When I rented my car in Indianapolis the man at the counter informed me that I’d be getting the cobalt in aisle 3. I thought, why is he telling me the color of my car? Dude, I don’t care if my car is cobalt blue, cornflower blue or burnt sienna, just gimme the keys. Waiting for me in aisle 3 I found a Chevy Cobalt. It was white.
Once at cruising speed on 465 North I lowered the windows and hit the radio. It was pre-set to Hot Hot Hot 96.3 FM, my home for the best of Hip Hop and R&B. The rental car had Illinois plates on it which kind of bothered me since I wanted desperately to fit in right from the get go.
All week I’d been envisioning the ways in which I’d fit in. But I’m sad to report that I failed miserably. I didn’t tip a cow. I didn’t chew tobacco. I didn’t grow a mullet. I didn’t dip my toe in a crick. I didn’t line dance. I didn’t shoot tin cans off a log with a rifle. Uncle Jesse didn’t even offer me any moonshine. Disappointing.
A marine would have adapted. Overcome. I’m not a marine. I’m an idiot with a corporate Amex card. So I did the best that I could. I ate sausages from a vending machine. I drank beer in a strip mall. I stole a robe from the Sheraton. I saw….. stuff…
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| Yes, I really did. | Yeeehawww! |
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| Fine lunch dining. | A trip downtown. |
My flight home was delayed for two hours due to weather on the east coast. To get away from all of the cell phone talkers I ducked into the Game Room in Terminal B. A few racing games, a shooting game, but no Galaga. Bummer. But they had one of those old Crane Grab games. In all my years I’ve never seen someone actually snag a single plushie toy from the bowels of these machines. Ever. I’ve always been convinced that the toys are exactly one ounce heavier than what the claw can physically handle, so you never win.
But with quarters clanging in my pocket and time to spare I said what the hell. To my amazement, my first 50¢ netted me a monkey from Aladdin. My second 50¢ netted me a Minnie Mouse. Wow, this is amazing. Feeling on a roll I continued and scored a rat from Ratatouille on my third shot. I. Am. The. Man.
“I love this country!” I yelled. Then I realized that I wasn’t doing one of my Zach Braff internal monologues, I was actually yelling. I turned towards the gate and saw everyone looking in my direction. Cell phone conversations seemed to stop.
My eyes locked with a young man sitting on a seat closest to the main walkway. His posture was amazing. His shirt was just as stiff. He was a marine. He gave me a strong nod, apparently in approval of my patriotic exclamation.
Heads swiveled back to neutral positions, cell phone conversations started up again. I scooped up my little buddies and walked over to the marine. “By any chance are you on your way home?” Yes. “Any chance you have any young nieces or nephews?” Yes. I handed him my winnings.
I am not a marine. I’m an idiot with a corporate Amex card.