Ten Bucks En Route to Gator Country

At our table the Engineer gobbled down a red pepper and pepperoni Panini and then eyed my sandwich as if it was next. The smiling man who made my turkey hoagie at the Blimpies sandwich shop at Dallas Fort Worth airport was deserving of ten extra bucks. I watched the man closely as he grinned at each travel weary customer who grudgingly bought his or her sandwich en route to Somewhere Better. And so when the crowd ebbed, I deliberately made my move. I walked up to the Blimpie counter, told the man he was exceedingly nice, and then handed him an Alexander Hamilton. He thanked me profusely, as if I offered him his dream job, and then, the hands of karma slowly tipped our way.

Sue arrived from Palm Springs in Dallas all tanned and witty and sunny as a Colorado peach. It was time to catch our connecting flight to Florida, and so I made one last dash for the bathroom, where a sealed bottle of glitzy Ethos water presented itself to me. I grabbed the freebie and boarded the plane with Sue and the Engineer and together we pointed into the cockpit at all the dreamy dials and buttons that held our collective fate. The pilot sensed our curiosity and invited us in for a glance at the instrumentation panel. In this post-911 era, we had figured that such activities were reserved for the young and harmless, but Pilot Scott kindly fielded our questions and smiled like it was 1975. Sue pointed at one dial and concluded, “So all you really have to do is follow that purple line”?” Pilot Scott kicked us out shortly thereafter.

Landing late into Orlando, we caught a taxi to the La Quinta Inn. We’d been warned that the taxi drivers in Orlando were prone to fleecing tourists, so we attempted to set the price in advance. The driver proved difficult, and by difficult, I mean that before we could agree on a price with the mad man, he auto-locked the doors and refused to stop the taxi and let us out. He drove onward, and while we eventually arrived at our destination, the next hour would be filled with discussions over the definition of kidnapping, a phone call to Yellow Cab and a conversation with the Orlando police department. FYI, readers: Cab #38 contains an intoxicated crazy man. The next morning, we recounted our story to the La Quinta front desk, and they made the surprising decision to refund our room costs. Alex Hamilton had begun to multiply and mutate.

We rendezvoused with Dad Barton and spent most of the week in central Florida at Silver River State Park, the real Florida, where we rented a Cracker style cabin, replete with fireplace and wrap-around porch and corrugated tin roof. The house backs up against a forest full of sticky gumbo trees and strangler figs and armadillos and wild boars. It was delightful. One day, we went for a hike, and in keeping with family tradition got slightly lost. I mused how nice it would be to have a map at our disposal during this worrisome time. Several minutes later, a trail map mysteriously appeared amidst the forest detritus providing more evidence of the $10 Karma bomb.

The flight attendant on our return flight to Dallas had a special affinity to our jovial little group, and offered us free goodies of cookies, cheese, and crackers. He responded to our fake complaints about not having peanuts with welcome, unapologetic sarcasm and by the time we made our descent, he had wrapped up a large, chilled bottle of white wine as a parting gift.

Sometimes the world just unfolds and glitters before your eyes. The spring gives water. The wine bottle flows. Thank you, Blimpie’s man, for a fundamental lesson in humanity.