I Am Here for All the Healing

In my last job, I traveled an average of once a week, and in my present job, I travel almost monthly now. I consider myself expert—I am TSA precheck and also part of Clear, I have earbuds and a charging cord ready for all Delta flights, I pack lean and can fit everything into a carry-on, I’m an Emerald member at National so I can just get in a rental car and go. At hotels, I have a settle-in ritual. When I travel to Utah, I stay on East Coast time and hence frequently work out at five am while going to bed around eight or nine. You get the idea. I’m not patient in line with the guy that forgot to get his ID out at security or the lady who asks five times if an iPad counts as a laptop or the dude who wants to be barefoot on the flight.

So imagine my surprise when I got to the Delta kiosk for a business trip to Utah, went to pull out a credit card, and realized my wallet was home in its cubby. Wtf. How did I do that? Mercifully, I had my passport in my bag, so I could get through security. But I had no credit cards or money. Lauren, being the family tactical ninja, immediately sent me credit card numbers, I set up Apple Pay, and was on my way. Sad fact: Legal Seafood in the airport does not take Apple Pay, while Currito does. Go figure.

It was an inauspicious beginning, and what followed was, uh, awkward. I got an aisle seat and was the first person in my row on the plane. Midway through boarding, a girl approached. She was probably in her mid-twenties, wearing tight jeans, hip tennis shoes, a tight shirt. She had earbuds in and a very large Samsung in her hand and was jabbering away to a friend while also Whatsapping someone.

“Hang on, babe,” she said. Then she reached down and tickled my shoulder. Normally, people just point unless you’re asleep or not paying attention. “I’m in here. Is that okay?”

You paid for that seat and got it assigned to you, but no, it’s not okay.

She gave me a big polished white-toothed smile.

“No problem,” I said, and I got out of my seat to let her pass.

As I did, she tickled my ribs. “Thanks so much, babe,” she said.

Wtaf.

Then it was back to the phone conversation. “Oh, I hear you so much on that. Yeah, yeah, babe, that’s right. I’m here for it. I. Am. Here. For. The. Healing. All of it!”

Thank heavens she took the window seat, which relieved me from wondering if she would want to cuddle. You think I’m exaggerating.

A few minutes later, a kid with a backpack approached. He wore a green T-shirt, had bushy curly hair, and wore a baseball cap backward. Like normal people, he pointed, and I got up so he could take the middle seat. As he eased into the seat, Babe looked at him and said, “Are you putting that backpack above?”

“Nah,” he said. “It’s going underneath.”

“Did you say it was going above?”

“No, underneath.”

“Oh, wow. How’s it gonna fit?”

“It’ll fit.”

“What does it have in it?”

“Tennis shoes. Ski goggles. A few things I couldn’t fit in my bigger bag.”

“Ski goggles?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name?”

“Tim.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Seriously? You’re so young! When do you turn twenty-one?”

“In the summer.”

“December? What day? That’s coming up! We should party together!”

“No, the summer.”

“Ohhh . . . that’s not for a while. When in the summer?”

“July.”

“What day in July?”

“July 25.”

Readers, I too was born July 25. The knee-jerk reaction is to announce that fact and participate. This I did not do. Instead, I tapped madly away at the entertainment screen, but it had not been activated yet, leaving me subject to whatever was happening next to me.

“Why do you have ski goggles?”

“Well, for skiing.”

“What do you do?”

“I’m a ski instructor.”

“Are you from Utah or New England?”

“New England.”

“New England and you’re a ski instructor? How does that work?”

“Well, New England has mountains and skiing and stuff.”

“I guess, but is it really the same as Utah? It’s not, right?”

“It’s what I do. I’m good at it.”

She held up a finger and talked into her earbuds. “Yeah, babe. No, no, no. I was just talking to Tim here. He’s a ski instructor from New England. We’re all going to Utah, though. Tim, are you skiing in Utah?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Yeah, Tim is skiing in Utah.”

Periodically, I glanced at Tim. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or thought he was about to get lucky. The flight attendants came on with the safety announcements and told us all to go to airplane mode. Babe, however, did not go to airplane mode—she kept on with her call and her Whatsapp messaging, as we rolled out to the runway. Finally, the entertainment system came to life, I put my earbuds in, and got Monday Night Countdown going on ESPN. As the plane roared down the runway for takeoff, I looked left to see out the window, then noticed that Tim had his left hand in Babe’s lap, her left hand in his, her thumb caressing his hand. She was no longer on the phone and was all into Tim. I had missed whatever negotiation or discussion had led to this—did she con him into it by saying she was nervous to fly? did she just take his hand and keep it? did he just reach out to her? Most important, were we at the start of a beautiful romance just ten minutes into our four-and-a-half hour flight, and exactly how far would this beautiful romance progress in the rest of that time?

Given how hard Tim had hit his single and was heading to first base, you can understand my worries, but alas, that was the pinnacle of the experience from what I could tell. Babe soon fell asleep against the side of the plane; Tim turned on ESPN on his seat screen, pulled up a movie on his phone, put headphones on, and we all kept our hands to ourselves. The only blip was two-thirds through the flight when Babe awoke, batted her lashes at us, and said, “I need to get out, boys.” She headed to the restroom, and Tim did not follow (whew!). Babe didn’t come back for twenty minutes—when I looked back, she was hanging out with the flight attendants. No hand-holding or tickling from what I could tell. When she got back, she said, “Thanks so much, boys!” We boys let her in, and she went back to sleep, while Tim continued two-screening, and I went back to Monday Night Football.

I’m sure there’s a lesson in here somewhere. For sure, don’t leave your wallet at home. Beyond that? I don’t know. If you see me on a plane, let’s acknowledge the misery we’re jointly sharing in our tiny seats with no legroom and leave it at that.