I flew out of Atlanta airport on Sunday for Christmas. I am one of those people who insists on arriving at the airport ridiculously early, so I spend alot of time waiting. I try to avoid watching the ubiquitous CNN Airport Network, but it always seems to suck me in. I see a pretty woman and try to see if she has a wedding ring on her hand; yes, she does. Since good seats by the gate are at premium, especially on a get-away day, I resisted the urge to give up my seat to go urinate. Soon I began to become irritated. Despite the use of headphones, the tinny music blared from the MP3 player of the man next to me. My initial thought was to inflict upon him the disapproving glare my father had shot at me so many times as a child. When I turned, however, I saw a young African American sailor in full uniform. I felt a twinge of shame.
An hour earlier, as I stood in line to check my luggage, a young soldier stood in front me. In front of him stood a tall man with glasses. After the man had checked his bags, he turned around,shook hands with the soldier, and said, sincerely and resolutely, "Thank you for your service. Please have a happy holiday." The soldier quietly thanked him, and they went about their business. Rather than thinking about the sacrifices that the men and women in the military are making these days, my thoughts a minute earlier had been consumed with why the presents for my Massachusetts family were sitting in a UPS warehouse in Doraville, Georgia.
So, having just had that experience, the last thing I was going to do was tell this young man to turn down his music. Without turning his music off, he then made some cell phone calls of which I was vaguely aware. "What train do I take to your mother's house. the six? The five, OK." Then another call. After some initial discussion, he said in a controlled monotone, "why do you say that?" Again. "Why do you say that?" "Are you there? Can you hear me?" And then again without changing his tone of voice, "why do you say that?" I felt uncomfortable being within earshot of such a seemingly intimate conversation. I stared down at the floor. I saw his perfectly shined black leather shoes. I wondered what his life was like.
Eventually, the great horde and I boarded the plane. It always takes a little longer at holiday time with the infrequent fliers and the families with children. I slept, huddled up against my window seat in a position that would surely have made a chiropractor cringe. I woke with a severely stiff neck, and began to plot my airport exit strategy. We landed at Laguardia on time, hitting the runway hard and fast. The crowd that had been shoehorned into the plane, would take sometime to extract itself. Finally, as I wandered out of the plane, I wondered if checking all my luggage, including all my Christmas presents was such a good idea. "You are a thrill-seeker, Paul," I said to myself.
I went downstairs to the baggage claim and I take a spot at the carousel. I was amused by the men jockeying for position immediately in front of the baggage shoot. They had created an advantage for themselves; they would get their luggage without the needless delays (of moments and moments!) the rest of us would face. Then I saw the young sailor. He was smiling, talking with a teenager -- brother? cousin? friend? I noticed he had exchanged his shiny uniform shoes for a pair of green converse sneakers. In his hands was a skateboard that the boy had given him. For a minute, he looked ten years younger; no, he looked his age. He admired the skateboard, handed it back to the boy and then slipped back into his black shoes. I hope he had sometime to wear those green sneakers this holiday, and maybe even ride the skateboard. Apparently, he is a thrill-seeker. [Originally Posted 12-27-2007]
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