The young Indian woman sitting across from me is wearing black jeans, a black and white print top and a gray scarf covered in white polka dots. She’s talking on her phone, her dark hair pulled back in a long ponytail, her face bright as she chats, a look of expectation on her smooth-skinned face. Where is she going? What is her story? Maybe a young doctor heading somewhere for a visit? Now that I’ve just seen my daughter, Sarah, this is my default setting for all young, smart-looking women.
I stare out the window of the airport at the gray Houston sky. The sun is just starting to burn through the thin clouds, promising a warmer than usual November day. My husband, Ray, and I are here on a layover. It’s early: 7:50 am and we’ve already flown an hour.
The young woman is now eating a homemade barb-be-cue sandwich, which is wrapped in foil. A piece of the bun falls on the floor. She doesn’t notice. She’s too busy eating, picking up chunks of bread and orange-tinged meat with her fingers. She knows to bring a sandwich. She must travel often, though she can’t be a business traveler, her clothes are too casual. Maybe her mother made her that sandwich before bringing her this morning. “Don’t waste your money on that airport food,” Mother might have said. “The cheapest sandwich is almost 10 dollars.”
We bring sandwiches, too, for just the same reason. Today is peanut butter and jelly and we have pretzels and cheese and two apples. We always carry nuts, too, and usually raisins in the same baggie with the nuts. We are seasoned travelers, making treks from California to Texas every six weeks or so. We know not to get caught on a long flight without solid food. Southwest provides only small packets of peanuts and pretzels, not enough for a 3 + hour flight.
Now our young woman – maybe 25 – is standing up. She is cleaning the face of her Ipod, which she has just unplugged from one of the tables designed to recharge computers and other electronic equipment. She is now walking away. She has a beige and pink plaid coat with her, a heavy coat, which would suggest that she’s heading somewhere cold. I hear an announcement for Newark. Maybe she is going there.
I am sitting away from my gate, near all the electric outlets. I need to charge up my computer so I can write on the 3 ¾ hour plane flight to Los Angeles. Ray will sleep almost the whole way. I will write and read a little and then write some more.
A plane is arriving. Southwest with its bright blue body and orange undercarriage. Two little boys sit at the big window surrounded by coats, back packs and animal pillows. They, too, are going to Newark. All the people at this gate have coats too heavy for Southern California.
I hear an announcement that says, “Attention, Patricia Butler, please go to the Courtesy Phone. Attention, Patricia Butler.” I sit and watch, hoping I will see this woman head for a phone. You see, my best friend, for the first half of my life was Patricia Butler; that is before she died of complications of malignant melanoma 10 years ago. I know Ray is hearing that same announcement from over in the area where our plane will board. He and I are the only two people in the airport who will find meaning in that announcement, except, of course, for Patricia Butler herself.
A man behind me speaks with much enthusiasm in Spanish with someone on his phone. He is laughing and then pausing, then laughing again and responding. I listen to hear any words I understand. A few might be ones I know, but I can’t tell. He’s speaking fast amidst his laughter. I keep saying I want to learn Spanish. If I do, I need to make a plan. Wishing ain’t making it happen.
Ray comes over and drops my bags at my feet. He walks away. I assume he’s going to the bathroom. I settle back down to write, then glance over at the gate where our flight will be leaving. I see him in line. He waves at me, then hands the ticket-taker his ticket. I jump up, grab my computer and bags, and head over to the gate. I call to him as he heads down the gateway and several people turn, but not Ray. He doesn’t hear me. “My husband has my ticket,” I say to the Southwest employee. He stops the line and calls out in a loud voice, “Mr. Leatherwood.”
I say, “His name is Ray Beaty.”
“Ray Beaty,” the man shouts and Ray turns around. He sees me and walks back up to where we are standing.
“You gave me your wife’s ticket,” the Southwest man says, waving a boarding pass with Leatherwood printed on the front. “Where is yours?”
Ray looks sheepish. “I must have given it to my wife.”
I shake my head. “You forgot to give me my ticket.”
He looks confused for a second, then reaches into his shirt pocket. “Here it is. Sorry.”
As we head down the gateway, Ray glares at me. “Do you think it’s a good idea to sit and write somewhere other than our boarding area?”
“Apparently not,” I say, knowing that he knows why I moved. Still, I think the whole incident is funny, though I know this kind of thing – my preoccupation – make him crazy.
After we get settled on the plane, he says, “Would you have just sat there and written all day?”
“Quite possibly,” I say and laugh.
He shakes his head. “It’s a good thing you don’t travel alone.”
“Yes, it is.”
Finally, he smiles.
“Did you hear the announcement for Patricia?”
“Yeah,” he says, “I kept waiting for her to walk by.”
I pat his hand. “Yeah, me too.”
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