Getting it in the face
I’ve gotten several responses from you WHYY listeners saying how fun I’ve made Sundance sound and how you wish you were here. Well, right now, I wish you were here too, because I’ve just had about the worst night a traveler can have. After I got home, exhausted from a day of skiing and having stuck it out for the Shorts Program, I cooked up some Ramen noodle, wrote my post, and showered. I felt barely good enough to go out and my housemate Kevin had just given me an in to a big party. As exhausted as I was, I kind of had to go to this party, since I probably wouldn’t get such an invite again. But, something really crappy happened on the way back from the theater. I realized, as I was getting ready to go back out, that my wallet was missing. After tearing apart everything I own, it appeared that this object of ultimate importance was probably left at the film venue. This is when I became painfully aware of Sundance’s shortcomings. When it comes to emergencies of this nature, they don’t have a system in place. No one could give me a direct number to the theater, so I had to call 911. The dispatch woman was very compassionate and she put out an APB with the bus company (the only other place it could be was on the bus I took home). No go. So, I hopped another bus back to the theater. Definitely not there. Now missing four hours, my hopes of getting my wallet back with anything in it were dwindling. I have no money, no way to get money, and, more importantly, no ID. And tomorrow is a bank holiday.
But, my dearest friends, it only gets better. I finally return back to my temporary neighborhood, shivering and distraught, ready for a glass of wine and some quality time with my equally worn out Lolita. I start walking up the hill towards our house when along comes three merry gentlefolk, howling at the top of their lungs “F*$%K you, Sundance! Go Home!” as they swaggered to and fro. Uh oh, I thought to myself. These jackasses are coming straight at me. So, I looked to the ground, hoping my broke, depressed, lonely self would inspire some pity in them and they would pass me up for a leggy blonde in a fur coat who really deserved such browbeating. But, as my luck would have it, the female of the bunch was looking for someone just like me to whollop in the face with her heavily mittened hand. At this point in my evening, I wasn’t about to take this kind of $%#*. This town already had my wallet. They weren’t going to take my pride.
These esteemed Park City envoys kept walking tall, on their way to catch a bus (you see the common thread of my discontent). Having the sympathy of the police department squarely on my side, I gave them a ring. My lone agent of change here in Park City, that perky and benevolent dispatcher, was happy to assist me with this outrage. The cops came and pulled these clowns off the bus and, would you believe, they said they didn’t do anything. After some pressing, the lassy in mittens started in with how this is her town and she can’t stand all of “those people”. I found her Australian accent, demented by her drunkenness, an interesting icing on her argument that this old American mining town should somehow be hers. I’m sure it goes without mention that I am not the specimen of “those people” they would have preferred to exact their buffoonery on, had they the guts to take out a movie producer on a Blackberry.
In the end, there wasn’t much the Park City police could do. I could press charges, were I willing to show up to court out here in Utah some time in the future. Kind of a bad system as well, don’t you think?