There and back again

I went to Salt Lake this past Friday night.  It turned out to be quite an adventure.

It is customary, it seems, for mission presidents to host reunions just before or during the weekend of the LDS General Conference.  I intended to go to such an event Friday night.  On my way out the door, I ran into an acquaintance that said he was looking for a ride to Salt Lake.  Apparently a friend of his had an antique WWII rifle for him that he needed to go pick up.  I volunteered to just pick it up for him, and then he wouldn't even need to come with me.

So I drove to the Sky Harbor apartments next to the airport in Salt Lake to get this antique gun before I could run down to my mission reunion.  When I got there the man with the gun asked for ID--understandable, since the rifle is probably valuable.  So I got out my black leather wallet, pulled out my license and showed it to him.  He wrote a bit of information down, handed my my license back, then walked over to his little apartment and pulled an old Canadian made bolt action rifle with a shiny, sold wood stock from behind the doorway.  I was instantly fascinated by it (I must truly be a man).  After some small talk with him about the gun, I took it and put it in the trunk, said goodbye, and then drove off for my mission reunion.

At this point something inside me felt funny.  For several minutes I just thought it must be the fact that I wasn't exactly sure how to get to my mission reunion.  Sometimes as I drive I rest my hand on the side of my leg.  At this moment I did so.  I felt my license in my pocket.  Just my license.  Wait, just my license?  Where's my wallet...I'm sure I have it somewhere around here.  I didn't.

After driving to where my mission reunion was, I parked and got out to look more extensively for my wallet.  It was no where to be found.  I called the man who I picked the gun up from, and he said he'd check the ground around his place to see if it fell somewhere there.  I then walked into the chapel I had parked at--and quickly realized that this was a local wedding, not my mission reunion.  Dejected, I entered my car and drove down Vine St. in Murray looking for another chapel where my reunion might be.

I found one eventually; after being invited in by a kind old man, he asked me where I had served in the Melbourne Australia mission, and then I had to inform him that my area was considerably farther away than he had thought.  My reunion was set for between six and eight pm, and it was now after seven thirty.  So this time as I got in the car, I gave up, and drove back to where I had lost my wallet.  I called the gun man back, and he said he was driving around looking for it.  I thanked him for his help, and said I was on my way to look for it again myself.  When I got there I called him again, and he said he wasn't able to find anything; I hadn't expected him to have helped so much, and I told him that I really appreciated his help.

So let me paint you a picture at this point.  I am in Salt Lake, all alone, in the dark, walking up and down the street just a half mile or so from the airport, looking for a wallet on the street.  A black leather wallet.  On asphalt.  In the dark.  I didn't find it.  So I again dejectedly got in my car and began to drive home.  About ten minutes down the road I made another unpleasant discovery.  I only had a quarter tank of gas when I left Provo earlier.  Now I had considerably less than that; I usually don't trust a quarter tank to get me to Salt Lake and back round trip, let alone cavorting around looking for my mission reunion in the middle of all that, too.  I only had my license in my pocket.  There was no way I could buy more gas on the way home.

So I set the cruise control to around 55 mph and parked myself in the right lane all the way back, hoping to get the best gas efficiency possible.  Somehow I did make it in the end, and I have not moved my car since then.  I am still waiting for my new bank card to show up in the mail.  Maybe if it gets back before this weekend I can use it for a date; otherwise, I'll be like that bum in the Visa commercials that ruins the party by pulling out his checkbook.

What amazes me the most is that going 55 mph all the way home, I was still passing some people on the freeway.  What kind of goons live here, anyway?