There’s Something I Want to Tell You

Write about someone who strikes up a conversation with a stranger during a flight.

There’s Something I Want to Tell You

I’m getting situated in my window seat on that flight I take once a month to Portland to see my boyfriend--the “get up before God” Saturday morning departure you say I’m “nuts” to take and “why doesn’t he ever fly here to see you?” Yeah, that one. 

Anyhow, a guy sits down in the middle seat next to me and smiles and while he’s slipping his backpack under his seat, he goes: “I’ll wager good money that you’re a Libra.”

“What?” I ask without really looking at him--I mean, shit, buddy, it’s 6AM. Give me a break.

“You’re a Libra, right? Born under the sign of the scales of justice?” 

I just glare at him. Then I remember him.

I know you don’t ever fly alone but, believe me, I silently beg not to be seated next to the mother with the screaming toddler—or the couple who are obviously not getting along and are going to drink hard booze the whole trip and then engage in a scream-a-thon—or, in my particular case, the fifty-something man with pasty white skin and dirty blonde dreads that lay over his shoulders like giant pythons, and—get this—he’s wearing a long skirt. Yep, a red and mustard-colored striped one that billows out from the waist.

What? you say. I know. Just my luck.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” I finally reply to him. Good answer and good name, right?

The plane backs out of its parking spot and the stewardesses, oops, I mean, flight attendants show us how to snap our seatbelts together like we’ve all been dead since the 60s and then they do the rest of the rigamarole with the cup over your mouth and the yellow submarine life jacket and please don’t smoke in the lavatories. Well, duh.

Once we’re airborne, he leaves me alone with my thoughts and I’m falling asleep. I hear him rummaging in his backpack and he digs out a magazine. I glance over with one eye because I have to admit, I’m sort of curious. The Beginners Guide to Summoning Spirits. But of course.

He turns to me and says: “I’m just starting to learn about this. I lost my wife a few months ago....” His eyes are a blue that I have never seen before, like I fell into a high mountain lake or something. I know, I’m getting a little verklempt. Sorry.

So I go: “I’m sorry for your loss.”

He goes: “Thank you.” Those beautiful blues again. 

I know—you’re right. I didn’t want to have anything to do with this guy but all of a sudden he seems so interesting. 

“Have you tried it,” I ask, “I mean, have you had communication with her like, after she passed away?”

He gives me a sorrowful expression and says: “No, I haven’t. But there is something very important I have to tell her.”

“Like what?” I ask, like its any of my business—which it isn’t.

The guy clears his throat and starts to rattle on about how he loved his wife so much and they were only married a year. I’m getting a little creeped out, as you might imagine.

Then he goes: “I feel guilty about what I did. I want to tell her I’m sorry.”

I just say “Oh” and there’s that really awkward silence, that pregnant pause or whatever they call it.

Instead of telling me the horrible thing he did that he has to call up the ghosts to discuss it, he reaches into the front pocket of his orange backpack and pulls out some kind of jewelry that catches the light.

Huh, I think. 

What is it, you ask. A bracelet. And he hands it to me.

“Oh, I can’t take that,” I say.

He goes: “Yes you can. I want you to have it.” He is very insistent. So I take it and put it on my wrist. It fits perfectly.

Here. Let me show you, I’ll just pull up my sleeve. Yes, it is beautiful, isn’t it? All different colors of jade. Which color do you like the best? White, red umber, black, pinkish, or green? Yeah. I like the red umber best too.

He goes: “I made this for my wife.”

Then I say: “Oh my God. Now I absolutely can’t take it!” And I remove the bracelet and attempt to hand it back.

He holds up his hand in a STOP position and goes: “You must take it! She would want you to have it.” So I put it back on my wrist. That awkward silence again.

The food-slash-drink cart comes by and I get a Coke Zero and he gets a white wine. At 7AM, mind you. We crunch on our pretzels that come in those teeny-tiny bags that require your teeth to open. It seems we’re done talking. Which is fine with me. I’m wearing his dead wife’s bracelet and I diddle with it, spiraling it around on my wrist.

He’s still reading his summoning book so I pull out my I-Pad so I can read my Kindle book. Yes, of course, I said thank you for the bracelet. What kind of person do you think I am? I do have basic manners. 

Anyhow, the captain comes on and says we’re entering a patch of rough air ahead and keep your seatbelt fastened. And sure enough, we start to bounce around and I almost spill my Coke Zero all over my jeans. Only two more hours to go.

The rough ride lasts about twenty minutes then they come by for the trash. That’s when he turns to me and asks that inane question again: “You’re a Libra, right?”

This time I think, what the hell. “Yep, born October 1^st.”

“I knew it!” he gloats. “The scales of justice. That’s you.”

“Um, ok,” I say.

“The scales that are held up by the Greek goddess of divine law.”

I go: “Let’s not get too carried away,” and then we both laugh.

He says: “Here,” and he hands me his business card. Can you believe that? “I make custom jewelry,” he says, “so if you ever want something created for you, just call. My rates are very reasonable.”

I look at his card with very new-agey artwork, moons and stars and the like. Guess what his name is? Come on, try. No, not Randy. Nope, not Jason. OK. I’ll tell you. Gabriel Moonstone. I kid you not. 

“Thank you,” I say and stick the card in my purse.

He leans over like he wants to whisper something in my ear. He’s so close. What? Of course, I’m freaked out by this, uh, this closeness. I can smell his patchouli cologne and feel the flop of his python dreads on my shoulder. So, before he can say anything since my skin is starting to crawl, I ask if I get out so I can use the bathroom. He reluctantly stands and now I see how incredibly tall he is—at least six-foot-three.

I wait in line at the bathroom and pretend it’s really urgent so the guy ahead of me gestures I can go next. Once I get in there, I use the toilet, plug my ears as it flushes then I mess around with the soap and water that squirts out into one of those tumbler-size sinks, you know what I’m talking about, right? Finally, I feel calmed down enough to return to my seat.

He stands, lets me into our row. I forgot to tell you there was no one in the aisle seat. Why didn’t he move over and leave the middle seat empty? Good question.

He goes: “I was going to tell you something.”

My heart is pounding out of my chest. “Yeah, right,” I say. What the hell is so important to have to whisper it into the ear of a complete stranger?

“But first, what’s your name?” he asks.

I didn’t want to give him my real name, of course, so I say, “Rebecca.”

“Nice to meet you Rebecca,” he says, holding out his hand. When we shake, he’s real sweaty and I wish I had some hand sanitizer.

“I’m Gabe.”

“Hello,” I say.

The flight attendant comes on the speaker announcing that we have begun our descent into Portland and we’ll be on the ground in 20 minutes. No, he still hasn’t told me what he wanted to tell me yet. But it’s coming.

“May I tell you my secret now?” he asks me.

“I guess,” I say. “But why me?” Logical question, I think.

He goes: “Because you’re a Libra. You have a strong sense of justice and fairness.”

“I do?”

“Yes, you have that distinct aura about you.”

“You don’t know me.” I’m feeling pretty peeved at this point.

Then, you won’t believe what he says before the giant tamale is revealed. He goes: “I know you’ll do the right thing.”

We safely slam down onto the runway in Portland. He’s completely quiet while we taxi to the gate. He’s mum while we retrieve our things out of the overhead bin and under our seats. 

I think I’ve made it out without hearing what he wants to say. I’m sort of scared to hear it.

We exit the row and begin to move towards the door. That’s when he grabs my shoulder. I’m real happy there are other people around, you know? Anyhow, Oh no, I’m thinking. I didn’t make it out after all. 

His lips come real close to my ear. 

Want to guess what he whispers to me? Oh, come on! Be a good sport! No? 

OK, I’ll tell you.

He whispers, “I killed my wife.”

When it registers what he said, he is long gone, out the exit door and up a ramp to the main terminal.

Oh my God. Now what do I do?

I mean, he gave me his card with his name and phone number. He doesn’t know who I am or where I live so he can’t come hurt me--right?  Am I right?

Should I report him?