Row 22, Seats A and B

Blogger's Note: Business travel can be trying on body and soul. I've traveled more in the last three years than in my previous 34 years of life. I prefer to fly Delta for the customer service. However, I love the opportunity to fly United because of their amazing in-flight magazine, Hemispheres. The writing and variety are amazing. My favorite recurring feature in Hemispheres is “Row 22, Seats A&B”. This series of short stories by Frederick Waterman has illicited fan mail from around the globe. Waterman imagines what's going in the lives of two strangers who sit in Row 22, Seats A&B. You can find out more about the writing by going to Hemispheres or amazon.com. In May of 1999, I decided to do a little imagining myself. I never finished the story until today. However, I left the story set in pre-9/11 Hartsfield Airport.

“Do you have your sketch pad?” Mike asked his only son and namesake.

“In the backpack, Dad, with everything else.” Eight-year-old Michael rolled his eyes a little and received a don’t-be-disrespectful-to-me look back.

“Ma Maw and Granddaddy will be waiting for you when you get off the plane.” Janice, his mom, sounded nervous. “How far is it to Denver?”

Michael and Mike looked at each other until Dad shrugged and said, “Go for it son.”

Little Michael sighed and said, “Sixteen minutes of pullback and taxi. Three hours, twenty-nine minutes in the air if the wind is good. Ten minutes until we park ... and then a hundred hours until I can get off the plane.”

* * *

Frank was two “suits” back from the check-in counter. He was cursing electronic tickets when he heard the noise. Some kid was squawking. His parents were laughing. The way Frank’s day was going, his destiny was written; the kid would probably be on the flight. Not next to me. Frank somewhat prayed. Not today. Not after what I’ve been through. With boarding pass in hand, Frank moved to the chairs.

There was nowhere to sit at Gate C-22. The flight was going to be full. What went wrong? Frank asked the pole he leaned against. What was the missing ingredient in my pitch? Once again, Frank rehearsed the liturgy of the last three days. Three clients. Three nos. His third quarter commission was going to take another hit.

The gate attendant made the call for first class passengers, (whatever United calls their club members), and those that need assistance. Frank’s prophecy came true. The bespectacaled, baseball-capped little boy hugged a woman and a man and headed off down the skyway holding the hand of a brunette airline employee.

* * *

“Just tell me he’s going to be fine.” Janice bit her tongue to keep from crying.

“Honey, he’s flown more than half the passengers on the plane. He’ll be…”

“But never without you in the cockpit, Mike,” she interupted. “Never alone.”

“Look, the whole flight crew knows him. Nancy will look after him, OK?”

The ever vigilant mom resigned. “OK.”

* * *

The call for passengers in rows twenty and higher came next. Frank shuffled to the line. His feet ached. Defeated, he loosened his tie and popped his top button. He tugged at the collar of his undershirt. Now he would be strapped in a cramped seat, battle the pressure in his ears, and then drive 45 minutes home—alone—while listening to depressing headlines. His wife would probably be asleep when he got home.

“Thank you Mr. Barrow,” the attendant said in a professionally cheery voice, “you’ll be sitting in 22-A this afternoon.”

Frank mumbled something and moved through the door. At least he would get a window seat. A recognized giant in the sales team, he only stood five-foot-eight. Frank enjoyed the cramped obscurity. He would scrawl notes in his 2-page-per-day planner, furiously type e-mails to the office on his laptop, or pretend to snooze.

The much-too-slow convoy of travellers shuffled down the skyway. Briefcases and handbags bounced to an inaudible rhythm. Frank laughed to himself at the irony. Am I turning into Willie Lowman?


At the hatch, Frank’s mouth barely changed shape as he responded to the attendant’s welcome. Why is everybody so cheerful?

His shoulder brushed the curtain hanging behind first class—a subtle reminder of his failure. Had he won even one of the contracts, he might have wasted some frequent flyer miles, upgraded his ticket, spread out a little, and enjoyed an extra vodka. Now, he just scanned the walls of the fuselage for his seat. They seemed to be closing in, like the trash compactor scene from Star Wars. As he passed row 11, he saw it: a blue baseball cap bobbing behind a seat.

“Nah, he’s not far enough back,” he said to no one in particular wrapping his hope in his intimate knowledge of airplanes certified by his mileage account balance.

As he passed row 16, his head began to hurt. At row 20, he ground his teeth. When he reached row 22, he turned toward the window, stretched his meager frame toward the ceiling, and said in his best negotiating voice (which came out condescending by mistake), “I think you’re in the wrong seat young man.”
The boy, who had been looking out the window, turned and looked up and smiled. “My ticket said twenty-two B, but Miss Nancy said I could probably sit next to the window.” Their eyes locked for a long second. “My name's Michael. What's yours?”
Frank saw confidence behind the small eyeglass frames. The second passed. Michael leaned down and dragged his backpack from under the seat. A Buzz Lightyear nametag dangled from the zipper.

By now, the line was a little impatient behind him. “Oh, never mind,” Frank said. “Just sit down. Sit down.”

In one smooth motion, Frank slung his suit coat in the overhead compartment, his laptop case under the chair in front of him, and his body into the seat. Just as quick as he sat down, he shot out and hit his head on the overhead bin. He had sat on the seatbelt buckle.

The kid snickered quietly. Frank’s neck became red. He sat down and met the eyes of the laughing passenger across the aisle in 22-C. His Atlanta Braves cap was dirty and frayed.

“Those suckers smart don’t they?” he chortled.

Frank made a noise of some kind in response. How he hated aisle seats. Now, he would be subjected to the uncomfortable smiles of passing travelers and the obligatory conversation by the person across the aisle when drinks were distributed. He was exposed.

Trying to hide from the boy and baseball cap, he pulled the prospectus from his briefcase. Why didn’t I buy the latest Grisham? He read the title then shut the cover. Another reminder of repeated failure. He reached for the dreaded in-flight magazine, a move only inexperienced passengers made. The boy was on his knees staring out the window, craning his neck around.

Just then, Frank’s least favorite part of the trip began: the preflight speech. Sure, there had been a flight attendant with a sense of humor here and there, but the tired safety drill was an invasion of his precious privacy.

Michael became suddenly alert. He sat up smartly with good posture. He held a part of his seat belt in each hand. Frank was about to buckle it for him, when in perfect step with the announcement, Michael followed the instructions—including the tightening of the belt. Michael listened intently to the droning attendant talk about oxygen. He studied the compartment above his head. He held the information card in his lap and strained to see the nearest exit. He looked under Frank’s legs at the aisle lighting.

Frank shook his head.

As the Boeing 737 pushed back from the gate and began taxiing, the young boy straightened his cap, fiddled with the latch to the tray table, and punched the embroidered designs on the back of the seat in front of him.

Great, I have an ADD kid next to me for the next three and a half hours. Will he ever sit still?

The nonchalant captain came over the intercom. “Flight attendants prepare the cabin for departure.”

Frank saw Michael put three fingers against his left ear and mouth the words.

At least the kid isn’t talking to me, Frank thought.

“Isn’t this fun?” said Michael, apparently not expecting an answer.

As the plane picked up speed, Michael poked at the seat in front of him with more energy and fiddled with the recline button on the seat. Then he grabbed an imaginary yoke in front of him and pulled back as the plane began to take off. There was joy on his face.

Frank expected the kid to begin to begin shooting down tie-fighters or MiGs. Instead, Michael gently moved his hands back and forth as if steering the plane.

“My dad’s a pilot.”

Frank realized he was staring at the kid and looked nervously back at the magazine in his lap. It was upside down.

Captain Michael snickered again.

Frank put it away, turned toward the aisle, and closed his eyes. Waiting behind his eyelids were thoughts about damage control on his accounts.

A few minutes later, he was revived from his macabre thoughts by the ding of the seatbelt noise. Soon the stewardesses would be banging his elbows and feet with the drink cart. He straightened up and looked at the honorary co-pilot.

Michael had a sketch pad out on his lap. He opened his tray table and got back to work on his drawing. He was drawing an airplane.

Frank watched him for a minute. The kid couldn’t be more than 10, but he was pretty good.

“May I get you something to drink?”

A vod--, I mean coffee please”

Nancy smiled, “And what about you, Michael?”

“How ‘bout a sasparilla?”

Nancy leaned over and whispered to Frank, “His dad’s a captain with the airline. He’s a great kid, isn’t he?”

Frank thanked her for the coffee and looked anew at his row mate.

* * *

“Oh, wow!”

Frank didn’t even know he was asleep. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. Michael was on his knees in his seat looking out the window oohing and ahing at the mountains sparkling in the late afternoon sun. Frank couldn’t help but look, too. The sky was clear and he could see the Rockies stretching out for miles.

“This is my favorite part! Everything looks so cool from up here.”

“It's beautiful.” Frank's voice was flat.

“Beautiful doesn't begin to describe it. Those peaks are over 10,000 feet high. Long's Peak is over 14,000! They say the weather is fierce up there—like being on Everest.” Michael shivered at the thought.

His “burrrrrrr” made Frank crack a smile.

“Do you live in Colorado?”

“Yes, I do. West of Denver.”

Michael's shoulders sunk and for the first time during the trip, Michael pouted. He turned toward the window and said, “So you must go to the Rockies a lot. Hiking. Rafting. Skiing. I just get to go twice a year when I come visit my grandparents. I didn't get to ski last year. And it's been a couple years since we went rafting. I wish I lived here.”

Frank was stunned. He couldn't remember the last time he had even looked at the mountains let alone have any fun with them. He hadn't skiied in years. And he'd never been brave enough to go rafting. To Frank, the mountains were the source of weather problems, not joy.

Michael turned away from the window and sat in his seat. With his lips still turned down, he asked, “So what are you doing this weekend? I bet you're going rappelling or backpacking or something.”

“No,” Frank admitted. “I'll probably just ... well, I'll work.”

Michael looked confused. “Work? Haven't you worked enough this week?”

“Now listen here, fella, you're just a kid. When you grow up, you'll understand--”

The animation returned to his face. “My dad always says that weekdays are for work and weekends are for play. I don't get to see my dad much 'cause he's flying all the time, but I can't wait for the weekend. We go. But we live in Atlanta, not Denver. Mister, you've gotta like something about living in Colorado.”

Frank felt punched in the gut.

“So,” Michael prodded. “What are you going to do to play this weekend? Oh wow!” Michael didn't wait for the answer. He turned back toward the window. The plane was descending and the east face of the foothills had changed color again.

The memory rushed over Frank like liquid music.

“You know, Michael, there is something I would love to do for play, but I don't think they'll let me.”

Michael whipped around. “Really. What is it? Why won't they let you? Is it illegal? Did you get arrested?”

Frank laughed. “Nothing like that. I used to have an airplane.”

Michael tuned in and turned on. “What was it? A Lear? A Cessna? An F-16?”

“It was a little Cessna Caravan.”

“Oh, I love those. My dad flew one of those one time.”

“I used to fly it all the time. I loved flying at this time of day. I'd be about at this altitude. I'd fly over the foothills and through a couple canyons. I felt pretty free.” The pain of loss—loss of a job, loss of his sense of adventure, loss of so many years—stopped the story.

“Do you still have it?” Michael asked as if he were asking for candy.

“No, no, no.” Frank sighed. “I haven't had it in fifteen years. For that matter, I haven't flown in that long. I don't think I could land it if I tried.”

Just then, the flight attendant started the, “We're getting close” talk. Frank glanced at the window and realized they'd be on the ground soon.

“Well, I can teach you how to land.”

Frank looked at Michael. The kid was confident and serious.

“Come on, let me show you.”

Why not, Frank thought. “What do I do first.

“Well, the first thing you do is tighten your seatbelt. It might be a bumpy landing.”

“Okay.”

“No, you say 'check.' Like, Seatbelt! Check!”

“Got it, er, I mean... Seatbelt! Check!”

“When we get to about 2,000 feet, we're going to slow down a tad. How fast are we going?”

“I don't know, 100 miles an hour?”

“Knots. We measure in knots.”

The lesson continued over the next several minutes. Michael took Frank through all the steps—trimming the wings, releasing the gear, watching the horizon, tipping the nose up, dumping speed. Frank couldn't help but get wrapped up in the boy's excitement and intensity. Before too long, Frank was actually punching imaginary buttons and gripping an imaginary yoke. And, he was saying “check” at every step along the way.

“Okay,” Michael said, “Let's put the nose down. Aanndd there.”

As if on cue, Frank heard the chirp-chirp of the tires skidding on the runway.

“Brakes.”

“Brakes! Check!”

“Good job, co-pilot. Another safe landing,” Michael said. “Any landing you can walk away from is a good one.”

Frank laughed and shook his head.

“High five!” Michael extended his arm up.

“High Five! Check!” Frank slapped the kids hand.

After the plane had slowed to a taxi speed, the man across the aisle tapped Frank on the shoulder and said, “Good landing.”

Frank had the same reaction to this comment as he had at the beginning of the flight—a reddened neck. This time not from anger but from embarrassment. It passed quickly. Frank smiled to himself and shook his head. It had been fun.

The engines whined down and the interior lights popped on with a ding. Frank unbuckled his seatbelt and stuck his left leg into the aisle to reserve his space in the exit ballet. He turned to offer Michael a slot in front of him and stopped cold. The kid’s a seasoned traveler, Frank thought again.

Michael kept working on his drawing of the mountains while the 21 aisles ahead of them waited impatiently, wrestled luggage from the overhead bin, and stooped in weird shapes waiting their places in line.

When it was time, Frank backed into the aisle and let Michael go first. He headed straight toward “Miss Nancy” who smiled at him from the front of the plane. His baseball cap bounced down the aisle in Denver with the same carefree spirit it did in Atlanta. Frank was a good three strides behind him—the mess of his trip encroaching again on his new demeanor.

Miss Nancy grabbed Michael's hand to escort him to the terminal. As she turned to go up the skywalk, Nancy and Frank met each other's gaze, smiled, and nodded at each other. You’re right, Frank thought, What a kid.

When Frank entered the terminal, he heard Michael’s voice. There was an older man and woman with smiles bigger than their faces looking down at his sketch pad. Michael was talking about cloud formations, when he heard another familiar voice.

“Excuse me sir, do you need a ride?”

Frank turned around to see his wife, smiling at him. “What’re you doing here?”

“I missed you! So, I took a cab out here and thought I’d take you to dinner after we rescue your car from long-term parking. How was your trip?”

The weight of the last 72 hours rushed to his tongue, but he willed himself to say, “It was OK, but the landing was great.” His voice broke a tad with the admission. With one last look at Buzz Lightyear, the baseball cap, and a cheerful face, Frank pulled his wife into an embrace and kissed her.

“Wow,” Elaine purred, “You must have missed me, too.”

“I've missed a lot of things, honey.”

Elaine squinted at her husband and said, “What happened on this trip?”

“I'll tell you over dinner. Let's go.”

As they walked away, Elaine saw a boy in a baseball cap with a big backpack holding hands with a man on one side and a woman on the other.

“Isn't he cute?”

“You have no idea.”

Communion

Blogger's note:I stumbled on some writing projects I haven't posted before. I wrote the following in August of 2004. The assignment: "Describe your spiritual life."

Around my neck hang a military chain and brass key, tarnished by my forgetfulness.
When life meanders, like a gentle walk beside the river, I take the key for granted until the chain catches the hairs on my neck. The quick bursts of pain stop me. But many times, instead of taking this as my cue to use the key, I’ll merely drop it under my shirt and stroll on.



When life accelerates, like the pounding pace of the last mile of a 10K, the key bounces out and swings from my nose to my chest—a pendulum marking the time I neglect calling upon God. Each percussive, painful smack against my face reminds me to use the key. Yet, many times I keep running until the key draws blood.

Someday—perhaps today—I’ll polish the key and crack the bottomless treasure chest of disciplined communion with the Almighty.

The History of My Denomination

At 3 months of age, I was adopted into the Whitlock family. At that point, I became a Whitlock, a citizen of Sheffield, Ala., and a Presbyterian.

During my formative years, the Presbyterian Church went through a lot of changes. By the time I hit teenageville, I was disillusioned with the experiments of the denomination.

Before I left for college, a dad of a friend encouraged me to visit Faith Presbyterian Church in Athens, Georgia. I did, and found something amazing--a community of people who were rooted in the reformed faith and actually believed it! Faith is a member of the Presbyterian Church of America.

I've attended PCA churches in Colorado Springs and now in Franklin. We are members of Christ Community Church now.

I love the richness of the faith and the diversity among the congregations.

Today, I heard this track. Absolutely amazing. If you're curious about where the PCA comes from, listen.