Tri-pod

It happened at the Minneapolis Airport on a layover from New York to San Francisco. It was really quite an insignificant trip, just quickly to SoHo and back, I desperately coveted those new loafers I saw in the New York Times Fashion Section. I couldn’t help but have a glance at the travelers scurrying by in front of me as I savored a Guinness, it’s always a Guinness, at the generic sports bar in terminal A. I’m not sure if it was boredom or my O.C.D. kicking in, but I started to count the transient legs passing by. As my eyes straying over the top edge of my Gentleman’s Quarterly magazine, I lazily added up the numbers in my head. Two, four, six, eight, eleven...wait, did I just say eleven? Confused, I searched the crowd for a three legged man in work boots. I know one of them was in boots, the other two must be with it somewhere. 

 

        I quickly gathered up my Italian leather travel bag and finished off the foamy Guinness. I had to track down that extra leg and see what kind of person could possibly be walking around with an extra appendage in the Minneapolis Airport. The legs were headed right, I reminded myself, and quickly jostled off down the terminal. Lets see, she has two legs, he’s got two, that little boy has two, where is that damned third leg? The thought consumed my mind as I pondered what oddities might await me once I reached my target. Scanning left and right, I couldn’t see any three-legged people. Fruitless at the end of the terminal, I made a quick 180 and headed back to my spot at the sports bar. 

 

        Joking to myself, I thought of what a real three-legged person would look like. Would they have to have pants specially tailored in order to add an extra pant-leg? Was the middle-foot a right or a left one? I wonder if they make my new loafers in a middle-foot? Feeling quite pleased with my cleverness, I took my prior seat and ordered another Guinness. As the bartender sat my lovely pint on the bar in front of me, I watched the cascading mix of dark and light. That’s when I saw it again. Reflected in the curvature of the pint-glass, I saw the tri-pod walk by again. I swiveled in a fever and finally got a perfect glimpse at my three-legged wonder. 

 

        Sergeant Rodgers had just returned home from an extended tour in Iraq. One crutch in hand, his wife helped him down the terminal. Their three legs worked in perfect unison as passersby reverently glanced at the wounded hero.