I was recently flying back home after a week in Las Vegas. I was at the snack bar trying to get something to eat before my flight. So I'm patiently waiting in line, but it was taking a while. The girl behind the counter was doing the best she could but she was obviously struggling, I'd be willing to bet it was her first day. (Despite my presence in Las Vegas I don't gamble, but I will definitely take those odds.) As I waited I had time to reflect on the kind of people that go to L.V., (If you have time to actually truly reflect in line, you've officially been waiting too long.) like the heavily tanned couple in front of me. Classic tourist couple, (they still had their cabana wear on at the airport!) dressed for all the sun and fun Vegas has to offer. Probably spent their whole trip sitting by the pool all day, soaking up the rays along with whatever fruity cocktail is in season, achieving a professional grade shade of aztec bronze. (They probably live in Arizona. You don't get that kind of tan overnight or in a weekend in L.V. They were baked to a crispy goodness. This was no lamp tan.) Nice enough people I'm sure, but I'm sick of reading their backs like a mayan calendar. Just then this big guy in a yellow polo shirt tries to walk between me and the couple, (I like to leave some room between me and the people in front of me in line) I figured he wanted to cut through but he stops and then gets in line behind me. At one point the aztec woman turns and looks at me sheepishly, sorry, she says with a look.
Somehow the situation in front of me gets resolved (not without a visit from the manager though) and I move up to the counter to pay. The transaction goes without incident (or a visit from the manager. I am proud of myself) She hands me my change and I turn to move and at that exact moment the guy in the yellow polo moves in. That exact moment. She had just handed me my change, it had barely reached my hand when he steamrolled forward trapping me against the counter. I was momentarily pinned against the counter, and I just blurted out, "Let me get the fuck out of here before you start moving in." I haven't felt that physically violated since my last Dead Kennedys show. I am not a big man, (This guy had at least a foot and close to a hundred and fifty pounds on me.) but I'm left to wonder, what kind of person does this? Has society and common courtesy devolved that much? (Maybe it's the way I was raised, but I am very big on line etiquette. You let everyone off the elevator before you get on, you hold the door if someone is right behind you and you respect peoples personal space in public.)
(I should say, at this point, that on my way to the airport in the process of filling the rental car with gas I inadvertently spilled some on my pants. My only pair of pants. I'm pissed. So now I am going to smell like gasoline the whole way home. Nice real nice.)
It takes him a second but then he says (halfheartedly, even patronizingly) "Sorry." Once I free myself, I turn and look at him and notice there is a big line behind him and they're all looking at me. Like I was the problem! 'Wow, that was really crazy, did you here what he said? He said fuck at the airport.' (I didn't even yell it. It was very conversational in tone.) Seriously people? I'm the victim here! I was really hungry too, but I can honestly say in the entire history of my search for nourishment I have never taken a fucking hostage! I was pissed. Don't blame the victim you bunch of sanctimonious assholes! Unbelievable! Thankfully though, even I realized at this point, that in this post 9/11 world of shoe bombers and underwear bombers ( what now - the potty mouth gas pants bomber?) it's probably not a good idea to get into an argument at the airport if you smell like gasoline.
I bet that asshole is on my flight.