TO DO–OR NOT TO DO

I am one of many travelers in a line at least two blocks long waiting to check our luggage at the sidewalk. I am an hour and twenty minutes early for my flight which doesn’t stop me from being concerned about making it on time. A porter notices my struggle to get my 2 heavy suitcases to the end of the line and nicely allows me to leave them close to the check-in desks. I bless him, keep my eyes on them every minute as I move up much more quickly than I think possible. Step one, acte accompli.

Over my shoulder I hike up a red canvas bag holding my laptop puter that weighs at least one hundred pounds, the power wires, mouse, a new writing book, all of my Rxes, 2 paper back books, crossword puzzles, my iPod and charger, a foolish load of extra make-up that I will never use–but just may. I walk towards Security check thru, my right shoulder dipping almost to my knees. My left hand holds my boarding pass, a receipt for my luggage, a small silver colored paper bag with the prestigious name ’Nordstrom’ on both sides. In there I have my lunch ready, a good turkey breast with cheese sandwich, foil wrapped sweet pickle slices, an unopened bag of potato chips and 2 slices of my favorite ripple cake. This I guard as if it were gold.

I’m having trouble breathing but can’t hold up the line. I move as I feel smirking mouths behind me wanting me to fill the five baskets I will need for my jacket, shoes, purse, puter, lunch. The line goes as far as I can see, up, down, around, around again and again. My breathing gets more difficult. I picture a hearse waiting for me just as I am at the point of being inspected. Several people actually move forward and ask to help me, but I remain stalwart and stupid, thank them, and carry on alone.

When at last my shoes are back on my feet, my jacket loosely over my shoulders, the red bag safely in my hands, my purse supposedly still as full as when I sent it thru the x ray machine, I find a long metal bench with room enough for me to plop my bundles and ass. All in order I head for the gate, expecting to ask for a wheel chair, if it is as my departure gate always is, at the very end of the terminal. I lift my eyes and think I am in the wrong place. What the devil is this? Is my ticket correct? I look at my boarding pass for the 20th time and it does say Gate 1 that happens to be no more than 50 feet from the security area! I can make that without dying, I am sure, then not so sure. Every chair is filled. I can sit on the floor with the children, the unkempt or stand. Instead I look for the service desk that seems to be lost. Dragging my items and my feet, I find it behind a post, stand in line behind two young men having a crisis over their tickets, tapping my feet, feeling my blood pressure rising to the explosion point. All I have to ask the service lady for is a boarding pass. She surely sees that I look like hell, asks no questions, makes a simple, tiny curlycue mark in red ink on my boarding pass and directs me to wait next to the window. ‘Thank you.’ I stand there amongst children happily playing with toys, 2 ladies with puppies not in cages and watch the 7 wheel-chaired passengers get in line ahead of me. No gripe from me. In fact, as I see #8 and his nurse coming, I make room for them to go ahead of me. Do they even nod to me? No. When I board, no matter how many children and disabled get on, I will have a better seat than if I were in sections A,B,C,D allowed to board as a frenzied group.

At last something good happens. Row 3 from the front is still empty. I slide into the window seat and somehow stuff my belongs under the seat in front of me, leaving only inches for my feet to be on the floor or on top of my possessions. I alter my position by 1/4 inch at a time for eight hours. They are numb, swollen. I consider confiscating the first wheel chair I see when about to deplane.

A lady, younger than I but far from young to whom I had spoken a few words earlier takes the aisle seat and puts her purse on the empty middle one. I wink to her and tell her she is fooling herself, somebody is going to separate us, maybe a 300 pound blimp. Ms. Rogers takes a chance until a stewardess goes up and down the narrow aisle announcing the plane is totally filled, please free any empty seats. My neighbor reluctantly puts her purse under her seat and must stand at once while a young woman, carrying an infant, asks that her baby bags and her own things be put under the seat in front of her. Ms. Rogers helps the struggling mother to settle in. She and I manage to show our disappointment privately in having such a tot between us.

The baby is not particularly cute, maybe a tiny bit on the edge of being un-cute but alert, smart, smiley, and good. As we take off, the mother asks me if I mind if she changes the baby’s diaper. Aloud I say, ‘Of course not.’ Inside I loudly say, ‘Yes, I do,’ The baby’s head is on Ms. Rogers lap, his small body mostly on his mother’s and his private parts dangerously close to my slacks. I am not a a happy traveler, and do not like whatever hits my leg. The father sits in the row behind us, also in the middle seat, holding an uncaged small white poodle.

Ms. Rogers tells us that she has 19 grandchildren all of whom she dearly loves but they are expensive. She prays nightly there will be no more. In a moment she takes the baby on her lap, cuddles him, sings baby songs I had never heard, plays patty cake with him and he falls asleep against her ample breast while the mother reads a fashion magazine and orders a cocktail. When the baby wakes, he is handed to the father over the back of the seat. I never turn around to see what he does with the puppy, but he hasn’t hurt the dog as not a whimper is heard for 4 hours.

I count 20 children on our filled flight from ages 6 months to 6 years–and–not once do I hear a cry. Not once do I hear a parent shushing anyone. It is a miracle. As we start to descend, Ms. Rogers and I each help get all the baby’s toys put away, his empty bottle in a separate plastic bag, wish the little boy a good life and I tell the mother not to let him grow up to be the president of the United States. It’s too tough a job. All passengers leaving at Kansas City get off. A few of those headed to LA with me are still on board. I check the pocket of the seat next to me and see a used diaper, call over a stewardess who grimaces, gets a bag, grunts and tosses it inside.

So much for my neighbor, the mother of the not-to-be president of the United States someday. If he does it against her wishes, I am glad to say, I won’t be here to see his mother on T.V.