“Please wait to the side so I may assist ticketed passengers,” she stated in as defensively firm a tone a five-foot-two woman could muster.
When she finally called up the standby list a full six minutes late, she made good on my “advantaged” position and handed me a boarding pass.
“You made it!” she said with a revived cheer, as if I had won the lottery.
Boarding the plane was a different issue. I hadn’t seen the coach section of an airplane in a decade, and it was a sight that made me seriously contemplate walking back to Manhattan. Even the aisle seemed smaller as I worked my way to the rear of the plane in disbelief at how tightly the people were packed in. The air conditioning wasn’t on yet, and the interior of the cabin was approaching ninety degrees and recycling air that was already thick and stale. My shirt was melting on my back, and my jacket was sticking to each of the sweaty people I brushed against along the way. In the third-to-last row, I found the eighteen inches of hell that would be my prison for the next hour and forty minutes. It was a middle seat in a row of three. Miraculously, the aisle seat was still empty, and I planned on fighting for it to the death the moment the boarding door closed.
The window seat was occupied by a teenage girl whom I guessed to be about seventeen and doing her best to look older. She was dressed head to toe in what looked like a version of “Gothic” urban wear: worn black cargo pants, black thick-heeled clogs and a black sleeveless sheer shirt, under which was what looked like a black tank top. She had a dark barbed wire braid tattooed around her lanky bicep, and her left ear was pierced with at least a half dozen silver studs. She had long, dyed jet-black hair tied back in a high tight ponytail, short of a few strands of bleached blond that arched around the sides of her face. A softer black was her natural hair color, as it appeared from her eyebrows, the left of which was pierced with a small silver loop. Like everyone else on the airplane, she was doing her best to stay cool, fanning the tiny beads of perspiration that clung to her upper lip with the flight safety guide. She sat quietly without acknowledgement of my presence, despite the fact that our bodies were touching at the elbows and knees. I might have thought her beautiful, as the structure of her face was refined and her complexion flawless. But everything about her was hard and forbidding¬ - everything except for her blue-gray eyes that hid behind over-applied mascara, and the reality that she was only a child.
With only moments to go before our scheduled departure, the miracle ended and my aisle-side seatmate arrived. He was a hearty looking man in his early fifties with light blond hair neatly cut in barbershop fashion. His gentle demeanor overpowered his thick “hungry man” frame, however, much the way even the biggest of Labradors always seem like puppies. Dressed in a pair of tan trousers, a white short sleeved button-up and a stainless steel Timex, he looked like an aerospace engineer from the 1950s. After placing a stuffed red rope file in the luggage compartment above us, he took his seat and part of mine. I gladly surrendered the armrest in hope of engaging in as little physical contact as possible. He gave the girl and me a friendly “hello” and then sat quietly with his thick fingers intertwined on his lap. With a harmless jolt, the airplane pushed back, rotated ninety degrees and headed out towards the taxiway. Six minutes later, the airplane was positioned at the head of the runway.
“This is the part I don’t like. If anyone wants to hold hands, let me know,” he said with a chuckle, poking fun at the obvious contradiction between his physical appearance and self-proclaimed cowardice.
I was too miserable to respond, but the girl forced an admirably polite smile that was about as civilized as one might expect from a teenager with an eyebrow ring. The man smiled back, amused and apparently unbothered by the absence of volunteers.
“That’s OK, nobody ever takes me up on it,” he admitted with an even wider grin.
Together, we sat alone in the vulnerable aeronautical moment. The jet engine roared as the plane lunged forward and slowly lifted into the clear, hot Ohio sky.
When we reached cruising altitude, the service carts were pushed down the aisles by flight attendants who appeared even more irritated than the passengers. They went through their routine, flinging bags of synthetic cheese pretzels and pouring plastic cups of soda. With every motion, they reminded their customers of their third class status. The man became the go-between, relaying a Diet Coke to the girl and a then a water, sans ice, to me, all along trying to bring a touch more dignity to the process than the flight attendant was willing to offer. Carefully, with a napkin underneath, he double handed the soda over my lap, making a goofy grimace at the possibility of spilling it, which caused the girl to crack a smile. He took me a little more seriously, passing my drink without any additional drama, and for that I let him keep my ration of pretzels.
The girl was looking out at the clouds, sipping her soda, unaware that the man was taking an extra long glance across me at her. His lips moved as though he were trying to think up something to say to capitalize on the momentum of her earlier smile, but came up empty. I closed my eyes tightly behind my glasses, trying to squeeze away the visual reality of my circumstances.
“My name is Archer,” I heard him say, and felt him reach his big arm across me to the girl. I found my blood pressure increase slightly at the thought of the old out-of-towner, looking to score a few miles with a girl so obviously young. I glanced down to confirm that I had noticed a wedding band when he boarded. It was there, simple, gold and two sizes too small. She was surprised by the extension but accepted the greeting with teenage cool and a delicate shake.
“Candice,” she replied simply.
Both of them turned to me to join in the introductions. Instead, I closed my eyes again, rested my head on the dirty seatback and tried to imagine I was anywhere else.
“Visiting New York?” I heard Archer ask the young girl.
“Yeah,” replied Candice.
“First time?” he inquired, doing his best to be engaging.
I let out a sigh to signal my displeasure with their use of my airspace, which neither of them translated.
“No, I was there with my family when I was little,” Candice answered.
“Which was a month ago!” I wanted to say out loud.
“Did you go to the top of the Empire State Building?” Archer asked with tourist enthusiasm.
“Yeah,” replied Candice casually, without elaborating on the memory.
“So your folks letting you go it alone this time?” Archer asked, raising my pedophile antenna even higher.
“Yeah,” Candice responded dryly.
“Staying with relatives?” Archer asked, continuing to prod into the girl’s affairs.
I opened my eyes and shot him a glance to let him know I was listening, just in case he was about to ask if she had remembered to pack her nightie. Archer ignored the look and waited for Candice’s response.
“I have a friend who lives in Manhattan. I’ m staying there,” replied Candice, as if she were testing the explanation for future use.
“Well, that works!” Archer stated with enthusiasm he could not possibly have felt.
I couldn’t help but watch for Candice’s reaction, carefully noting her discomfort with the topic from my central perch. Archer noticed it as well, and his otherwise welcoming eyes grew intensely sharp for a brief instant. I was intrigued by his approach, but remained concerned about his intentions once inside Candice’s protective layers that he was so deliberately peeling away.
“This friend someone from back home?” asked Archer, carefully avoiding gender.
He was legging in, winning her confidence and trying not to spook her in the process.
“Yeah,” Candice responded, exposing herself with a tiny smile.
“Where in Manhattan does your friend live?” Archer asked tactfully.
I knew she was distracted by the same thought that made her smile, and I waited for her to fall into the trap that Archer had set.
“He lives in the West Village,” she replied, answering th
e question Archer had been so careful not to ask.
Her cheeks flushed with the realization that she had given away her secret.
Archer was silently penetrating the folds of her armor and manipulating her like the child she was.
Had I been in less painful accommodations, I might have been willing to make the effort to tell her as much.
Archer took in the new information, processed it without expression.
“Will you be finishing school in the city?” he asked, marking her age with his question despite her fashion efforts to appear older.
“I’m taking the year to decide what I want to do,” replied Candice, trying to sound convincing.
“Does your friend attend school?” inquired Archer.
Candice studied his face looking for signs of judgment while deciding whether she wanted to tell the truth.
“He’s older,” answered Candice, hoping the explanation stuck.
“I see,” replied Archer.
“Do you live in New York?” asked Candice in a transparent attempt to change the topic.
“No, I live in Ohio,” answered Archer patiently, as if even he thought his origin obvious.
Candice shifted in her seat, uncomfortable with Archer’s patience.
“Is this a business trip?” she asked nervously.
“I wish it were,” replied Archer earnestly.
Archer’s words caught my attention and set off an alarm in my head. I waited for Candice to, in her nervousness, ask my question.
“Why are you going?” the young girl asked, innocently immersed in her own issues.
Archer looked into the young woman’s eyes for a long moment. His eyes were heavy and sad, as if he had seen things we’d be better off not knowing. His expression had turned serious, making him look much older than his years. In that moment, I understood that he was deliberating his response as though it carried larger consequences than those words already offered.
“I am here for a board meeting for a foundation that I chair,” Archer stated clearly.
“What kind of foundation?” asked Candice.
“I had a son about your age who was killed by a drunk driver. I created a foundation in his name that helps families who have experienced similar losses,” Archer replied.
It sounded rehearsed, like the opening statement at an AA meeting. Archer waited quietly for a reaction from Candice, his expression generously inviting her questions, despite the pain they might conjure for him.
“That must have been very hard,” she replied with a stammer.
“Yes it was, Candice. It was very hard on our whole family,” Archer replied, again demonstrating his graceful attention to others.
Candice was uncomfortably searching for something to fill the silence that had fallen on their conversation. Once again, Archer, in his wisdom, came to her rescue by detailing the finer points of his family portrait. He had raised three children to the edge of adulthood, and he beamed with pride as he said their names. The name of the son who had been killed was Bowen; a typical middle child personality, who had always taken a back seat to the attention-getting antics of an older sister, Grace, and a younger brother, Benjamin. When Bowen was crushed to death at an intersection by a man rushing home from happy hour, he got everyone’s attention. Archer talked about his wife and how the event had forever altered the once endlessly happy woman he had married. All the while Candice listened like a child paying careful attention to her own father, and slowly the makeup and ornaments became less apparent.
From behind my sunglasses I measured Archer a second time. He looked different to me now, and I felt guilty that I had initially been suspicious of his intentions. Behind his “Happy Days” image was a strong man who had faced extreme loss and still maintained his compassion and concern. I, on the other hand, had been too inconvenienced by a bad airplane seat to make the effort. Inside that realization, I was as awed by him as I was ashamed of myself.
Inspired, questions rushed to my mind, but this was not my conversation to direct, and I suspected Archer had another reason for sharing his story.
“I am very sorry,” said Candice when Archer stopped talking, displaying a sensitivity that contradicted her appearance.
“Thank you, Candice,” Archer replied, reaching across me to pat her arm.
He had won her confidence, sufficient to return to the matter at hand.
“Do your parents know you’re on your way to New York?”
The question caught her off guard.
“They don’t care,” she replied with disdain.
Archer folded his hands patiently across his lap.
“I doubt it, but that’s not what I asked you,” he replied calmly and waited for her answer.
“No, they don’t, but it doesn’t matter,” Candice answered obediently.
“Are your parents still together?” asked Archer.
“No.”
“And who do you live with, your dad or your mom?” Archer continued.
“My mother,” responded Candice.
“And that’s not going too well?”
“Not too well,” confirmed Candice, sarcastically implying an understatement.
“Have you talked to your dad about it?” Archer asked.
“Right!” replied Candice, laughing and rolling her eyes.
Archer watched her as patiently as I watched him.
“Your friend, is he a boyfriend?” Archer asked after a few moments.
“Yes,” replied Candice, blushing slightly.
“How old is he?”
“He’s twenty-four,” she answered with a touch of pride.
“And how old are you?” he asked.
“Legal eighteen,” replied Candice, “free to do whatever I want!” she proclaimed with attitude, as if it had been an age she had waited a long time to reach.
Archer smiled at her with an expression of understanding.
“My son was a year younger than you when he died. He was almost a man, just like you’re almost a woman. He couldn’t wait to get his license. We had bought a third car for the kids to use because my oldest, she was driving already and my wife and I both needed our cars. So we thought…” Archer paused for a moment and swallowed hard to regain his composure. “Regardless, he was still a child, just like you. Legally you may be able to hop a plane to New York and live with your boyfriend. Physically I am sure you are capable of what comes with an adult relationship. But you’re still a child, making decisions based on a flurry of emotions and limited experience,” he finished.
She looked at him, taking in his words without launching into a defense purporting she was different, smarter, or for that matter, an adult. I wasn’t sure what was next, and I wondered if Archer was going to tell Candice to get on the next plane home to Ohio. I took off my sunglasses, took a good look at each of them and rationalized that I deserved some airtime for having contributed my airspace to facilitate it.
I looked at Candice, our eyes met and her expression feared the questions that I might pose. I turned away to face Archer.
“May I?” I asked him.
“Of course,” Archer replied, as though he understood what I was asking permission for.
I turned to Candice and addressed her with the most sensitive voice I was capable of.
“Does your boyfriend know that your parents are unaware you have run away?” I asked her without garnish.
“Yes,” she replied quietly.
“Then he’s not the guy you want to live with,” I replied. “He’s willing to mislead them; someday he will be willing to mislead you. If you won’t go home, which I think you should, find yourself a job and a new roommate.”
Candice opened her mouth to protest, presuming that I might be as gentle as Archer.
“Save it,” I said to her sharply, holding up my hand.
Archer looked at me supportively as if to say “good try,” the same way men do for each other on bad golf shots. I appreciated the thought.
“May
I ask you a question?” I asked him in a respectful tone.
Archer nodded, granting my request.
“How did you get through it? How did you keep from drinking yourself into oblivion or driving into a wall?”
My words choked me, and I could feel my eyes glass up.
Archer smiled and chuckled gently.
“There were plenty of those nights. Days, too,” he said, his eyes turning towards memories I knew he wanted to forget.
“Hell, the whole family almost fell apart. The first year it was like we were all waiting for someone to tell us it was a mistake and that Bow would be home before 10:30, just like he had promised,” he continued.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek to hold back my emotions. If Archer could make it through the conversation, so could I.
“I gave into a lot of self pity. My wife and I felt guilty the first time we were romantic, and it was probably fifteen months after the accident. Then I realized it wasn’t about me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “I’d say you deserve to have it be about you!” I narrowed my eyes at him to convey how ridiculous I thought the comment.
Archer patted my arm and spoke to me the same way he had spoken to Candice.
“No it’s not. It’s not about me at all. It’s about these kids who you do your best to launch into a happy life,” Archer replied.
His eyes locked on mine and I could feel his sincerity as though it was flowing through the air between us. I was embarrassed by the honesty of his gaze, and instinctively reached for my sunglasses. On my right side, I could hear a quiver in Candice’s breath. A quick glance confirmed that she was crying. At the time I thought it was because of the sadness of Archer’s story. Now I realize it was because of the words that she had wished someone else might have said. I turned back to Archer, my attention asking him to continue.
“That’s it,” he said with a shrug, and turned his meaty palms up.
Airplane Rides Page 11