Morris’ First Flight

I’m flying back home to Los Angeles from the quiet little Asheville, North Carolina airport. Nick and I have enjoyed a final meal at Cracker Barrel before he drops me off because I can’t leave North Carolina without biscuits and gravy. I’m the lone passenger going through security and I feel a sense of ease because Nick bought me a first class ticket with his racked up frequent flyer miles. Why do I feel so elated at seeing the Group 1 classification on my boarding pass? 

Turns out that the Charlotte Airport is experiencing some sort of Covid emergency and the entire airport is shut down for an hour, causing pandemonium in the thirty people waiting at Asheville’s Gate 4. This could be bad. Charlotte is a major hub. My flight is delayed a half-hour, then forty five minutes. I accept the fact that I’ll miss my connecting flight in Charlotte so I get in line to consult with the nice overwhelmed girl at the gate counter to see what she recommends. 

“How’s it going?” I ask when I get to the plexiglass shield. Although she looks like a 12-year-old, she is obviously the senior attendant, restrained and taciturn.

“It’s going,” she says, half-smiling but not looking up.

“I bet. I’m going to miss my connecting flight. I guess you could put me on the 6:30 to LAX.” 

“Want the flight that goes through Dallas? Might be better.”

 “I’ll defer to your opinion. Let’s do it.” I sit in a black molded chair in the long bank of seats, every third one free from the social distancing signs. I plug my phone in at the charging station and determine to focus on my book, ignoring the energy of delay and uncertainty swirling around me, pretending that I am enjoying this swath of time in which to read Jack, a dense and esoteric book which I am determined to finish. I usually love Marilynne Robinson, but this one feels like a slog. 

“You’re going to LAX, right?” A young man sitting beside me asks, leaning towards me. “I heard you talking to the lady at the desk. I’m going to LAX too. This is my first time flying.”

“Is it?!” I say. “Okay, wow. Are you going through Dallas too now?”

“Yes.”

“And did you check bags too?”

“Yes, I was listening to what you were saying to the lady. I was trying to get your attention but you didn’t see me.”

I feel a flush of warmth, a strong maternal feeling. A purpose. This young man needs help. I need to help.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t see you. What’s your name? Are you from Asheville?”

“I’m Morris. I’m from here. Are you from LA?” It’s difficult to hear him through his mask.

“I’m from Kentucky,” I reach my hand out to shake his. “I’m Leslie, nice to meet you! My husband’s family is from here but we live in LA now.” I have to yell so he can hear me through my mask. I might be scaring him. 

“Will our suitcases go to LAX?”

“I think they have time to get our bags on our flight to Dallas.”

“What happens if they don’t?”

“The airline will bring them to you when they finally arrive.”

“How?”

“Like a company van or something.”

“Oh.” He can’t picture this.

“Okay, so I’ll take care of you in Dallas,” I say, swatting his arm. This is going to be fun. “We’ll find our gate together. Where are you staying in LA? Are you getting an Uber when you get there?”

“My friend just landed there. We’re staying in Santa Monica.”

“Okay, that’s not too far from the airport.”

“It’s only 17 miles. He’ll probably go to the AirBnB, then come back and get me when I land. I would.” I don’t tell him that his friend might be better off sitting in his car at the airport for six hours. When we hear the gate attendant announcing boarding with Group 1, I gather my belongings and stand to unplug my phone. “That’s me. Time to board. What group are you?”

He looks down at his boarding pass. “Group 8.”

“Okay, see you on board.”

I find seat 2A, anticipating reading my novel while sipping unlimited pours of chardonnay. I keep an eye on the passengers filing past me and wave when I see Morris round the corner. He shows me his boarding pass as he files by.

“Seat 11F,” I say, pointing back. “it’s on the left.”

I envision my plan for guiding him through the Dallas/Fort Worth airport. The first class flight attendant will give me connecting gate information without my even asking. I’ll instruct Morris on how to use the Skylink system and treat him to dinner if we have time. Why am I excited? 

Then a horrible thought creeps into my mind. My best friend’s husband, Rob maintains that any time a woman is friendly with a man, any time a woman speaks to a man, smiles at a man or acknowledges his presence in any way, that man thinks, “She wants me.” My husband seconds this opinion and both men think women are toying with men by simply being civil, much less enthusiastic towards said man. Morris is young. I’m feeling protective and maternal towards him. He is obviously freaked out by flying, freaked out enough to reach out to a strange woman who is headed to the same strange city to which he is headed. 

When we land, the first class flight attendant announces that we will be deplaning in rows. Rows one through four may deplane. Then, when rows five through nine are allowed to deplane, he is alarmed by my standing at my seat with my purse over my shoulder. “I’m waiting for my friend,” I tell him, pointing to second class. 

“Were you scared taking off?” I ask as we walk down the jetway.

“I was, and that turbulence about got me.”

“I used to tell my son that holding hands during take-off was a law,” I say. I miss those days. DFW’s Terminal B is bright blue and shiny but much more empty than usually. A handful of folks wait for flights and a few pull roller bags with confidence. Morris FaceTimes his friend and takes pictures. I point out the television screen mounted outside our arrival gate and inform Morris that, when he flies next time, that’s where he’ll find his connecting flight information. I wonder if he’s feeling like a kindergartener by now. But I’m making extra-sure to act maternal instead of flirtatious. Rob and Nick’s theory flashes warning signals in my brain despite my absolute assurance of my own intentions. They have ruined common interactions for me, but it occurs to me to be careful in case they are correct.

“Here we are, gate C7. I usually like to find my gate and double check that my flight is on time and everything.” I spy a TGI Fridays directly across from our gate. “Come on, I’ll buy you a drink.”

He thanks me and orders a Hennessey and wings. I get a chardonnay and spinach artichoke dip. I ask him about his life in Asheville, whether he grew up there, what he does for work, if he was a basketball player, how tall he is. He answers Yes Ma’am or No, Ma’am to my queries and fills in some details. He’s the first one in his family to go to college. He works with adults with Autism during the day and at a phlebotomists office at night, but he wants to be a trucker instead, thinks it will be more relaxing.

I make a point to tell him about my family. My son played a semester of college basketball but college wasn’t for him. Morris relates. I tell him my daughter is a television writer and my husband is an actor. I show him Nick’s IMDB page and he scrolls down for a long time until he recognizes something, a 2001 Disney movie.

“Double Teamed?!” He says, looking up, excited. “Aw, man, he was the Dad in that. He made that sandwich! I saw that a bunch of times.”

“Ha. You must be the same age as our daughter. All her middle school friends were impressed. Are you around thirty one?”

“Yes Ma’am, I’m thirty.” My daughter’s age. The discovery about Double Teamed combined with the Hennessey loosens him up a little bit and I ask him what he has planned for his visit to Los Angeles. His first stop is the marijuana dispensary, then In ‘n Out, then he’ll lie on the beach and relax. He tells me that’s about all he knows about California.

“All this time I felt retarded because I thought Sacramento was in Texas,” he says.

“I think it’s the capital of California,” I say, swigging my chardonnay. “But who cares?”

“Should I go to the bathroom before we get on the plane?”

“Yes, yes, you better go!” I say, remembering my role, shooing him. “I’ll get the bill.”

Morris and I are relieved to see our bags spit out onto the carousel. He calls his friend as we leave Baggage Claim and I coach him on what to say about pick-up location. Omar spots me and rolls down the window.  

“Mom! Over here!”

Morris might be sick of me by that now, but I insist he meet Omar and that we take a picture together before I let him loose in the big world of Los Angeles.

If you ask Rob or Nick, they would probably tell you that I had convinced Morris that I wanted to accompany him out to the beach to enjoy some coffee bean edibles and an Animal-Style burger. I was hoping he would be careful not to get accosted by an unstable homeless person or stumble into a gang-infested neighborhood.

“That was his first time flying?” Omar says when I get in the car. “He looked nervous.” 

“He’ll be fine,” I say, buckling my seatbelt. I give Morris a final look over my shoulder as Omar speeds off. “I helped him.”