An Old Man on an Airplane

I’m on a plane awaiting takeoff. My carry-on bag is above me in the compartment. A compartment which, according to FAA regulations, is slightly too small for everyone’s carry-on bags.

There is an old man behind me trying to force his oversized roller-suitcase into storage by throwing his bodyweight against his luggage like a first-string tackle. But his efforts aren’t working because his carry-on is about the size of a Honda Civic.

But God love him, he’s trying.

A few of us passengers help him out, although we are not strong enough to bend the immutable laws of physics. 

In the process of helping, the old guy and I make friends. I’m guessing he’s mid-eighties. 

“Hi, I’m Art,” he says cheerfully, and I smell nothing but Old Spice. He answers everything with a strong Midwestern “Youbectcha.” 

“I’m from Wisconsin,” he adds.

“I’m from Alabama,” I say. 

He nods. He thumps his chest and starts the conversational ball rolling. “I was married fifty-nine years.”

“Really.”

“Ohyoubetcha.” 

“That’s amazing.” 

“Well, I learned a long time ago that marriage is just an agreement between two adults. You don’t try to run her life, and you don’t try to run yours.”

We fall silent while the plane achieves liftoff. But not for long. He tells me about his wife.

“She was Korean. Met her when I was in the Air Force. The last thing I thought I’d do is get married, but, hey, I fell in love. She was the prettiest woman you ever saw.”

He goes on to tell me the whole love story. He tells me how he met her when he was a GI, and how he fell for her gentle spirit, her sable hair. He speaks of how she grew up in horrific poverty, of how she was an incurable optimist in the face of loss.

“...And she was smart. Spoke four languages. And when she sang in Korean, it melted you. Shoulda tasted the food she’d cook. God, she was a spectacular cook.”

He pauses and looks out his window. About 40,000 feet below us is the earth.

“She was a great woman,” he says.

Was.

His cheerful mood is suddenly dampened. And just like that he’s done talking. He’s tired. He sleeps. He gently snores. 

And I’m wondering what a guy does after losing his wife of  59 years. How does he carry on? How does he sleep in an empty bed? How does he eat supper alone in the deafening quiet? 

The plane lands. We deboard. 

And I am impressed with how strong the old Wisconsinite is. He unloads his carry-on bag from the overhead compartment and hobbles through the passenger boarding bridge like a man twenty years his junior.

I am starting to feel bad for this lonely man until we filter into the crowded terminal where I see two arrestingly beautiful middle-aged women waiting to meet him. The women confiscate his bags and throw their arms around him. 

“Daddy,” they both say. 

As I walk past the old man on my way to my next terminal, he and I lock eyes briefly. “It was nice meeting you,” the man says to me. “You take care now.”

I smile. “Youbetcha.”