there's only one catch: to get out the door, you've got to go down the stairs of mr. crypto's house. and to go down the stairs, you have to walk. and it turns out, that's not always so easy.
my accomplice lost footing while turning a corner on the stairwell landing and went face first down a flight of stairs. once it was clear that physics was going to take total control of the situation, my accomplice decided to surf the bag-in-hand down the stairs. and that worked damn well. the kevlar/boyt combo is a good one for body riding ... assuming, of course, that you keep your head away from all objects as you do.
if you can't do that,although your ribs and legs will be fine, i'd say it's likely you'll get: a y-shaped slash the size of my index finger on your head, leak about a pint of blood out of your body, get 20 stitches (complete with a dozen injections into your wounds so there's, ahem, "no pain"), an insider's look at a CAT scan, your scalp lifted so far off your head as it's cleaned that your eyes get drawn closed as the swabbing happens from that oh-so-popular plastic-surgery "windswept look," a test to see if jetblue charge you for hospitalization cancellations (they don't) and six hours in a waiting room where you get to watch clint eastwood in "pale rider" with the sound off.
which, it turns out, is what happened here.
of course, once you've surfed enough stairwell feet, had several mainlines of novacaine and really have no idea of the concept of "fear," you're nothing but go-go-go, right? which means now that we've got a free night in NYC, we figured, hey, why not head back to di fara's for some pizza? our timing would be perfect to get there just as they opened at 18:00 ...
when we arrive, there's a sign on the door "out of dough, will open at 7:00." how you run out of dough before you even open is a little beyond my basic understandings of business and pizza, but what do i know?
remembering that we've had nothing to eat today (assuming you don't count a few aerosol A+ red cells) this was less-than-spectacular news. we headed over to the baskin robbins/dunkin donuts combo to get a scoop of ice cream and finally finally finally get a free hash browns coupon honored (they give us these coupons on about half our jetblue flights and all three times we've tried to cash 'em, they've been denied).
we're back in queue for di fara's at 18:30 and already there's a new york style line (which means everyone's jockeying for position well before the doors even open). 50 minutes later, at 20 minutes past 7:00, they open -- we catch one of the few seats, but i then have to wait another 40 minutes to get a slice a pizza. yes, yes, yes, it's a damn good slice ... but nothing's worth the kind of torture we've had to endure to eat this damn thing (and no, i don't mean stair surfing).
... but this leaves our AYCJ future in serious question ... there's an unwritten, but well-understood, rule that all-you-can-jetters watch out for each other ... that means i'm on duty here ... bogota is now officially out -- and, ironically, it was the only place we had made both firm plans and reservations for ...
i'm not sure what's in.
goddammit.
you know what i believe this is a result of? this is a luggage accident. my accomplice insisted on carrying two bags -- one as a small backpack and another as a duffle. because my accomplice actually travels lighter than i do (which is almost unimaginable), the combo in those two bags is almost certainly lighter than my travel pack, but the set definitely has more bulk ... if you can't see the stair you're stepping on, it's not inconceivable that you may have to suddenly practice new forms of transit ... and this is never a good idea without either a helmet or a seatbelt.
remember, i said years ago that great luggage can keep you from death ... now do see what i mean?
(and one thing's for damn sure ... this fall could have been much, much worse ... it's not that hard to die in this type of accident.)
[for those of you keeping score in the home version of the game, please chalk up two bonus points for mr. crypto who when told, "put direct pressure on the wound" didn't even think twice about it, or put on sissy rubber gloves, or even flinch at the idea. if you have a bad accident around mr. crypto, and your life can be saved, he will save it (and after the fireworks were over he hung tight at the emergency room while i spooled red travel tape). that's pretty damn nice for a guy whose house has just been permanently stained. in the words of my dad. go mr. go crypto. go, go, mr. crypto.]
