The Jolly Green Giant breathed smoke onto me today. Well, not really smoke, but his smoky breath did spew into my face, once he got to snoring. This giant in a green tee shirt was easily over six feet and 300 pounds. He squeezed into the middle seat on my flight from Denver to Portland, while I quickly grabbed my belongings—freshly stuffed into the kangaroo pouch before me—and slid out into the aisle to make room. Passengers stared from seats in view and gasped audibly enough to have embarrassed themselves (hopefully, upon reflection), as this man-o'-war squeezed and maneuvered his ample width and breadth into his miniscule seat and over our shared armrest.
By now, the man seated in our row's window seat had flattened himself against his window and closed his eyes, appearing suddenly asleep. I tried not to lean conspicuously out into the aisle to give Mr. Giant more room, in my effort to avoid burrowing into him. I had offered to trade seats and he declined, apparently ready to accept the consequences of traveling on "stand-by."
Mr. Jolly Green reminded me of the hearty red-bearded warrior who was loyal to Mel Gibson's character in the movie, Braveheart, unto his death. Once nestled in—well...smushed, really—we exchanged passenger pleasantries. I meant it, when I vowed to myself to never take anyone seated to my left or right for granted, since 9/11.
Suddenly, I felt quite safe and protected. I told him, with a grateful smile, that I felt like United had arranged a personal bodyguard for me. It felt good. I did not realize how unprotected I had felt in NYC, since 9/11. During the initial boarding, I had sneaked a peek at the cover of a gentleman's New York Daily Post across the aisle. Another building had fallen down, back in town.
Once our plane was safely in the air, I chatted with my unassuming protector. He is in the computer industry and was traveling from Georgia, back to his home in Portland. We chatted while until our snack boxes were delivered. I usually specify "Hindu" meals on economy flights, preferring this more vegetarian and flavorful fare for the full meals. That is, when I'm unable to upgrade to Business Class' quite decent offerings for the elite with miles to spare. I assumed that "Hindu" would triumph in the snack boxes, as well.
"Creative, yes, edible—no," I concluded, shutting the lid on two strips of green pepper, one quarter of a lemon, and what looked like a soggy falafel burrito.
I gazed around me, longingly, eyeing the gold-wrapped desert that I watched roast-beef-and-roll eaters place with delight to the side of their boxes. I had only slept four hours on departure eve, and still was not completely withdrawn from the Hagen Daas empty caloried comfort food that still beckoned me since 9/11. And Halloween was approaching in just a few days. I was in real trouble.
A flight attendant caught my wandering, longing glances and brought me one of the "Harry London's Mint Cookie Joy's Quality Chocolate" delicacies for which I lusted. The reverse side of the wrapper reported the nutritional (zilch), caloric (150) and fat (8 grams) content. While crunching and savoring, I read: "United Airlines' purchase of this product helps thousands of promising students realize their dreams of higher education through The United Negro College Fund."
"Can you beat that!" I mused, quickly developing a chocolate high and sugar rush from devouring the three chocolaty, chunky morsels faster than any of my neighbors. "Pigging out and benefiting the down-trodden, all in one scrumptious gulp."
I was a happy camper. I laughed with Mr. Jolly about how I had instantly been transported back to grade school cafeteria life, searching for anyone that I might cajole into trading me his or her cookies for my horseradish sauce packet. I found no takers, all my neighbors hiding theirs from my roving eye.
First trip to the back of the plane for a necessary visit, I spied another one of the golden treasures on the flight attendant's station counter. "Yes, it's a spare..." replied the gal who was brewing coffee to accompany desert. She handed it to me with a patient smile.
There I sat, next to Mr. Giant, gobbling every cookie in sight, while he sat like a gentleman, exhibiting far better airplane etiquette than I.
"I am getting a running start at Halloween," I explained to all my neighbors, wiping chocolate crunchies from my mouth.
Early on in this seating adventure, when I moved out into the aisle to let my seatmate in, I recalled hearing a heart-breaking account from the brother of a best friend. An obese man, he had never recovered from the embarrassment he experienced several years before when he flew to his sister's wedding. Unable to fit into his one assigned seat, he was devastated. Of course, I would like to think that I unintentionally set about to lessen the attention that this man would unavoidably draw to himself with my own unleashed, scavenger behavior.
I remembered a flight earlier in the year, when I was making a three and one-half hour connection from Columbus to Phoenix. Once again, United (or destiny/my Higher Self) placed me in a compromising position. I was seated between three (count them) crying babies, all on the laps of different parents. A mom and nine-or-so-month-old not-so-little girl sat in the middle seat—next to my aisle one—and another mom and her twelve-or-so-month-old son sat in the middle seat in the row before me, giving me clear audio and visual input from between the seats before me. A dad and his two-yr-old daughter sat cattycorner across from me, on the aisle.
"Why me?" I thought, nearly out loud, before take-off. Then in the same thought-breath, I answered myself, "Why NOT me!" (rather, "Why not I?") Who is a better-designated passenger attendee than another mom, who has "been-there-done-that!" In my mind's eye, I replayed a viewing of an unforgotten vignette from over twenty years before, when I flew from Orange County, California to introduce my first-born six-month-old daughter to meet my grandparents in Boulder, Colorado. With both of my parents deceased, I felt compelled to get Grandmother and "Grampsy's" blessing.
That scene featured me perched at the foot of a long flight of stairs in (I cannot remember which) one of the airports. I was immobilized as I stood with umbrella stroller, my carry-on bag and baby travel bag at my feet with fussy babe in arms. I nearly prayed to get arrested for some infraction, so that someone might help me carry something!
Compassion is defined (Merriam-Webster Dictionary) as "the sympathetic consciousness of others' distress together with a desire to alleviate it." I believe that we can only relate to another in the context where we ourselves have been. I mentioned earlier, how I could never have interpreted intuited images in the context of terrorism, until it became part of my own experience. Well, flying with a baby in a fully passengered plane certainly had been part of mine, yeserrie. I was certainly feeling compassion.
By mid-flight, the mom next to me had filled her little girl with her total emergency supply of apple juice in her nervous attempt to keep the baby from whining, crying and disturbing surrounding passengers. Just before lunch was served, the baby had a diarrhea explosion. Thank God (and I did) that the food carts had not yet pinned us in from both ends of the aisle.
As I pulled myself out into the aisle, I glanced at all the faces looking my way. In an instant, I clearly found myself in a very strategic moment. It seemed as though everyone was looking to me to see how to take this situation. The plane was suddenly very still and all passengers—already annoyed by the noisy nursery commotion in my sector—were most attentive to what was going on. I was being targeted by their attention and felt suspended in a distinct and pregnant pause. It was one of those powerful moments when populous consensus is up for grabs.
I felt a déjà vu, recalling a similar moment when I first moved to New York City. I was stuck on a jammed subway car, my head squeezed into the armpit of a Wall Street commuter. An accident by the Brooklyn Bridge left us stuck on the tracks with all the doors closed. "How shall we take this?" all the passengers seemed to convey by their momentarily non-committal expressions, while each checked out the other's reactions to the imminent situation.
"So, what is it going to be?" my fellow passengers' glances seemed to say.
Taking a precious deep breath and looking around, I saw a fellow looking directly at me, from across the subway car. He smiled, then said, "Nice day for a subway ride!"
"Great way to meet people!" I yelled back, my head still stuck in the underneath of my neighbor's shoulder.
Then everyone laughed and the more alert passengers joined in, some snickering, some chortling, but most lightening up in this tight situation. The shift in the energy of the car was unmistakable.
Now I found myself in such a similar kind of moment, this time, juggling a baby in the air, rather than jammed on the tracks. I looked directly across the aisle at a man whose stare was the most obvious.
"Tough job, bein' a mom!" I said much more loudly than normal across-the-aisle conversation.
"Uh, er, oh, YES!" answered the man, now smiling very sympathetically and nodding more than once.
I turned quickly to the anxious mom and said, "Here, you hand me the baby, come on out into the aisle, then I'll hand her back to you!"
Up and down the aisle, I felt the cabin fill with harmonious and heartfelt compassion. Better than a sugar (or chocolate!) rush. Suddenly, we all were one.