Go With (Your) God...
I live in Minneapolis. My wife lives in Atlanta. I necessarily commute between the two cities, regularly. Last year my hectic pace earned me silver rewards status on two separate airlines. In Minnesota, I have predictable 9-to-5 (remote) job and a reliable chauffeur (my mother). In Atlanta, it's more...complicated.
My wife travels regularly for work. Often we're flying in on the same day but not at the same time. The notion of her driving home from the airport and then (later) back to the airport (to pick me up) and then back home is unfathomable.
First, we live 52 minutes from the Hartsfield-Jackson International, if we were driving there at 3 AM. Most other times of the day, it's a completely different story. Put it this way—if you think you have a traffic quagmire in your city, swing on through Atlanta any day between 3 PM and 9 PM and get back to me.
Next, Atlanta has a public transit system called MARTA. With a station at the airport and another a scant 20 minutes from our house, it's a sanity preserving alternative. Accordingly, I ride it either north or south usually four times each month. As I’ve been at it for over a decade. I feel I could write a book—two, actually—entitled Adventures in MARTA-ing, because it's always an adventure.
As an example, earlier this month, a dude swung onto the train and plopped down in one of the vertically oriented door-adjacent seats. He was packing a Nerf gun—so that was something new! After a few minutes, he inexplicably began treating himself to a full pedicure. For the record, these seats are earmarked for the elderly and folks with limited mobility not (armed) amateur estheticians.
98% of my journeys go off without a hitch. But 2% of the time I’m subjected to shenanigans like: full-on brawls, drug-induced meltdowns, smoking of every substance imaginable, booming music emanating from actual boom boxes, impromptu out-loud singing, relentless panhandling that would make most politicians blush, and of course the unwashed (for months) masses.
As a settled in for the 45-minute jaunt from AIRPORT > NSS on my latest trip, a little note was peeking up at me from the heating grate. It was the cursive that alerted it to me—and not too shabby cursive at that! I probably glanced down at it a dozen times before the suspense overtook me.
Was this a literal sign from God? I bemused...
Was it just the idle rambling of a lunatic? I wondered...
Was it an earnest message from a caring soul? I contemplated...
All I know is that the author in question had exceptional penmanship. When I finally snatched it off the grate, I noticed it was actually written on an Avery address label. I contemplated peeling it off and sticking it somewhere on my backpack. Instead, I left it for the next rider for whom the message might truly resonate. I'm guessing that's what the author intended.
I hope they can read cursive.
#adventuresinmartaing
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© 2024 – ∞ B. Charles Donley