Southwest. Seat 22A.
That’s the one I pick. I wanted a window seat. I was feeling reflective and drowsy — it was late evening — and I was hoping for a window, so as to not be disturbed by bathroom requests and the rustling of snack bags at snack giveaway.
I pick a row with just a single window, not one with two half windows, because I can’t relax when I have to lean my shoulder and head into the window cavity.
Headphones around my neck, book in lap, water bottle in seat pouch, feet on either side of personal item. Looking good. Totally winning.
Then a couple with two babies chooses seats 23A-C. One infant and one bigger than that, maybe a toddler, and they are both squirming and crying before the couple even sit down.
Great.
I thought about moving, but then a stout Filipino guy sits down in the aisle seat, headphones affixed to ears. I’m not sure he notices the babies.
“We’ve got a completely full flight today folks, so grab the first seat you see, and let’s get this plane into the air. Sooner we leave, sooner we land.”
Stuck.
One of the babies wails and shrieks, the other asks unintelligible questions that the father responds to each time.
“Dah buh da da da?”
“I know sweetie. We’ll be taking off soon.”
“Buh da dah dah ba?”
“Yes, I’m excited to get home too.”
It reminds me of Evaline’s questions when she was young. And all those knock-knock jokes. Pretending I didn’t have the answers, trying to come up with something silly to make her laugh.
A connection is made, silent, secret. All mine.
And that’s when I notice, as if to give balance back into the world, at the other end of that horrible shrinking and wiling, the mother’s soft, patient voice, sort of singing, sort of whispering.
“Flying, flying, here we go, zoom.”
It’s like hearing the wind in the storm, the percussion of the rain.
As if given a cosmic reward, I watch as something wonderful happens: passenger after passenger walks right past the middle seat next to me.
Another win?
I scooch up in my seat to see the front of the plane, the last passenger boards. I sit back as they approach my row with their chin up, looking over the shoulder of the person in front of them, looking well past my seat, on tiptoes now.
And then, I see it: the look of relief on her face as she drops her chin, and walks past us.
I reach across the empty middle seat to and hold out my fist to the Filipino guy. He doesn’t see it so I tap him on the shoulder and point to the empty seat with a big smile on my face. He gets the message.
Fist bump. Smile. Back to his beats.
The couple may not notice, but I do everything I can to accommodate their trip. I don’t put my seat back, not even a little, I don’t turn on the overhead light (instead, I use my phone flashlight, propped up on my belly) and I don’t turn around and stare, not when my seat gets bumped, not even when the ear popping starts happening.
To my surprise, I never put my headphones on either, just spread my legs a little extra wide, and read my book, stopping every once in a while for a luxurious sip of water.
The babies go quiet at flying altitude. I doze; I’m sure the parents do, too.
At the other end of the flight, the questions start up again but no shrieking; the infant must still be out cold.
I let the family file out of their seats before me, a small rebellion against the micro-norms of air travel.
“Thanks,” the dad says, holding the back of his baby’s head against his chest while he lets his wife and toddler go first.
“You got it,” I say.
