Flying Home

You know how you get on a plane and grab the window seat? 

But then you put your coat and bag on the middle seat, hoping to make it look like someone’s sitting there. They just went to the lavatory to take a quick pee before takeoff.  

That’s when the flight attendant comes on over the PA and says her usual spiel about this being a full flight, so get that idea out of your fuzzy little head of yours and prepare to be squished in like sardines packed in one of those tins that open with a funny-looking key thing.

Well, she doesn’t say all that, but you know that’s what she meant.  

So you sigh and put your coat behind you and your bag under the seat in front of you, take out the thriller you bought at Hudson’s, and fasten your seat belt ‘cause it’s gonna be a bumpy ride. You hope not, but you’re crossing the Rockies, so how can it not?  

You take a sip of water and open the book. Try to read.

But you can’t keep your eyes on the page. They keep surveying the oncoming passengers. Especially ones you don’t want sitting next to you. Like the mother with the screaming baby. Go on back, go on back, you silently chant, as if she’ll get the message and keep moving. 

Eventually, a woman does sit down. After stashing her bag up top and smoothing the back of her sweater dress down. Once she takes the aisle seat, she tugs the front of her dress down, too.

Too bad, you think, 'cause she has shapely legs. But then you notice that yanking down the hem of her dress inched down the neckline a bit, revealing a hint of cleavage. Just enough so you see a bit of paler skin south of her tan line. And she’s very tan.  

She shakes her head, whipping her long, wavy, auburn hair around in front and covering up most of that. But you got a look when the looking was good.

“Can I sit there?” 

You both look up at a big burly guy with a pudgy face and sunken eyes. 

Damn. If you hadn’t been so distracted just now, you’d have been able to send him the subliminal signal to keep going. Too late. What’re you gonna do? Lie? 

“Yes,Sir. It’s all yours.” 

You don’t say that, but the woman does, getting up to let him in.  

You scrunch closer to the window, giving him as much room as possible. You fasten your seat belt and take another sip of water.  

Dude plops into the seat. 

Hope he doesn’t try to tell me his life story, you’re thinking. But his eyes are all over the woman on the aisle, so you might have some privacy after all. Well, as much privacy as you can have in a flying sardine can.  

Your new friend stuffs his bag under the seat after taking out a big, drippy sandwich and chowing down. You turn and look out the window, concentrating on the spiel about the safety features of the Boing 747 and what to do in the event of a water landing—even though you’ll be flying over mountains, not water.  

About the time the plane takes off, your seatmate’s finished his Big Whatever and wipes his hands on napkins way too small for them. He balls them up and stuffs them in the seat pocket in front of him. Then turns to the woman and says, “Where ya headed?”  

At that, she bursts into tears.  

Not something you’d expect from that question. Not even from this guy. 

You turn to him and say, “Leave her alone, man.”  

That’s when he says, “Oh, but she’s so pretty.” 

Holy crap. You weren’t expecting this guy to turn out to be Lenny from Of Mice and Men.  

You whisper to him, “Yes, she is, but she’s upset. Let’s leave her alone, okay?”

But he keeps staring at her, so you have to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Did you hear me, Bro?” you say.

He turns to you. “My name’s Frankie. Not Bro.”  

“Oh,” you say. “Sorry, Frank. I didn’t know.” 

“Not Frank. Frankie,” he insists.

Rhymes with cranky. Or hanky panky. “Sorry,” you say.  

“That’s okay.” He smiles a toothless grin. “What’s your name?” 

You wince inside. But at least you’re distracting him from bothering the woman, who by the way is still crying. So you make a game of it. “Faustino.” 

“Fastino?” he asks, trying to wrap his tongue around the word.

“Close enough,” you say.

Frankie burps. “Sorry,” he says. “How fast are you?”  

“Not very.”  

“Then why aren’t you Slowtino?”  

“That’s funny, Frank-ie,” you say, then immediately regret encouraging him. “But I’m not that slow.”

“Where’re you going?” He asks the question you knew was coming.  

“Seattle,” you say. “Ever been there?”  

“Nope. Is it nice?” 

“Beautiful,” you say, hoping he’s not also headed there, which might mean he’d want to sit with you at the gate and on your connecting flight out of Denver. Just to make sure, you ask, “Where’re you headed?” 

“Denver,” he says. “Where the mountains are.”  

“Do you have family there?”  

“Sorta,” he says. “Teach says we’re all family ‘cause we live in a home.”  

Suspicion confirmed. “Makes sense.”  

Frankie presses his hands together. “I got friends there, too.” 

“Nice,” you say, wondering if he’s ready for a nap. You turn and glance out the window, yawning. Now that you’ve reached cruising altitude, roads look like ribbons and cars look like toys.  

“Can I see?” Frankie says, leaning over you for a look. 

After scrunching even closer to the window side of your seat, you have an epiphany. “Tell you what, Frankie. How’d you like to sit here? By the window. And watch the world fly by?” 

His eyes get big, and he claps his hands. “Really? You’d let me?” 

Something about the way he said that catches in your throat, and you unbuckle your seat belt, grab your book, and stand up. Well, as best any tall person can stand in a plane without bumping their head on the overhead bins whose contents might shift during the flight. 

Frankie unbuckles his belt and clamors to his feet. You two stare at each other as you realize there ain't enough legroom to do si do around each other.  

You turn to the sad lady. She’s gonna have to get up for the switch to happen. “Miss,” you say, since she’s just sniffing at the moment. “Hate to bother you, but…”  

She unbuckles her belt and moves out of the way.  

You nudge Frankie into the aisle. 

Your seatmate makes room for him, and you get up all hunched over till you reach the aisle. 

Frankie ducks his head and lands kerplunk in the window seat.  

You run a hand on the cushion he sat on, making sure it’s dry. It is. You sit and buckle up. The woman sits down next to you with the faintest of smiles. “Thank you,” she says.  

“No problem,” you say, because now Frankie can entertain himself looking out the window and/or lean against it and fall asleep–hope, hope!  

Only problem is, he can’t fasten his belt. It’s not long enough. You see him struggle and reach over and lengthen it for him. 

“Thank you, Fastino,” he says, then leans way over you to the sad lady and her half smile. “You sure are pretty.”  

With that, she starts sobbing again.  

Frankie looks at me and then hangs his head. “Was that bad?”  

Oh, brother. What do you say to that? “Well,” you start. “She was already upset. You don’t want to make things worse.”  

“No way,” he says. “Teach will punish me if he finds out.” He gives you a heartwrenching look. “You won’t tell him, will you?”   

Carpe diem. You seize the day. “No, I won’t. As long as you don’t bother her anymore.”  

“Okay,” Frankie says.

“Promise?” you say, feeling foolish as all hell.

“Promise!” he says and belches again. 

Long about then, the flight attendant takes your orders.  

Frankie asks for a beer, but when he hears how much it costs, he changes his order to a Coke.  

You almost buy him a beer, thinking it’ll put him to sleep. But then, he could be an alcoholic or a diabetic. 

So you turn to the woman, who’s been quiet for a while. “Can I buy you a drink?”  

“No thanks. I’m diabetic.” She gives you a half-smile and orders a Diet Coke.  

Not one to drink alone, you order a ginger ale.  

Frankie’s quiet at the window until the drinks come. He tries pulling down his tray table, but his stomach’s in the way. You pull yours down, and he puts his Coke on it. “Okay?” he asks. 

You take a breath, sigh, and acquiesce. “Okay.” After all, it’s just till he finishes it.  

Which doesn’t take him long unless you count the thirty-three times he slurps at the ice through his straw. He struggles to get his snack mix open and holds it out to you for help. Of course.  

You tear it open for him and watch as he holds it up to his mouth, tips his head, and pours the peanuts, pretzels, and mimi-sourdough rounds in.  

You, on the other hand, like to savor your snack mix by eating it one piece at a time and sipping water and ginger ale between bites.  

Frankie’s finished with his before you’ve taken three bites of yours. So when he points to your open bag and says. “Are you gonna finish that?” you grab it before he can, and say, “You betcha!”  

He hangs his head like he’s done something wrong.  

And before you figure out what you can say to reassure him, the woman hands you her snack mix. “He can have mine.” 

You give her a knowing look, tear open the packet, and hand it to Frankie.  

He downs it in no time, along with the ice in his glass.  

Long about then, the attendants come through the cabin picking up cans, bottles, and everyone’s trash.  

Now you’re thinking, hoping it’s nap time when…

“I gotta pee!”  

Loud enough for passengers three rows in either direction to hear. You and the woman get up and let Frankie out. You point him to the lavatory, and since other passengers have the same m.o., you both sit back down.  

She seems pretty calm, so you say, “Where’re you headed?” 

“Seattle.” 

Your heart skips a beat. “Is that home?”  

She shakes her head. “It used to be.”

“Vacation then?” you say, trying not to cringe at your own nosiness.  

She shakes her head again. “Funeral.” 

Now you cringe for real. “I’m so sorry.”  

Her eyes flood again. “My brother…was alot like…Frankie.” 

“Oh, man,” you say. “That makes this even harder.”  

“No, It’s okay.” She dabs at her eyes. “It’s nice to see you help him.” 

You cheer silently, having just scored a point. “I’m trying.”

“Is your name really Faustino?” she asks. 

“No. It’s Blaine. What’s yours?”

“Madeline,” she says, “officially. But everyone calls me Maddy, unless I’m angry. Then I'm Mad."

A hint of humor under all that sorrow. “Glad to meet you, Maddy.” 

Frankie returns, this time with a can of Coke, which he holds himself.  

You and Maddy get up, he scootches in, you take your seat, and Maddy stretches her legs.  

“Where’s she going?” Frankie asks.

“Same place you just went.”  

“Oh!” He turns to look. “Will she be back?” 

“Yes.”  

“I didn’t scare her away?”  

“No, Frankie. You didn’t.” 

“That’s good.” He’s quiet a minute. Then, “Teach says I scare people.”  

Of course, he says this while Maddy, who might have some useful experience here, takes a walk.  

“Why does he say that?”  

Frankie tears up. “Cause I’m big, clumsy, and dumb.”  

“Frankie,” you say. “Yes, you’re big. That may make you feel awkward. But you’re not dumb.”

“Teach says I’m retarded.”  

“You may have a developmental condition. But that doesn’t make you dumb or retarded.”

“It doesn’t?”

“Hardly! Look. You’re flying across country all by yourself!”  

“Yeah, but you’re helping me.”  

“That’s what good people do. Help each other.”  

“I wish more people were good.”  

“Me too.” You wrack your brain trying to change the subject.   

Just then the plane hits a patch of turbulence, and the flight gets bumpy. So bumpy Coke flies stright up out of Frankie’s Coke can.  

You grab it before the whole thing spills and scramble for napkins. 

An announcement comes on:

“Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve hit some turbulence as we begin our descent into Denver. The captain’s turned on the seat belt signs. Please return to your seats and buckle up. The crew, too. Make sure your tray tables are in their upright and locked positions and all carry-on items are correctly stowed. Thank you.”

The plane shakes and rocks as rain pelts the windows.  

Frankie’s eyes get big. He starts to shake. He puts a hand out, and you grab it.  

“This happens sometimes,” you say. “The pilot knows what to do.” 

This almost reassures Frankie, but then the plane takes a dip, and even your stomach does a flip-flop. He groans and then emits lots of little gasps like he can't breath. 

“Anxiety attack.” 

That’s Maddy. She’s back. 

“Switch with me,” she says.

You hop up, and she takes your seat. You take hers.

She maneuvers one arm around Frankie and takes his hand with her other one. “It’s gonna be okay,” she says, voice soft and soothing. “We’re gonna breathe together, okay?” 

She takes loud, exaggerated breaths, hissing in and blowing out. “Do it with me.” She keeps it up, and he struggles to follow her lead. “In….and out…” she says, over and over. “In…and out.” 

Maddy places a hand on his head, encouraging him to lean it against her shoulder. You see her brace herself for the impact, but she’s plenty strong.  

“In…and out. In…and out.”  

You join her in the exaggerated breathing, hoping it helps Frankie relax. 

You hear sounds of heavy breathing and look across the aisle. Those folks have joined the two of you in these helping breaths. The more, the better, you figure. The louder you all are, the easier it’ll be for Frankie. 

The plane bursts through the grey clouds into the sunny skies over Denver, and the flight, while descending, smoothes out.  

Frankie finally relaxes. His head flops around on Maddy’s shoulder, and his breaths get steady. Now you worry he’s going to drool on her lovely sweater dress.  

And you realize you haven’t looked at her legs or her breasts this whole time. Another point for you. 

Before deplaning, you tell Maddy, “I’m gonna help Frankie get his luggage and make sure he’s being met. I might miss the connecting flight.” 

And she says, 'I’ll let the crew know that’s what you’re doing. Give me your number. We can connect by text.”  

You and Frankie walk down the jetway hand-in-hand behind Maddy. And later, while suitcases come bumping down the conveyor belt, you whisper into his ear. “You’re absolutely right, Frankie. She’s so pretty…”