Friendly Skies

     When the flight representative scanned my boarding pass, the machine printed out a receipt.
     "You're moved up to first class.  Enjoy your flight, and happy Friday," he said. Happy Friday is right! I thought.  I had no worries about overhead space and a free drink waiting for me to kick off my happy hour.  It's the little things in life that make me happy.
     I settled in and took out my book, and half-watched as everyone else lumbered onto the plane, jostling bags and ushering small children.
     A hulking man stopped in front of me and I smiled.  "You in here with me?" I asked.  His mouth tightened and bunched up and he nodded.  I stood up and he brushed past, dropping into the window seat.
 
     We were close to being fully boarded, and a gentleman from the back came forward with a bag. The flight attendant told him he could look for extra overhead space in first class and he began the hunt.
    My seat-mate pursed his lips and puffed out a "Pfft!"  He leaned into me, shaking his head.  "There's always one.  Come on, guy!  You know it's a regional plane.  Just check your bag as you board like everyone else instead of making us late."
     I nodded. "I hear you," I said.  "I don't travel with much, so I get annoyed when someone's giant wheelie cart takes up all the space and I can't fit my small bag anywhere."
    "Oh, you mean like this one?" He hitched his thumb forward to indicate the woman seated directly in front of me.  "Did you see that bag?  That's not a bag, that's a steamer trunk, and they let her on with it.  Unbelievable."
     "I hear you," I said again.  "You coming or going?"
     "Heading home... finally," he emphasized.
     "Traveling for work?"
     His mouth tightened again and his thick mustache looked like a dancing caterpillar.  He nodded. "Lotta work.  Doing more and making less.  Isn't that always the way."  He said it like a statement, as if, yes, it is always the way, no doubt about it.
     "Seems like it's been that way for most of the country lately," I offered. "Been a challenging time for many."
     "I guess. Some people just take advantage though."
     Maybe this wasn't a conversation I wanted to have, so I waited for the moment to pass.  The man turned to look out the window and I went back to concentrating on my book.
 
     The plane door was closed, but we weren't moving.  I glanced over and the big man with the mustache and tight mouth had closed his eyes.
     Twenty minutes passed.
     "What did they say?" he asked me.
     "They haven't said anything," I replied.
     "LaGuardia sucks. I hate flying through here."
     "I think Newark and JFK have two runways and LGA has one, so everything gets clogged up pretty fast," I offered.
     "Just get me out of this town," he grunted.
     "Aw," I grinned. "New York has some sweet spots."
     "New York City is a sh*thole," he retorted. "I saw everything there was to see in my 20s."
     It was my turn to purse my lips. I tried again. "I think that NYC amplifies everything.  A good day here feels like a great day, because you don't expect it.  And not for nothing, the city is always changing.  There are some really beautiful places if you know where to find them."
     "I don't want to find 'em.  New York City's not for me."
     "I'll take it off your hands," I half-smiled.
   
     He was wearing a royal blue polo shirt, but he was a giant black hole of negativity.  I was starting to really look forward to my free gin and tonic and shutting him out.  It's tough to fight the pull of that vortex, of someone else's muck.  I was already tired.
     We finally got in the air and holy mother of God, I was handed a drink that I gripped with both hands.  I took a first sip, laughed, and said to the flight attendant, "You pour like you're pouring for family!"
     The flight attendant winked and said, "I pour like I'm pouring for myself."  
     "They can't control how much alcohol's in there - they just have those little bottles," Mr. Black Hole chimed in.
     "All I know is that he must have used two or three of those in this.  I know a strong drink."  I held my glass out to him.  "Cheers," I said. "Happy Friday."  He looked at me strangely (I'm used to this), and then softened.  I actually saw him smile.
     "Happy Friday."
   
     Our conversation started and stopped like a teenager learning to drive a stick-shift.  He made statements.  I asked questions and tried to offer up something easy and positive.  He wanted none of it, but he somehow still wanted to talk.  My mind was melting a little from the gin and the altitude, and I was grateful.  I had decided to write this blog post, a scathing story about the *sshole next to me on the plane, so I started to jot notes in my notebook, recording it all.
     I asked him if he enjoyed wine from his home in the Finger Lakes region, and he scoffed that he'd drink it if nothing else was available.  He said that winemakers were getting fancy with "hi-breds" and that he didn't care for "hi-breds."  His only question to me was what I was doing in the Finger Lakes, and I replied that I sometimes came up to work with friends who were winemakers.  I admit, I felt a little smug saying it. We talked a bit about tequila, which led us to Sammy Hagar (Cabo Wabo), and we shared a laugh that we'd both seen Hagar's "I Can't Drive 55" tour.  I told him that my husband Mike and I had sampled a bit of tequila in the Yucatan.
     And maybe it was the mind-melt that makes it hard for me to remember exactly, but I said something about Mike... something that implied a happiness, and the man shook his head.
     "Must be nice."
     I lit up inside.  "It is.  It really is."
     "I've been getting divorced for 10 years now."  He had been looking down, but then turned to face me.  It was the first time I really saw his blue eyes.  Man, they were so bright blue, and yet, so sad.
     "That's tough," I said. "Ten years?"  He nodded slowly.  It was as if all of him was starting to release, to let go. Everything was spilling out.
     "Kids won't talk to me. Mother's turned them against me.  I try to reach out, I try.  They're teenagers, though.  They don't want to hear. And the woman I'm seeing now?  The one I told you I'm going to do the Bourbon Trail with?  She's not the one. I figured that out but I don't know what to do."
Suddenly this hulking man seemed small.  All the bluster had left him and he was just another broken, lonely kid.
     The announcement came over the loudspeaker that we were preparing for landing.
     "At least you've figured it out now, that she's not the one.  Better to know now, right?"  We were quiet. "I'm sorry," I finally said.  More quiet.  "Listen, I don't know you.  I don't even know your name."
     "It's Glen."
     "Hey Glen, I'm Stephanie."  I tried to put the words together. "Sometimes we tell things to people on a plane that we'd never tell to someone who knows us.  Take it for what it is, but all I can say is keep trying with your kids.  They're in pain, just like you.  Your wife is in pain, just like you.  And if you don't want more pain, end a relationship that you know isn't right.  You're not needing more pain, and neither is your girlfriend. I'm sorry.  I'm sorry it's painful."
     And I was.

     And I'm sitting here this morning, thinking about how many people are in so much pain that they're angry all the time.  And I'm thinking about how exhausting it is to encounter them and to try and rise above.  But more, I'm thinking about how quickly things can shift with the right space and time and a willingness to be affected.

     How fragile we are.