To The Elderly Gentleman Who Flew From Florida to BWI on March 7th

So, what’s the catch? 

I only wrote this story because I had no other address to reach him. 

I don’t know his name. I know only that he was the most comforting seat neighbor, kind conversationalist, humble accomplishment, and caring husband. He told me these things without saying a word.

He was a sizable man, wedged between his wife and I. His glassy blue eyes acknowledged my presence, when I requested the seat beside him, and assured his wife that I, the scrawny nineteen-yr-old girl with a navy-blue computer bag and oil painting that barely passed security, would be no harm. It was a dismissive glance that introduced us, and he paid no attention to my vigorous attempts to fit backpack and undried art beneath the seat. When I was sweatily settled in my pocket of space on the plane, he propped his elbow on the armrest between us and leaned over to the window by his wife. Relaxed by his inattention, I listened to what I was certain was an educated conversation about sky. His wife’s head bobbed as the plane carted forward, and he jabbed at the glass oval. I did not understand until I watched, during landing, him talk her to ground with his palm on her hand. 

“Do you know much about birds?” I entreated him when my ear caught on the word, and their chuckles flushed and warmed my soul. 

“No she just likes them,” he informed me, smile unmuffled by his mask. “We don’t want the plane to hit any.”

He stared at me then with the furrowed brow of my grandfather, as if he recognized my suspicion of his brilliantly sensitive nature. We talked for a few moments about our travels to West Palm Beach. They wouldn’t be flying much more, he admitted, so they had gone to visit friends. They were married over sixty years and had led a social life.

“What do you do?”

“I’m retired.” And if I hadn’t been so close to his face and hearing aid, that crinkle over his right eye would have been too subtle. 

But he didn’t turn away. While I studied his tousled gray hair, calloused fingers, and the weathered corners of his eyes, he told me that he served in the Air Force, but never piloted a plane, and enjoyed history and math, but never studied them in college. 

“What did you study?” I asked his hearing aid twice.

And his eyes twinkled, “Drama.”

“Some people need lots of cars, expensive stuff,” he reminisced, “but we were okay with a few things.” When I discovered later that he had acted in forty movies, he told me his favorite would have been the one with his speaking role, except the director cut all his scenes. I heard the shifting in seats around us as I laughed, and he admonished some distant rival with his narrowed lashes. 

His mind was a carousel, however, and he refocused on his wife. We were coasting in the air by then. I could not help but ask how he had met her, the calmed woman with a balled tissue, closed lids, and well-trimmed silver hair. They were good friends, he told me. He married her at my age, and he was blessed to know her. 

“Make sure you marry a good friend, someday,” his gaze returned to me, “they keep for life.” 

But she didn’t like driving, he cautioned me. Though she learned in her thirties, he would still grocery shop and chauffeur her to her stores.

 “But she was real patient with the kids. She was a good mom.” 

My socked foot bumped the painting as the plane jostled, but the dip and ding of the seatbelt sign did not crease his sudden unwrinkled skin. He remained like that while I drew up my knee and rubbed painted ocean off my toe. The lady distributing snacks bumped my leg with her arm, and I angled away in time to see the elderly gentleman pass the Chex Mix to his awakened wife. We snacked in silence, us three. While I scraped salt off my fingers into the orange bag, I watched him fumble with the seal. When finished, he lowered his glasses over his eyes and chewed pretzels over the plane napkin as if it were a newspaper. I pretended to watch the cloudless sky as his wife returned to sleep and he methodically folded their snack wrappers and then his hands. 

Drawing my knees up again, I faced my journal and contemplated how his mustache looked like my grandpa’s. My grandpa who also loved math, historical fiction, and a little bit of spice in his life. When I was fully consumed with the art of placing ink on lined pages, I felt a shadow drift over my hand. 

“You writing a story?” His broad torso was tilted my direction, chin tipped down on elbows as he leaned forward. “I’m sorry it’s just that I don’t see many young people handwriting these days…you have really nice printing, sorry for the intrusion.”

“Oh,” I felt the smile relax my face. “No actually, I wasn’t story writing. But I do sometimes.” 

His chin saluted the air and he settled back in his seat, eyes fastened to my page.

“Do you write?” I clicked my pen.

As if on cue, his face scrunched into a smile, and he clasped both hands near his chest. “A few stories here and there. I like to read mostly. I published two novels once.” He was, in fact, a storyteller. While his plot lost some precision to the engine roar, he gave an energetic introduction and conclusion to his history as a litterateur. He mentioned some authors and spelled them to me on my journal page. 

“And your books?” 

“Ah, well. You know, they were pretty great when I wrote them a while back. They had some mystery in them,” and a hearty, endearing chuckle, “I’m not so sure I like them anymore,” for which I will not betray their names. All writers have their secrets.

“I did win a medal on 'reesy promfs' once.”

“‘Ree’ what?”

“Prompts. You should try them. They have around a hundred stories each week. I like to read them.”

“All?”

“Well, you know. I’m retired now. And my wife and I like our community and drives but sometimes we just sit and watch movies. She likes the action thrillers and I like them too, but I’m more into the story ones. You know, the ones that make you think. I like a good story. You should try it sometime. I would write more if I could. My wife and I keep pretty busy, and we would travel more if we could drive everywhere. Planes are hard, sometimes. Long flights and we feel a little older each time. But you’re young. You’ll do great things; we led a real, pleasant life.”

Perhaps it was the plunge of the plane or his wife’s swift grasp of his hand that made him blur, momentarily, in my eyes. Or the pen I dropped when I heard that familiar ding or the painting that slid out from its protective cover. Or the glances I felt touching my face and cheek from the passengers around me and the knowledge that they were staring at the wrong celebrity. 

“Sorry about that, my wife gets a little nervous at landing. It was good to meet you,” his eyes shook my hand. “I hope you have a nice life.”

And in those remaining thirty minutes, my head faced our descent out the window while I watched him guide her through the drop—a greater pilot no one could witness. 

So, my dear Southwest friend, if you are reading this, you will likely fault this story with some errors, for I have an imperfect memory and inexperienced words. I have not read your whole story, only the chapters you honored me by sharing. I would compose you a novel, however this was a word-counted catch. But I wanted to thank you for inspiring me to write.

I hope you have a nice life.

Sincerely,

Your airplane friend