Chapter 2

“I was on my way to the airport to fly out west to a series of meetings for a project that I had just recently agreed to work on,” I began. “There was nothing particularly unusual about this project, nor does the project really have anything to do with the rest of the story; but I have to begin somewhere and this seems like as good a place as any. While mentioning this may seem rather mundane, pointless, and boring now, it will probably get less (or more) so as I continue. I may have mentioned to you at one time or another that I earn my living as an independent consultant on automation technology who works with architectural firms and their clients around the country. These kinds of projects have been my stock and trade for the last couple of years, and it’s work that I really enjoy (a lucky thing, as it seems the only one that life appears ready to allow me). My expertise is not in any one manufacturing process, but that I seem to have a knack for the efficient layout of such facilities once the goals, technologies, and specific equipment required of a particular process have been described and explained to me.

This was to be my first trip to the project site for a canning company in the Seattle area. The project itself didn’t appear to present any special technical difficulties, or at least nothing that jumped out from the contracted specifications that I carried with me for review on the flight over; and it promised work for at least eight weeks in the favorable climate of a summer in the northwestern United States. I was quite looking forward to a change from what can often be the monotonous geography and wearying heat of another summer in the Midwest. Besides, this kind of work was my main (only) source of income, and the balance in my bank account was telling me in no uncertain terms that a little replenishment was in order. I had stopped at the light on High Street for a turn towards the airport for the first of my flights that day, when he walked right in front of the car.

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I know that this doesn’t mean anything to you, but it meant a great deal to me; and none of it was good. I looked again, hoping that I could be wrong, but the second look proved no more reassuring than the first. There was no doubt that it was him. Now I am not normally prone to emotional demonstrations, but I have to tell you that just the sight of this person caused an almost complete loss of physical and mental self-control, only replaced by a state of abject terror. Flop sweat began to break out on my forehead and run down my back in concurrent rivers; and my hands felt instantly clammy on the steering wheel. Seeing him again put me into such a state of panic that even now it's difficult to describe without experiencing some small part of it again.

Of course this could mean nothing to you, and were you to see the same person out in public, it's doubtful that you would even notice him. Certainly he's not physically imposing; and in fact at first glance would appear just the opposite. He's not much more than 5'6” tall, though I think this is because he slouched a bit sometimes; especially when it might suit his purpose or gain him sympathy. His face was thin but not gaunt, and was for the most part unremarkable. His most noticeable feature were a pair fierce blue eyes under white caterpillar eyebrows, staring out over a prominent nose that also bordered on being thin, but seemed to fit with the rest of the picture. His mouth is small and rounded, but you hardly noticed it for the white hair and beard that concealed a good bit of his face. The hair was cut neatly, and worn at what can best be described as medium length; managing to obscure his features without drawing undo attention. As for the facial hair, it wasn't a beard like Santa Claus or one of those Tolkien-like figures, nor was it one of the short, almost stubble-like beards that are so popular today. It too was of medium length, and likewise trimmed neatly; with the whiskers a bit longer at the chin and the ends of his mustache. Almost like one of those beards that you would picture on a proper English gentlemen wear in an old black and white movie. In fact, that's exactly the picture that he paints on first impression. A short, old,

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English gentleman; right down to the 3-piece gray pinstripe suit and pocket watch chain properly hanging across his vest. He also occasionally wears a rather disreputable looking hat and a pair of round wire-rimmed glasses; thought I'm not sure if he actually needs them, or he does it for the effect that he thinks it creates.

At any rate there he was, this perfect picture of a proper English gentleman, was hidden amidst and standing completely out from the crowd as I found myself stopped at the light. As the initial shock began to recede, I found that it was quickly replaced by even more shock, bordering on terror. Fear, excitement, anger, and sorrow were all rolling around in my stomach like an all-you-can-eat Mexican feast gone terribly wrong; and creating a nausea that could only be ignored by focusing on the light-headed feeling that told me that I was very close to losing my grip on reality (a grip that even at the best of times is rather tenuous). He always seems to show up like this; never when I wanted, just when least expected, and by no means when convenient. As you can probably tell, this wasn’t the first time that I had seen him or been through this; and knowing what I had learned through bitter lessons, there was nothing left to do but to face up to it … and him. I finished the turn I was making and parked in the first open place that I could find. There was a diner three doors down and I knew without thinking that he would be there. True to form, he was sitting halfway up the counter and picking at a slice of peach pie (a curious thing to notice) with a steaming cup of coffee sitting as yet untouched next to it. There were a couple of stools to his right that were open, and I sat down at the one next to him without asking permission and with more than a bit of trepidation. A waitress immediately appeared in front of me, and I ordered coffee for myself.

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“Its funny about royalty,” he said as if we were in the middle of a conversation on a subject begun some time ago. “They're so used to living in their own little world of palaces, protocol, and the protection of ceremony that they seldom understand anything of the real world around them.”

“As I'm sure you are quite aware,” I replied a bit sarcastically, not to be confounded by this particular conversational tactic. “My knowledge of royalty, palaces, protocol, and royal ceremony could be considered only slightly less than non-existent. If I felt inclined to offer any opinion on the subject however, which I don't, I would say that it has always struck me that few of those who govern, no matter what form of the system used or level of influence exercised; understand little if anything of that power, even less of the real world around them, and next to nothing about the people who have to live in it under their care.”

“Yes,” he replied, going on as if I hadn’t answered him. (This was rather a habit of his that I had noticed before, though I never allowed myself to be annoyed enough with it to take issue with it. Of course even if I had, that too would likely have gone unnoticed.) “I’ve often wondered how members of a monarchy can perform the function that life has supposedly bred them to, when they know so little about the world they live in. How someone can be expected to be able to tell someone else what to do or how to do it under most circumstances is quite beyond me. As for the concept of telling a lot of people what to do all of the time; why it simply boggles the mind. Wouldn’t you agree Sean?”

Now my first impulse would be to pointedly ignore him as he had previously done to me, or to agree with him whether he was listening or not, since I already had. The practice of telling other people what to do is one fraught with peril, usually to all parties involved; and should be avoided at all costs. The concept of people being born and raised to such duties added a genetic component to the notion that made it often dangerous, completely ludicrous, and not at all amusing. People living in the rarefied atmosphere of duty and drama involved with

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the celebrity of royal lineage is an experience that thankfully few of us will ever know. Surrounded by crowds of spokespersons, handlers, media consultants, servants, bodyguards, and tutors; they are rarely if ever exposed to such mundane concepts as physical labor, the idea of budgeting or the handling of money, or the expense of living. In other words, they lack exposure to any part of the world as most of us know it.

Oh sure, they're taught a great deal about things like image, duty, honor, and responsibility both to their families and their countries; but they are taught to use these concepts as tools of leadership and acting skills. The problem with such an education were flaws inherent in the system itself. I’m sure that individual members of any royal family probably weren’t bad people (maybe they were even nice); but they were political icons being asked to act as if they shared and understood the problems of the those they governed, and there's no way that they could. When considering governing at all, I had always felt that government was a necessary evil that served best when it served least. I trusted governments to serve their citizens about as far as I could throw them; and adding the pomp and circumstance of royalty to the equation seemed little more than adding insult to injury.

This is a concept that we unfortunately see all too frequently in the world today. Those to whom a jealous public has awarded a title of Celebrity speaking out on one the world's ills as if they were experts rather than actors. (The definition of an expert being a person who normally can’t find gainful employment with what they know in the real world and must therefore inflict the burden of their “special knowledge” on the rest of us.) There seems something horribly incongruous about a celebrity heading off to areas of recent famine, war, or natural disaster who shows up in a private plane and gets chauffeured to the site of the most appalling conditions that anyone can 

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imagine; only to hand off their offspring off to nannies so they speak passionately about the suffering going on around them that needs to be assuaged (usually with other people's money). Speech completed, it's normally followed by a short tour of the affected area before being whisked off to an a meal of rare delicacies with those in power (who likewise appear not to be suffering any deprivation) prepared by private chefs. There are certainly exceptions to this rule of course, but they are only exceptions because the rule exists.

In spite of all of this being the case, none of it was in fact expressed out loud to my diminutive companion. Any opinions held in the presence of this character should be as closely held as hole cards in a poker game at a table full of cardsharps. Should their existence be discovered by some horrible mischance, one should claim that they were found lying about loose on the sidewalk and were picked up merely in the hopes of eventually returning them to their rightful owner. If that tactic fails to work, deny under torture that they could possibly be yours, since the last time that you saw the few opinions you held, they had been left in the pockets of a pair of pants that were subsequently lost with your luggage upon returning from a vacation six months ago. Of course, it's doubtful that such excuses would be heard, let alone accepted. And as for the exercise of power, this particular gentleman seemed to have spent a good deal of his existence acting like he was royalty and telling other people (especially me) what to do; so taking a rather jaded view of such subjects seemed rather fraudulent on his part.

“The only thing that I can tell you with any certainty” I finally said, while futilely attempting to consider the consequences of speaking in his presence, “is that I have very little experience in telling anyone what to do, and even less of having them pay attention when I do. As far as knowing how royalty might think or how they might act, I think that we have clearly established that my level of knowledge and experience on this particular subject is zero. I feel obligated to ask however, if it’s not too much trouble, whether this question has to do with anything?”

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“Like many other things, I'm sure that it invariably will,” he said, giving one of those typically evasive answers that I had almost grown annoyingly accustomed to.

“But does it have anything to do with me?” I continued, knowing that I would regret doing so.

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised,” was the only response I could get.

And having said that, my little friend (and I use that term in a way dripping with sarcasm) stood up from his seat, counted out the correct funds to cover the check beside his plate, and over-tipped the server before leaving.

The over-tipping was a particular point that stuck with me at the time, and I couldn’t help but think well of the man in spite of a great deal of our history together. I must digress for just a minute to explain how and why this should be; though it's simple really. I believe in over-tipping. Not all that many people in the world do you know, which is a terrible tragedy in my mind. Did you ever stop to think that most of those who provide service to other people in the form of food, beverages, or anything else for that matter, do so for very low wages? Have you ever considered that they receive these very low wages from employers who expect them to make up the difference between the amount that they provide and a livable wage from the largesse of those being served? Consider then that those having been thus served, and not truly understanding their part in this rather simple and time-honored process; tend to provide their part of the transaction in an amount that either suits their whim, or allows them to get by without seeming cheap to their companions. Most in fact, compute the amount of this token of esteem on the side of cheapness whenever the opportunity of anonymity presents itself. This particular display of poor behavior occurs whether the service is marginal, good, or exceptional; and results in no end of dire consequences for the 

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employee so blessed . Choosing an arbitrary percentage agreed upon by people who have never worked at a job whose income depended upon such income, they hand it over as if it were either a Christmas present for which they expect to be thanked, or a dirty diaper that they hand over with measured level of distaste. Now if the people who worked for these gratuities were paid a wage that did not require such additional supplementing, I would be happy to follow the rather arbitrary rules that have been laid down, or do away with the practice of tipping all together. This not being the case however, I choose to excessively reward those people who take on the jobs that are some of the least respected, most overlooked, and most frequently abused of all those on the planet. I do so in the full and satisfying knowledge that I am ‘bucking the system’, and in the hope that my apparent generosity will inspire others (or shame them) into emulation, and in some way make up for those less generous members of my species.

I apologize for digressing on this subject, but this is my story, and I’ll tell it the way that I want, or not at all. I know that I've digressed on a number of subjects already and I will in all probability digress again later. In fact, I would be willing to bet that you can count on it. One should never be afraid of digression in a story, for while it tends to make a tale longer and can make it more confusing, it usually makes it more interesting and potentially a lot more amusing.

I was left sitting at the counter with a half full cup of coffee in front of me and a number of burning questions running through my head, unsure whether I wanted any of them answered. I know that I probably should have immediately raced out of the diner and confronted him for more information whether I wanted it or not (you probably would have). I also know that even if I had run out at that very instant, my little friend would have been gone, disappeared without a trace. He in fact seemed to do that a lot. Instead of gaining necessary information, I have found myself standing outside feeling rather foolish, and completely alone. When after further careful thought I finally realized that no solutions would immediately present themselves while I was sitting on the stool staring at a cup of coffee that I had no real interest in, and since I still had places to go and people to see, I decided to resume my interrupted journey to the airport as if none of this had ever happened.

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.

I have long had the ability to ignore things that I don’t understand or don’t want to deal with in the hope that by doing so they will go away. While this particular strategy for dealing with things has proven to be universally a failure, I have never chosen to abandon it. Perhaps it's simply an illustration of some weakness or flaw in my character. If it is, I’m relatively sure that its one that I share with a great many people (usually when they vote). Besides, continuing to do this on a consistent basis will eventually place the law of averages on my side.

There was nothing else to do therefore but follow his lead in departing, doing so in such a way in which my now frazzled nerves would be less apparent to the rest of the world. This may not have seemed the smartest thing to do under the circumstances, but I have never been known as the brightest bulb on the tree. I therefore left the diner slowly and carefully, and returned to where I had left my car parked. Of course by that time, there was a parking ticket on the windshield, even though I had placed enough change into the beast of a parking meter to last for well over two hours and had been gone only twenty minutes.

That’s always the way it is with parking meters though, isn’t it? When you plan your method of using these benighted change consuming horrors thoroughly and execute that plan flawlessly, they treat you like a Reno slot machine that hasn't paid out since before you were born. When you gamble on achieving a legal reprieve from their all-together arbitrary operation, control, and abuse; you almost always get away it. (There's a rumor that Einstein purposely ignored parking meters when writing his General Theory of Relativity because he knew that they violate it whenever it suited their sick sense of humor.) Unfortunately, I believe in laws; even parking laws. I also believe in parking meters, though I find many people either have a great deal of trouble believing in them

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or refuse to acknowledge their presence entirely. (Coincidentally, I have heard that parking meters have a great deal of difficulty believing in people. They believe that automobiles are in fact the dominant form of life on earth, and that in gratitude for their company, automobiles provide little metallic treats to their hosts when stopping by for a visit.) I also believe in parking tickets and in paying my fines when I get one. This is partly because I try to be a law-abiding citizen; but mostly because I believe that I'm the kind of person who would get caught, arrested, publicly humiliated, and sent to some evil hell hole where parking scofflaws are sent if I didn’t. Laugh if you will, but I also believe that there are cable cops who will break down my door and imprison me if I were to partake of any use of services (even a bad pay per view movie) without giving them proper reimbursement. I even suffer terrible pangs of guilt when I tear one of those tags off of a mattress, for fear that the charges and penalties listed thereon will be enforced brutally upon me by the 'mattress police'.

I somehow managed to put my growing frustration, my anger, and the parking ticket in my pocket however, as got back into my car. Pulling away from the curb with a few mumbled imprecations on the inequities of life in general and parking meters in particular, I somehow managed to complete the rest of the trip to the airport without further chance meetings or incidents.

Now the airport that I was using that day was that of a small town in Ohio which I choose not to mention for fear of being named in some future defamation suit. While an airport in a completely land-locked city, it nevertheless insisted on including the term 'Port' in its name in spite of the fact that the closest it came to being one was that it was in a city named for a sailor.

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 It likewise chose to call itself an 'International' airport in spite of the fact that it's only foreign flights were a once-a-day junket to Toronto and a once-a-week charter flight to a vacation destination in Mexico. While these minor bits of ego might be forgiven, what could not be was the horrible symbol that it chose as its own. This bit of commissioned hideousness masquerading as 'art' was a sculpture entitled “Paintswipes Flying” which bears no resemblance to its name. (The name for this odious bit of design has of course likewise been altered, in order to prevent similar legal action on the part of either the city or the artist.) The city, feeling a pride similar to my own in this travesty, soon placed it in a position near enough to the main terminal that it might be destroyed in the event of a terrorist attack on the airport; but not in one that allowed it to be viewed by passengers who were already risking nausea from air travel. I suspect that they would have liked to send it back to the artist, but he's long since gone back to painting pictures of dogs playing cards and the skinny Elvis on felt; and selling them out a van in Fresno where no one has ever heard of this particular example of his lack of talent, or the city where it resides for that matter

Don't get me wrong. I love the city that I long ago adopted as my home and feel blessed to live there. It's one of those cosmopolitan jewels of the Midwest once considered little more than a cow town. It is the home to one major institution of higher learning known for little more than sports scandals (like most other major universities) and a couple of other smaller colleges known for not being that major institution. It likewise boasts professional sports, the symphony, ballet, art museums, and many of the other things that cities normally only get by becoming places that no one can afford to live in any more or don't feel safe living in if they can. It's home to a number of corporations, including one that specializes in woman’s lingerie; and the headquarters of fast food giants as well, having long ago proved itself as an able test market. It even has a replica of one of the ships used to discover North America, which was incongruously enough assembled in a non-navigable river. It's most ludicrous claim to fame has to do with airplanes however, as the lone high-rise downtown in the early days of flying caused it to be known by pilots as 'the city with a hard-on'. While now grown far beyond its humble beginnings however, its fairly new airport has not seen similar attention and expansion; a fact for which I am often grateful.

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Many travelers will tell you that it is better to live next to a big airport, so that you can get direct flights to anywhere in the world. They are of course incorrect, and often found to be people in an inordinate hurry to get to places that they don’t really want to get to, for reasons that no one (including they themselves) seem to be able to understand. Big airports are often of truly colossal proportions and almost unlimited pretensions. They are also architectural monuments to man’s ability to ignore the merits of the place he lives in the quest to get to somewhere else in a terrible hurry, which he usually finds he likes even less than the home he then can't wait to get back to. They have dozens of terminals with hundreds of gates, thousands of airplanes, and tens of thousands of passengers traveling to and from them every day. They are difficult to get to, impossible to park anywhere near, and often require a separate transportation system to get you around in them. The airline industry calls them “hubs” because flights come to them like the spokes come to the hub of a wheel. (There are some who say that HUB actually means Hideous & Uncomfortable Building, but no proof of this has yet been discovered.) What I call them can usually be described by a string of expletives that I am far too much of a gentleman to share in polite company. My own little place of embarkation has made an occasional attempt to become one of these hub airports for one airline or another over the years; but fortunately for me, these efforts have been as successful as those to make large airports more convenient. Their failure however, stirs up a lot of excitement, sells a few newspapers,and leads to the replacement of the airport administrator. Each new airport executive, hoping to make good and yet to drawn to the siren song of airline hype, usually allows it to go back to being a fairly sleepy little airport.

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As I am concerned, this is not a disadvantage to the city or the airport that serves. You can keep your hubs and everything that goes with them. Give me the spoke with all of its apparent inconvenience any time. Perhaps I feel this way because I am a mostly relaxed traveler who prefers convenient access to a convenient route. Perhaps is because I find the company of so many of my fellow human beings in one place more of a problem than a solution. It might even be because I object to the fact that such efforts are usually constructed on the back of taxpayers, who are burdened enough by their agreement to build the latest (or next) sports stadium. Spoke or hub however,I find that I eventually arrive at the same destinations as most frantic travelers. It might be slightly later yes, but I'm usually in a better mood, and much more ready to do the work that I was sent to do when I get there. I also find that I often pay less for the privilege of this convenient inconvenience than those who use the hubs, since no one airline achieves a monopoly of local air travel in this arrangement.

Arrival and check-in for the flight was both boring and predictable, and in spite of my short interlude, I had plenty of time before the first leg of my journey. I managed to make it past the gourmet coffee booth (I prefer coffee flavored coffee, thank you very much), the mini-shopping mall, and what passes for fine dining establishments I such places; and made my way to the security area for processing. It's not that I sneer at any these things (except for the coffee thing, and I only find that mildly annoying). In fact, I often stop at these airports shops during my travels to buy things that I suddenly discover that I need for reasons that I can never seem to fathom. I appear to do these things out of a necessity driven by regular travel, a quirky outlook on the world in general, and the never-ending desire to participate in capitalism (and probably has something to do with the subliminal messages to spend being broadcast throughout airports 24 hours a day). I also enjoy doing them to alleviate in some part, the mindless boredom intrinsic in frequent and regular air travel, with all that it entails. In spite of what may have been perceived as disparaging remarks about food, I am also willing to partake of the gourmet delights of food and beverages (sometimes of the adult variety) that such gateways to the world offer from time to time. In fact, you might say that I am especially enamored of one type of food in particular where these monuments of air travel are concerned. I am singularly captivated in the delights of the airport hot dog.

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Trust me on this one my friend, as I am a seasoned traveler, know of the true value of such things, and am capable of the proper appreciation of these little bits of gastronomic delight. Now perhaps you laugh at such things, and disparage the hot dog as a piece of epicurean nonsense, but properly prepared, they are a true delight. Many cities around the country now boast of restaurants featuring these little pieces of down home America. With the exception of Portillo's in Chicago and those provided in ballparks across the country, the airport variety is a particularly well-prepared bit of American cuisine. The marriage of America’s game with the proper preparation of dish is natural and right, since this country is both the home of baseball and the hot dog. Even amongst cities that boast both however, there are some that are better than others. I could reveal their secrets to you, but by doing so I would be betraying a sacred trust, as well as causing unnecessary crowds and probable market-related price increases at those that are my personal favorites. I would also be denying you the opportunity of surprise at the location of successes and failures for the wiener and frankfurter in your travels. I will say however, that in cities where you find good baseball, you can normally expect to find good airport hot dogs; though there are exceptions. Such distractions were not a part of my plan for that day however, my recent visitor had spoiled any appetite that I might have had, and I was merely seeking to reach my flight.

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My gate was not far from the security area (another advantage of the smaller airport), and I therefore didn’t have far to go after I had disassembled my clothing and luggage for a group of individuals whose education and training would not normally allow them to meet the criteria of a bagger in a local grocery store. Don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against these people personally (or the bagger in grocery store for that matter) except for the idiotic and arbitrary rules that have been mandated in these situations for our protection, and the way that they have chosen to interpret and execute them. I don’t think that anyone would argue that we need safety in travel after some of the things that have happened in recent history, and I want to be as safe as the next person. (Maybe more since I travel so much.) I also believe that placing my personal safety in the hands of a government trained employee may be the biggest gamble and the most danger that I am likely to find myself in.

It's not just that I find it ludicrous that the normal airport security agent, having long abandoned that same government's dietary guidelines and now weighing more than an guard on the Packers is actually going to be able to chase a terrorist down without becoming the first victim of the incursion after dying of a heart attack. It's that having staffed what we are told are important positions with people who failed to meet the cheerful personality and friendliness exam at the DMV and the IQ exam for Wal-Mart greeters we then unreasonably expect a modicum of common sense and common courtesy from them. While holding no expertise (or authority) on the subject, perhaps I should not really get to comment on such rules, how they are enforced, or how they could be fixed. Neither it appear, do most of the people who write them however. In fact it appears these days that more of the airline safety that I count on comes from the diligence and courage of my fellow travelers than from these mall cop wanna be's. Let me in the name of expediency therefore, take a pass at further comment on a process filled with regulatory intractability, and procedural insanity .

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At my overbuilt and under-utilized airport, let me say instead that this meant that what should have been a very simple process only required me to stand in line for some thirty minutes before being allowed to pass through their government-designed defensive position (this being a period when not many people were seeking to travel); and I was able to be on my way to the gate with only a modicum of annoyance and at least a shred of the dignity that I entered that area with.

Having now completing that journey, I found that I still had more than a little time to kill before boarding, even though my flight was on time. Not fretting over this slack in my travel schedule, I was able to take some well-deserved down time and content myself by the use of the game that I normally play in airport terminals. You might well ask why I seek entertainment in airline terminals, and the answer is simple. I do so because for the most part, they are very boring places and because I have given up the luxury of the “Air Clubs” that most airports provide as private amusement parks. This is not out of any sense of superiority or a moral judgment on the people who are members of such clubs, but only because such establishments charge you exorbitant annuals fees for the use of these 'elite' private areas, only to discover that they are nor more entertaining than the terminals that they seek to divert you from, since they filled with people as just as boring as you are. I would like to think that I have better taste than that. Instead I play a game of discovery by studying my fellow human beings.

People, as you might know, are fascinating, nauseating, frustrating, and generally unable to function in large groups. If they are taken individually, they are generally congenial company. Taken in larger groups, they usually be counted on to become an unruly mob prone to poor behavior and evil disposition. In airports, most of them find their only legal means of personal satisfaction is by doing anything that they can to prevent others from reaching the place that they're trying to get to.

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You know the ones that I am talking about. These are the people who stop in the middle of airline terminals at random intervals for no discernible reason, preventing the free flow of traffic through and around them. They stand in large groups blocking access to the gates, even when they are not asked or prepared to board the plane. They block bathroom entrances, ticket counters, and they stand closely packed around the baggage conveyors (usually the wrong ones), keeping other people from getting either bladder relief, their tickets, or the luggage they require to get on with the rest of their lives. Some of these people are simply ignorant of the common courtesy, proper behavior in an airport, and the annoying nature of their behavior. They perform these actions as part of a collective unconscious of aggressive ignorance and a pervasive atmosphere of group stupidity that has affected mankind throughout its history. Many more however, are part of a devious group known to the world as the Anti-Destination League.

Members of the ADL operate in every airport, bus, and train terminal in every city of the world where travel happens. No one knows much about this insidious organization, or what horrible rituals they must secretly participate in when not pursuing their singular mission against travelers. Some are convinced (and with good reason, I believe) that they they are recruited from the ranks of disgruntled government bureaucrats already singled out by their co-workers for rotten dispositions and obnoxious personality traits. It's also said that while their initiation rites are not painful, they are particularly tedious and lengthy, instilling in the membership a dogged determination to inspire humiliation, frustration, and aggravation into their intended victims. No successful infiltration of this insidious assembly of human travel barriers has ever succeeded, as it's rumored that they were taught secrecy by the Masons and vengeance on those who betrayed them by the IRA.  As a consequence, little is known of their ultimate goals, or if they even have one. 

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My own engagements with the petty annoyance of this league of destination delayers has been largely successful, but only because of the superior travel skills that I have attained over the years of experience and the constant vigilance against their efforts that I maintain. Even for the novice or average traveler confronted by these roadblocks to travel fulfillment however, there is still hope. Keep a smile on your face at all times (it infuriates them), and keep your carry-on luggage firmly in your grasp (for its security and for potential use as a weapon of last resort). But I digress again however. (See, told you!)

The game that I mentioned (before the lengthy digression) is one of my own invention, and requires no more than one to play. It consists of studying people in all of their interesting diversity and splendor. They are short and tall, fat and skinny, old and young, rich and poor, ugly and beautiful. As such, and much like any other animal species, they have been, can be, and currently are the subject of many types of scientific study. This game does not qualify as true scientific study and requires no particular training (or government certification).  It does however require a willingness to carefully observe ones fellow man (and woman) in order to play it properly. The rules of this particular game are very easy to understand, and simply involve getting inside the heads of the people around you, and seeing them as they see themselves. It can be played in any public place, but airports provide one of the better backdrops for seeing a great many people in a short period of time.

Here, try it now. Imagine yourself in a crowded airport terminal, sitting quietly with a book in hand so as to appear unsuspecting in your detailed observations. Look around you now, at the masses of humanity. (Careful that you don’t imagine too large a mass and become overwhelmed. Maybe just a small mass of humanity would be better.) Look closely now at each of them, and try to see them as they see themselves. Understand, if you can, how each of them selected their respective attire for the day, searching endlessly through their wardrobes before departing for the airport. Remember, they knew that they would be on public display among their fellow man, and that hundreds or even thousands of close friends and complete strangers would see their displayed finery.

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Obviously, one would therefore expect that careful selection of such attire would be an obvious consequence of this knowledge. Taking extra time in that selection and carefully preening before leaving for the airport, they were therefore able to look into a mirror before their departure and say to themselves, “Damn, I look good in this!”

Some actually do. Dressed in the height of fashion or comfort, the clothes that they wear fit them, and they fit the clothes that they wear. More often however, they are amusing at best, ridiculous at worst. Assembled in finery that would only be chosen by a blind village idiot from a Salvation Army store clearance rack, they display their imagined sartorial splendor to the world around them for the amusement of the public in general and for me in particular. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not looking down at them, or anybody else (OK maybe I am, but I'm doing it with a lot of love). I play this game merely to remind myself that we have not gone so far down the path of evolution that we still don’t find silly and amusing ways to display ourselves in our attempt to make up for what Nature failed to give us. (Don’t believe me, try it for yourself the next time that you travel.)

The time that I spend playing the game amazes and amuses me (as does every part of my never ending study of my fellow man), and prepares my mind and body for the experience of travel by air. I find that I require such time in preparation to overcome the often mind numbing experience (more on that later). As a consequence, I am always at the airport well in advance of the departure of the flight simply in order to have time available. Even when not seeking to entertain myself with the human condition, the time spent waiting in airports need not be time either wasted or misused however. Many airports have interesting displays of their particular city or region’s history. Many display the interesting things that are produced in the area. Some merely display relevant or interesting art. If you cannot see yourself strolling the terminals like a promenade, certainly time like this is well spent in immersing one’s self in a good book. When I am not idling away my time in the studying my fellow man, you will usually find my head buried in any book that I can find. 

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All of the best entertainment and the greatest knowledge of the world are there at our very fingertips in books if we only give them the chance. Ours is a generation where all manner of such material is well within our grasp, and shame on us if we choose not to take advantage of it. Perhaps the fact that I am willing to seek diversion in such situations is why I have never found travel particularly onerous, though I do it frequently (and to sometimes incredible places that I will get around to talking about sooner or later). Usually, by the time that I have enjoyed an hour or so of amusing myself in some fashion in these cathedrals of aerial transport, I am ready to face the prospect of the punitive confinement more commonly called air travel. Preparation is in fact, required if one is to survive such an ordeal.

For those of you who haven’t traveled by air (and that doesn’t seem like a great number these days), let me share some part of the experience with you vicariously. Air travel involves sitting in a chair so narrow and uncomfortable, that you wouldn’t use it in your home, even if a relative that you liked gave it to you. You will then be treated like a child who needs to have everything from the operation of a seat belt to the concept of breathing explained to you in annoying detail by a person who has done it too many times already and manages to do it without apparent conscious thought or effort, since they no longer actually want to do it. Securely confined now with too many people in too small a space and breathing recycled air containing contaminants that would get most factories in anywhere but the third world shut down, you will be told when you have to turn off you I-Pad, I-Pod, and I-Phone (You've just got to love the monopoly of Apple, don't you?), when you can get up or have to sit down, and when the bathroom is available. You'll be handed something in a foil bag to eat, in a portion so small that even if you could, you wouldn't attempt to purchase it at the grocery store. You will be asked to treat this rationed offering, assuming that you are not allergic to it, as if it were a gourmet meal (and please don’t ask for seconds). You will be served a single beverage in a glass so small that they are found nowhere else in the world. 

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You will accept this largesse from a company employee who probably is not happy in their work, and bitterly resents having to give it to you (or deal with you in any many if the truth were known). You will do all of this without complaint, as if such treatment is justified by spending exorbitant amounts of money for the privilege of travel in these “buses of the air”. You will also do it calmly and quietly so that the crew of the airplane does not feel threatened enough by you to feel the need to place you in restraints before turning you over to the local authorities at the next stop. God I love to fly!

As one of those gifted with the designation of a frequent traveler, I am allowed the privilege of extending my enjoyment of the experience by boarding the plane first (with those privileged enough to be accorded seats in the first class cabin). I therefore approached the gate when the announcement was made to allow my privileged group to board. This earned me the right to be one of the first to challenge last effort from the local branch of the ADL, and the jealousy and envy of those less privileged.  Carry-on baggage firmly in my grasp, I breached the defenses of the ADL gate deployment and calmly stood in line.  I had my identification checked against my boarding pass for the third or fourth time that day to make sure that I was still me, had my boarding pass reconfirmed again as well to make sure that I was not so stupid as to try and get on the wrong plane, and quietly passed into the jetway to board (what an amazing mangling of the English language the word jetway is).   All of my effort was for naught however, as I never made it onto the airplane.

.

Chapter 1

“A funny thing happened to me just the other day ...” was what I was saying sure. What I was thinking however, was why in the world was I allowing myself to tell this story out loud, who in their right mind could possibly be expected believe it, and what they were serving for dinner tonight in the loony bin; which is undoubtedly where I would find myself long before the telling was completed. I was also rather chagrined at the rather tired and unoriginal phrase with which I had begun. In moments when I thought about such things (normally limited to rare attempts at 20/20 hindsight), I liked to hope that I was a far more imaginative person than one forced to fall back on this rather hackneyed opening would indicate. I might as well have said “Once upon a time, there lived a man in the deep green wood.” (And of course there did, but that's another tale entirely...)

Of course this vapid line isn't where this conversation started, nor where it ended; but I refuse to be constrained by the sequential recounting of a story that has little in the way of logic, less in the way of believability, and almost no reason whatsoever attached to it. Trying to keep the facts straight in my head will be burden enough without attempting to keep them in order as well. In the very act of this retelling, I realize that I am in fact trying to tell a tale about telling the tale, as well as the tale itself; so forgive me if I find the concept of a logical sequence of events rather ludicrous. So if from time to time, you find yourself perplexed by the twisted path that this chronicle follows, take heart in the knowledge that the mind leading you through it has been twisted far worse and far longer. You might also take some solace in the fact that you are probably in good company in your disorientation, and that when listening to stories such as this, confusion (real or feigned) is probably necessary component to the survival of your mental health. 

2

So before things get any more confused than they already are (assuming that this in fact still possible) and considering that what has now become a hopelessly interrupted narrative was not nearly so at the time; let me say that the person whose ear I was bending was someone that I had spoken to before. Oh, not with anything the likes of which I was about to, but at least with some form of pleasant conversation. As to where I was doing this ear bending, it was a wonderful little place by the name of Gibby's that I often used as an island of tranquility in a sea of madness; especially when the siren song of alcohol irresistibly calls my name.

Fortunately for me, Gibby’s was exactly the kind of place for one to succumb to such temptation; and mine would not be the first strange tale ever shared within its confines (though one as wild as mine seemed rather unlikely). As they go, Gibby's was one of those great places which managed to specialize in, well ... absolutely nothing; and it seems rather taken with that fact. It's bi-polar personality perfectly suited it, as did it's lack of pretension. In fact, describing it is probably worth a minute of time, as an understanding of the place and the kind of people that frequent it might provide some insight into who I am and why any of its patrons would consider listening to this rather preposterous tale without calling for me to be fitted with a jacket with graced with overly-long sleeves and strange buckles for cuff links.

If the truth were told (and I will limit myself to truth whenever not doing so places me in jeopardy of getting caught) Gibby’s isn’t actually one place but two. Each caters to an entirely different clientele and serves a different purpose in the greater scheme of life. The design of the building, whatever its original purpose, seemed to naturally separate itself in order to accommodate these different worlds in both form and function. The most recent owners, taking advantage of this happy accident of architecture; managed to use this situation to full advantage and tried to please two vastly different groups who remained by-and-large oblivious of each other. 

3

The downstairs area had a bar along most of the back wall, though seeing it was often difficult in the dim lighting throughout. Opposite the bar was a open area of negligible size that served as a dance floor in front of an even smaller stage. Small, crowded tables surrounded this area in no readily discernible pattern. Narrow aisles created a maze through these tiny islands of social interaction, barely allowing passage to waitresses bearing rounds rounds of drinks to serve thirsty customers, and managing to effectively confuse those patrons attempting to find the bathrooms after they had been served sufficient quantities to warrant such a trip. The overall decor could generously be called 'fraternity shabby' and consisted of plain darkly painted walls with neon alcoholic beverage displays featured prominently, along with scattered banners and posters extolling the virtues of future special events. The fact that most of these future events had long since passed seemed to fit the timeless nature of the place and didn't seem to matter to the patrons found occasionally gazing raptly, though often blearily at them (usually while looking for signs to lead them to the bathrooms).

Local bands would do their best there to reproduce music carefully restricted to four chords and a volume slightly below that of an F-4 tornado; allowing little or no verbal communication, even when screaming at the top of one’s lungs (which was usually required when ordering drinks or asking for directions to the bathroom). Visual communication was limited as well owing to the sparse lighting, but was apparently not much of an concern to the patrons who inhabited this level. Because of this frantic ambiance, the downstairs area was a place frequented by young people (and older ones acting like adolescents); to meet, mingle, and dance in traditional tribal mating rituals. (No tribe has actually taken responsibility for these rituals, nor has any admitted to such traditions being a part of their culture; but their primitive nature must date them to the early days of civilization.)

4

Sociologists for the most part, do not seem to find it odd that human mating rituals are mostly performed in places serving alcohol; though no formal studies on what is considered to be common knowledge were ever effectively performed. (It's suspected that this was because those who managed to get government grants for such work could never stay sober long enough to properly write down their observations, and were too hung over after completing their research to write up their notes, let alone the definite papers required afterward.) One rumored school of thought however, holds that it might have something to do with a societal complexity that has forced many to seek a release of inhibitions through the use of alcoholic beverages in a purely adolescent ritual (though this theory leads to an unresolved 'chicken / egg question where alcohol and inhibitions were concerned). Another school holds that people have simply become so stupid and obnoxious that the only way that interpersonal relationships resulting in species reproduction are possible is through the mitigating effects of considerable amounts of C₂H₅OH. A third holds that human evolution has long since left the species on a branch of evolution in which potential mating partners can only be judged for suitability based on performing actions in which they make fools of themselves through the use of intoxicating beverages and immature behavior. This last of course, begs the question of whether such alcohol-induced madness can actually be considered a survival trait in today’s society and if as a consequence we are finally following the path of the dodo bird. As for me, I hold that it might be too early in the story for any such deep thinking, though it seems a bit late to bring that up now. But where was I?

Ah yes, the layout of Gibby’s. Since I started out by telling you about a lower level, the implication of course is that the other would be upper. At Gibby's this would be a potentially disastrous conclusion, since the bar was built into the side of the hill and each level had an exit at its own respective ground level. This bit of unintentional misdirection was accentuated by an internal stairway that often left new visitors who thought they were on the only level thoroughly confused and provided regulars a non-stop source of amusement as they discovered they weren't. 

5

Fortunately for me however, not only was my initiation into these mysteries long in my past; but ready egress was the only thing that these levels shared. The upper level in fact existed more in the atmosphere of a Public House (where the term 'Pub' originally came from). It's layout consisted of a three-side bar against a wall with stools on each of the remaining sides, and tables in a regular arrangement surrounding that. A wide and easily navigable aisle separated these two seating areas, and provided simple and direct access to the bathroom. (If I seem a bit preoccupied with bathrooms, it's because I am. I'm a huge fan of indoor plumbing in fact, but more on that later.) In much better lighted and more subdued surroundings, it serves a variety of Irish and English beers; and a few of the more popular American ones. The wine list is short, but well represented; and the variety of more potent beverages was considerable in scope and scale.

The almost infinite variety of flavors in distilled beverages today has quite frankly become rather confusing to me. I grew up in an age when choices like walking to school in the snow up hill both ways was simple and straight forward proposition that left no options, and choices in alcohol were fairly limited both in type and brand. These days, I often find myself rather disconcerted when a bartender asks me which of the twenty or more types of vodka that he stocks I would like in a vodka martini. Confusion over whiskey (Irish or Scotch please, and no water or ice thank you very much) is less of a concern, as I am normally amenable to anything that has been given 12 years of providing the “angel's share” before being placed in a bottle. I'm sure that in the great scheme of things, all of this should be considered as signs of progress, proof of a more discriminating society, or as a triumph of the free market 

 6

mentality. All I know is that life can be confusing enough, and entering a bar is usually done as an escape to an over exposure to such confusion. If obtaining a tonic to alleviate the symptoms of such confusion (vodka and lime included, of course) instead adds to it, where then will we turn for respite for the trials and tribulations of everyday existence? But again, where were we?

Ah yes, the upstairs area. More in keeping with the low-key atmosphere of this level, the music here is of the pre-recorded variety, and features what most consider to be oldies (The selection changes from time to time, but then again, so does the definition of oldies.). Far more importantly, this music is always played at that wonderful level that allows a person to enjoy an old favorite if you hear one, or a pleasant conversation without shouting if not. This was a place where personal privacy was the prerogative of the customer; though there was always a congenial crowd, and most of the regulars knew each other by face if not by name.

I long ago had to admit that I am not young anymore (and sometimes wonder if in fact I ever was), so the music and conversation of the upstairs level were much more my style (and prevented further permanent hearing loss begun by hanging out in places like that downstairs in my youth as an added benefit). This is not to say that I have any objection to dark rooms or tribal mating rituals, in fact quite the contrary. I also find that participating in their practice is an essential and enjoyable part of any form of existence. As the beginnings of middle age overtook me however, and with my hair getting thinner and the rest of me anything but, I found myself much happier living at a less frenetic pace to life in general, and to a less frantic search for suitable female companionship in particular. I therefore found the atmosphere that had been created upstairs to be a perfect place to enjoy myself, whether any of my small circle of friends were there or not. 

7

Now let me stop for minute yet again in a tale but just begun to make a point that will matter a great deal as it continues. When I say friend, I mean it. I don’t mean the list of people you know only by sight and name. I don’t mean the faces that you recognize at work or while shopping. And I certainly don't mean all of those you list as such on some social media website in a vain attempt to prove how really interesting and popular you are. I mean people whose lives you are involved with and who are involved with yours. A person you would lend money to without asking why. Someone whose birthday and favorite color you probably know and whose childhood you understand a little bit about (even if you didn’t participate in it). It is a condition perhaps best described by the anonymous quote: “A friend is someone who will help you move. A real friend is someone who will help you move a body.” This type of friend is not made easily or often, and this type of friendship remains long after regular contact may have faded. I feel very strongly about the meaning of words like friend (among others) and shame on you if you don’t. Again, where were we?

Perhaps the reason that company was not always as required to enjoy the experience upstairs is because no matter when you arrived or who else was there, Michael was always there to greet you and make you feel at home. Michael the bartender (he was from both the city and county Donegal in Ireland originally and refused to answer to Mike under any circumstances) was someone who had long ago achieved the level of grand master mixologist . He exhibited all of those particular talents that only the true master bartenders possess; an unfailing memory for faces, names, and preferred adult beverages; and the gift of being able to make sure that your glass never quite reached empty.

Real bartenders may in fact be the closest things that we have in our world to a magical race race of beings. Though not related to each other in any way genetically, they share a common gift nonetheless. Who else would be able to put up with the non-stop load of natural 

8

fertilizer that we spread in their company while not only maintaining their composure, but managing to perform an important and necessary public service at the same time? Who else would have the character and strength of will not to blab every secret we reveal after having done so? Who else could have perfected the art of keeping a group of people polite and happy while they are in the process of killing as many brain cells as possible in a single sitting? No, the craft of bartending is a peculiar kind of genius that may sometimes be recognized, but rarely if ever duplicated.

Michael was always happy to give conversation if you were in the mood (though never advice; as that’s reserved for doctors, barbers, and hairdressers). He also seemed to be perpetually in a good mood. There was actually a rumor that went around from time to time (some said spread by Michael himself) that he had won the lottery years ago (or robbed a bank somewhere), secretly owned the place, and was only working there because it amused him. True or not, something certainly amused him.

He was not a large man, standing at about 5’10” tall and weighing in at not more than 160 pounds. While clean-shaven for the most part, he did sport a pair of significant gray sideburns framing an unlined face that gave no hint to his age. Matching gray curls surrounded his head like a halo, but any who knew him understood that he was anything but a saintly man, and that you courted his ire at your peril. Many are the poor fools with one too many under their belt that have challenged his decree against further service or last call, only to find themselves sitting outside on wet grass before they realized they had left. I personally witnessed him clear the room of an unruly bunch of ex-football players with only minor perspiration and no visible bruising showing on his part. (The same could not be said of his victims that night, though I heard that all were eventually able to feed themselves without help and most were able to walk again with only a slight limp.)

9

“Sean,” he said. “Will you be having another half-and-half?”

For the uninitiated, a half and half is a beer concoction consisting of equal parts of Harps lager and Guinness stout, with the Guinness layered softly onto the top of its predecessor in such a way so as to remain completely separate. When done properly, it is a thing of beauty. When performed improperly, it is a mistake that is happily and easily disposed of. Michael rarely managed a mistake, and always added the touch of drawing a Shamrock in the foam of the Guinness on top, a talent that has won him more than one award in his trade. This should not be confused with a similar cocktail, the Black and Tan, which is made in a similar fashion, but with Bass Ale (an English beer) used instead of the Harps. Most find the mixing of English and Irish brew as worse than a sacrilege, and consumption of such unholy unions sufficient justification for a holy war (though the Irish and English seldom need much of an excuse for such combats); but I think we can refuse to be drawn into religious or political discussions and their relationship to the subject of beer at this point. I will simply note here that both combinations are fully worthy of consumption.

Now I’ve answered yes to the question of 'having another' more times than I should have in this life (often to my later regret); but I had rather a lot on my mind on that particular day as I think that you will see. The first of the day's droughts was Guinness alone, and had gone down my throat as if my heart were on fire, and only the ambrosia produced at the James Gate Brewery would put out the flames. A second pint went down at a slightly slower pace, but had only begun to steady my rattled nerves; and a third soon followed. For the next, I decided to thin the mix a bit with the Harp, and commit to a slightly less blistering pace of consumption, though at this point I was feeling little if any effect from those I had already consumed. Since I was in no way prepared to end the day's festivities until that situation had drastically changed, I readily agreed. 

10

I will note here, for no particular reason other than that it amuses me, that recent research I have performed allowed me to discover that 2,000,000 liters of Guinness are produced every day in their James Gate Brewery in Dublin, the largest stout brewery in the world. While that may seem interesting enough by itself, consider this. One half of that production is sent around the world for consumption by we fortunate few who recognize this nectar for what it is, the other half remains in Ireland for consumption by its 3.5 million inhabitants. Such excess by an indigenous population should at least be noted, if not vigorously applauded.

“Have you noticed the looks that old Tom is giving you?” he asked then, as he set the still settling pint glass before me.

“Tom?” I replied.

“Sure, you know old Tom. He’s the one sitting four seats over, near the corner of the bar. He looks a bit confused about something today, and there’s no mistaking it.”

I glanced over casually to where I'd been directed (or at least attempted to) and he was right, I did know Tom. Now when I say I know him, I mean that we were acquainted with each other. As I stated earlier, most of the regulars were at least acquainted with each other; though I can't say we knew each other well enough to be friends. My circle of friends is in fact rather small. I make them rarely, treasure them highly, and am fiercely loyal to those I count among them, no matter what the personal consequence. A true friend is a rare thing indeed. But again, perhaps you will understand that better later. So when I say that we were acquainted I mean just that. We had spoken together on any number of occasions at the bar (though I couldn’t recall meeting him anywhere else), and I seemed to remember that we had enjoyed a fine cigar together more than once and had bought a drink for one another on occasion.

11

For himself, Tom appeared to be in his late forties, though little gray had to begun to take over for the original black. He had a full head of hair cut medium length and combed straight back. I would have guessed his height a little over six feet, three or four inches; and though he was carrying a little extra weight around the middle, no one would have called him overweight at what I would have figured to be about 235 pounds or so. His clear brown eyes stared out from an open, though not simple face; and he affected a mustache with just a hint of a handlebar to the ends. It was obvious from his countenance however, that Michael was right about the man’s current disturbed state of mind.

There was nothing untoward in his appearance that would suggest that anything was wrong to those who had never met him of course. He was sitting quietly in a subdued business suit, with his shirt collar open and no tie to be seen, but there was something of a look about him. He glanced over discretely, though regularly in my direction; and I couldn’t decide if his expression signaled concern, confusion, or simple amusement. Since these were not the type of facial expressions that I was used to seeing on him (or directed at me), it caught my attention.

“How long has he been here?” I asked.

“Oh, not long at all,” Michael said with a small quizzical smile on his face. “He came in not long after you, but quickly fell behind the pace that you've been setting today. He's been nursing that second one along for a bit now, but I must admit that something today about him that worries me. He’s glanced over towards you from time to time since he sat down, and at first I thought that there might have been some issue or dispute between the two of you. Watching him as time has passed I no longer believe that to be the case however. He certainly seems to be taking rather an interest in you at any rate and I thought that there might be something…”

12

“Say no more Michael,” I said setting aside my attempts at liquid self-medication quickly and with some relief. “I will make my way over and inquire as to whether I might be of some assistance.”

You might think that I was performing an act of generosity or madness by doing this, but you would be wrong on both counts. In fact it was just the opposite. Michael, shrewd observer of human nature that he is, had quickly noted my own disheveled condition and apparent level of distress. As a true gentleman however, he did not want, nor would he seek to embarrass me by pointing this out directly. He sought therefore to allow me to find the distraction and help that I appeared to need while apparently providing to offer it to another instead. (Maybe this is another of the talents that can be exhibited by a master of the bartender's craft, I don’t know.) That explains why Michael did it; but my own motives at the time were a little more obscure (especially to me). And as for why I thought that I could be of some assistance to anyone else … well experience has taught me some rather hard lessons in this regard, and my ability to help others in situations that I know little or nothing about has been tested more than once. But surprisingly enough, none of that was on my mind.

The truth of the matter is that as is often the case with people placed in in unusual situations, my spoken words hadn't been preceded by any real thought of the consequences. I'm sure that if that were the case, most of us would no doubt be living safer, but far less interesting lives. On the other hand, much of the suffering of the human condition would have never been shared, and the world much the worse for it. As for myself, it often seems as though
thought rarely if ever precedes any speech or action that I take. I have never been able to 

13

understand why that's the case, but there it is. It's not that I lack the intelligence or the ability to understand the consequences of my actions. Quite the contrary in fact, as I consider myself to be of above average intelligence; and the product of a fine education and a rather varied (some might say bizarre) number of experiences that should have put me in a position to know and understand what I'm getting into before I place myself in harm's way. None of these things ever seems to stop me in these situations however. Perhaps I am simply wired different than other people. (Normal people?) I only know that I have no real control of it, and quite frankly, rarely consider it.

Having made the verbal commitment to Michael though, it had now become a point of pride for me. I gathered up my drink and made my way over to confront this situation, with the hope of being able to winnow from him the source of his discomfiture. This also might seem to be a bit of foolishness, as I am not particularly talented at getting information out of people. My close friends would tell you that I am much more of a talker than a listener, and they would not be entirely wrong in saying so. I am capable however of the rare exception (though sometimes the effort is both terrible and tortuous to behold), and I was determined to do so as I managed to strike up the beginnings of a conversation with Tom. Of course, as is often the case in these situations, this meant having a conversation that had nothing to do with the problem at hand; for even the most direct and stout-hearted (pun intended) of men is incapable of broaching such a subject directly with someone little more than an acquaintance. In fact it started out being concerned with the most trivial and meaningless details about the weather and local sports. We did not discuss either politics or religion, as these two subjects tend to end more conversations that they begin; and that was not the goal of this one. Tom seemed to be listening and answering in a rather distracted fashion however, which soon left the conversation at a lull.

14

“Tom,” I finally said, taking the bull by the horns. (Which doesn't seem particularly intelligent, since grabbing the pointy end of anything is never the best of strategies. On further reflection, I can't really think of a way to take a bull that's a good strategy, and which doesn't involve a significant component of danger.) “I hope that you don’t take this the wrong way, but I feel that I must tell you that you have a look on your face that would take all of the fun out of a Half-priced pint night at the bar … not that Michael would have one you understand.”

“Sean,” he said with a slight chuckle, a sigh, and a note of concern that I had never heard in his voice before. “The look you see is for you. Don’t take offense my friend, but I must point out that you look like you've been drug out of that Half-priced pint night, and face down to boot. I would normally hesitate to mention it, but even you have to admit that your appearance, such as it is, is far from your normal state. So you'll forgive my curiosity over your looking like something that the car dragged in ... and only unwillingly, and what might be its cause.”

“There's no need Tom,” I replied with a with a weary chuckle of my own; only now recalling the frayed condition of my attire and the general disheveled appearance that I must have presented. “I'm sure that my current appearance is more than enough to draw some curious stares; and maybe in some way I was looking for some. Quite frankly, I thought that Michael would be reluctant to even serve me when I first walked in. If it weren’t for the fact of my being a regular, I'm pretty sure he would have cut me off and asked me to leave long since. Once having begun the attempt to drown myself in a small lake of beer however, I had almost managed to put the whole thing out of my mind. Let me apologize for any concern that I might have caused you, Michael, or anyone else. I actually think I'm OK again, or at least as much as I normally am. 

15

Things have been more than a little bit strange lately, and stopping in was an opportunity to find some shred of reality to hang on to. Strangely enough, this seemed to me to be the place to do it. If the truth were known though, I’m not entirely sure what led me to do it. I haven’t been home in some time and really should get up and go, but my heart isn’t really into the idea. Perhaps my stopping here was some some subconscious desire to talk to someone, though both conscious and subconscious thought seem to imply a level of reasoning almost impossible to me right now. Having said all of that however, let me add that while I appreciate your concern, I'm not at all sure that I want to talk about it.”

You will note that all of this conversation was in a very formal tone, and attempted with a high degree of civility on both of our parts. This tone and level of formality were quite important, considering the nature of the discussion going on. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in a similar situation before, but to say they can be uncomfortable is like saying that finding yourself naked in a crowded room is uncomfortable (not that I'm admitting that anything like that has happened to me you understand). Personally, I would have expected his normal reaction would be to suddenly recall an long anticipated meeting with a mother-in-law or an urgent appointment with a dentist that he was already late for; and to run for the door like a groom who's late for the wedding (with all the customary apologies of course). And I would have understood, since I myself am not usually one to involve myself in other peoples’ lives and problems if I have any choice in the matter (and seldom do so even when I don't); nor do I allow any but a few access to my private life. I would therefore understand a similar response from him or anyone else. 

16

There was something about the situation however, that seemed to prevent Tom from beating the customary hasty retreat that the situation begged for. I can’t say what it was, and I don’t know now whether it was a true act of kindness or one of temporary insanity on his part. Whatever the case however, I found myself listening to all of the proper polite sounding noises, while having this man tell me that the least he could do was listen, as he felt that I had something that I needed to say. While he wouldn’t and couldn’t guarantee a final reaction to anything that I might offer, he could at least promise me a full hearing.

“A funny thing happened to me just the other day…” I began again with a resigned sigh. “No wait, I think that we already did this part. But it was in fact, a funny thing that just happened to me. Oh, not funny ‘ha-ha’ (though parts of it seem rather amusing, now that I can look back on them), but funny strange. Of course, this isn’t the first time that something like this has happened in my life; and if history is any indication, it won’t be the last. I’m getting ahead of myself though. So let me just try to tell this the way that it happened without trying to strain your credibility any more than I have to in telling it.”