The next morning, Saturday, February 16, was still the beginning of the President’s mid-winter break for San Francisco area schoolchildren, and the early planes were just as crowded as the night before. My name on the standby list for the first flight was behind at least 11 other travel-wannabes, so I quickly suspected I would not make this flight either. The next flight left at 6:55—didn’t make that one. The 8:20, once their sign-ups were posted on the overhead screens, looked pretty bad as well. I began to think I wasn’t going to make it home at all that Saturday. With each stage of disappointment, I kept phoning my husband, who was prepped to pick me up at O’Hare, “Didn’t make it. Next flight leaves at such-and-such a time. Will call you if I get on.”
Determined to be more proactive, I waited at the gate of the 8:20 flight. By this time, we rejected standbys were beginning to form a union of sympathy and humor. I noticed when the standby names were called. Again, I had actually moved down the list from 11th place to 12th. An African-American woman caught my eye. She was stylishly attired and accompanied by a strong, hulking young man who I took to be her son. There was some conversation. The attendant motioned to the young man. His name was posted on the public list: JON.D. All those names posted overhead are abbreviated to their last-name’s first three initials and the first letter of the first name. I was “MAI.K.” Thinking that by some miracle I might get on this very-full flight, I eased closer to the podium. At least I would be nearby if there was one last seat. The rejected standby list of names had already been rolled over to the 10:30 flight—mine included.
The presumed mother was making a decision. I gathered that she had a ticket, but her son, this big hulking young man, was on standby. It appeared there would be no place for him. Perhaps if she decided to take the next flight, there would be room for one standby, and I would be in place. However, moved down the gateway, and I heard her instruction to the attendants. “He won’t be able to find that gate by himself. You hear me? Promise that you will make sure he gets to that gate. Do you promise?” They nodded their heads “yes.” But I felt like there was something hesitant in their response. Mom was gone; the door was closed.
One look in the hulking young man’s eyes, and I could tell that he was confused. His mother was leaving him, and he didn’t know how to get to the next gate. “Oh,” I volunteered, “I’m on standby also. Let’s you and I walk to the airport together see if we make that flight.” One of the attendants gave me an unspoken look that could not be interpreted as anything other than, Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.
“I am brain-damaged,” he said as we took the motorized walkway. “I get lost in airports.”
“Well, I know what you mean. Airports are very confusing.”
I asked him his name. It was Devron—“JON.D.” His mother’s plane probably hadn’t left the gate yet, so I suggested he call his mom and tell her that “a nice lady [was] going to help [him] find [his] plane and make sure [he] got on it if [his] name was called.” I actually wondered a little why that attractive lady didn’t step down. I could sense how torn she was going on.
Sure enough, both Devron and I (and another standby grandma, going to babysit a grandson) made this next flight. By this time I noticed the scar around the shaved hairline of my new friend’s forehead—some kind of either accident or surgery had left it. I became quite certain that the reason I’d missed the last seat on the last plane out to Chicago last night was that I was supposed to be standing at the 8:20 flight so that I could help this young man going forward. I suggested that he text his mother that he had made this plane and what the flight number was so she could track his arrival.
Since I was in the last row of the airplane, I made sure Devron would wait for me so we could walk together to the baggage claim. When I disembarked, however, he was nowhere to be seen. I concluded that his mother had waited at the gate to meet him. That’s what I would have done.
At the baggage claim, Devron pointed me out to his mother. “That’s the lady,” I heard him whisper. And I realized why she had seemed so torn and why she had not stepped down. She was pushing the wheelchair of another gangly young man. I’d noticed him, but he had boarded with early-boarding group provided for disabled. I imagined that the woman had gone ahead to get him settled and come back for her other son, who was flying standby. Now I understood why she was so torn and why she had not chosen to take a later flight. This was a mother with two sons.
I thought I had missed the last seat on the last flight to Chicago last night in order to help this young man, Devron. I actually missed that last seat to give aid and comfort to his mother.
At the baggage claim, she came over to thank me. “Oh, it was nothing,” I replied. “Devron is one great hunk of a guy.”
I spy God!
Determined to be more proactive, I waited at the gate of the 8:20 flight. By this time, we rejected standbys were beginning to form a union of sympathy and humor. I noticed when the standby names were called. Again, I had actually moved down the list from 11th place to 12th. An African-American woman caught my eye. She was stylishly attired and accompanied by a strong, hulking young man who I took to be her son. There was some conversation. The attendant motioned to the young man. His name was posted on the public list: JON.D. All those names posted overhead are abbreviated to their last-name’s first three initials and the first letter of the first name. I was “MAI.K.” Thinking that by some miracle I might get on this very-full flight, I eased closer to the podium. At least I would be nearby if there was one last seat. The rejected standby list of names had already been rolled over to the 10:30 flight—mine included.
The presumed mother was making a decision. I gathered that she had a ticket, but her son, this big hulking young man, was on standby. It appeared there would be no place for him. Perhaps if she decided to take the next flight, there would be room for one standby, and I would be in place. However, moved down the gateway, and I heard her instruction to the attendants. “He won’t be able to find that gate by himself. You hear me? Promise that you will make sure he gets to that gate. Do you promise?” They nodded their heads “yes.” But I felt like there was something hesitant in their response. Mom was gone; the door was closed.
One look in the hulking young man’s eyes, and I could tell that he was confused. His mother was leaving him, and he didn’t know how to get to the next gate. “Oh,” I volunteered, “I’m on standby also. Let’s you and I walk to the airport together see if we make that flight.” One of the attendants gave me an unspoken look that could not be interpreted as anything other than, Oh, thank you. Thank you so much.
“I am brain-damaged,” he said as we took the motorized walkway. “I get lost in airports.”
“Well, I know what you mean. Airports are very confusing.”
I asked him his name. It was Devron—“JON.D.” His mother’s plane probably hadn’t left the gate yet, so I suggested he call his mom and tell her that “a nice lady [was] going to help [him] find [his] plane and make sure [he] got on it if [his] name was called.” I actually wondered a little why that attractive lady didn’t step down. I could sense how torn she was going on.
Sure enough, both Devron and I (and another standby grandma, going to babysit a grandson) made this next flight. By this time I noticed the scar around the shaved hairline of my new friend’s forehead—some kind of either accident or surgery had left it. I became quite certain that the reason I’d missed the last seat on the last plane out to Chicago last night was that I was supposed to be standing at the 8:20 flight so that I could help this young man going forward. I suggested that he text his mother that he had made this plane and what the flight number was so she could track his arrival.
Since I was in the last row of the airplane, I made sure Devron would wait for me so we could walk together to the baggage claim. When I disembarked, however, he was nowhere to be seen. I concluded that his mother had waited at the gate to meet him. That’s what I would have done.
At the baggage claim, Devron pointed me out to his mother. “That’s the lady,” I heard him whisper. And I realized why she had seemed so torn and why she had not stepped down. She was pushing the wheelchair of another gangly young man. I’d noticed him, but he had boarded with early-boarding group provided for disabled. I imagined that the woman had gone ahead to get him settled and come back for her other son, who was flying standby. Now I understood why she was so torn and why she had not chosen to take a later flight. This was a mother with two sons.
I thought I had missed the last seat on the last flight to Chicago last night in order to help this young man, Devron. I actually missed that last seat to give aid and comfort to his mother.
At the baggage claim, she came over to thank me. “Oh, it was nothing,” I replied. “Devron is one great hunk of a guy.”
I spy God!
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