Samson Pettyjohn entered the gift shop bathroom a bomb squad newbie, hounded by an imminent disaster he was only theoretically sure he could avert. He left the still largely antiseptic chamber a freshly commuted death row prisoner, wanting to hug both the governor and his underpaid defense team, but mostly hungry for breakfast. His world-brightening sense of gratitude led him to consider buying something so he paused for moment to peruse the racks of personalized key chains fobs, pocket knives and tiny license plates. None of them had his name stamped on them, much less "Sam," which was just as well since he'd never cared for the nickname.
Instead he made for the door, which had just admitted a voluble group of elderly women in bright patterned smocks, stretch pants and comfy shoes, all a-cackle over the knickknacks and ready for an early lunch at the adjacent cafeteria. Samson wove between them smiling and murmuring polite excuse-me-ma'ams. He eventually found himself face-to-face with a sprightly crone who matched him zig for zag and zag for zig until he finally grabbed her hands and executed a jump-skip to the left and another the right, repeating the process until he was on the door side.
- Hey Wilma! This one knows how to polka!
- Sneek him onto the bus!
Image Al's Oasis, SD by talented flickr user thebristolkid, used under a Creative Commons license.
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