arrived, I boarded, and I had a relatively uneventful trip to Missouri. The trip home from Missouri was fraught with peril...but that is for another day.
Playing with words is fun. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I do writing them!
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