19…*bump*…”sorry”…20…21…22…23…24…D.

“That’s me,” I say to the man on the aisle, and weakly smile as I’m suddenly aware of my blood pressure. Overly conscious to quickly take my seat for fear of inconveniencing anyone, heaving my big red bag into the overhead bin and trying not to clobber him with the smaller but heavier blue bag that’s destined for the seat in front of me, I’m not expecting it when he smiles and responds “I’ve been saving it for you”.

There’s a comforting hint of South Africa on his breath and a lean physique that screams athlete - a rapid assessment tells me he’s not a threat in the time it takes me to get situated and lean against the window to begin my mental separation from the long weekend in Texas.

The whirring engine lullaby works its magic and I’m slumbering when I half hear the announcement we’ve been delayed…then wake up on decent. The houselights still down, I’m aware of the new guy between South Africa and I with salt and pepper hair, an office polo and respect enough to try to maintain his two feet of horizontal space. Sweet, though unnecessary…and endearing.

Still no words are spoken. I’ve done this too many times, I’m self absorbed and distracted and want to get home and I’m groggy and cramping and start doing the math for my connecting flight. What once was a 1:10 connection window has been eroded to :40. Boarding is :30 prior…if all goes well I’ll deplane in :07 and that leaves :03 for me and the little busses in Houston to get me from one gate to the next.

I’ve conceded defeat.

No use getting worked up. There will be another flight and as things go…I’ve got bigger issues.

As we taxi to the gate I marvel for the second time in a week at the bizarre waves of concrete culverts on the runway that threaten to trip a plane, the stumpy stature of the buildings that surround the main structure and the number of gas (and oil) consuming vehicles at this particular airport. Not surprising given it’s oil contry…I ponder their impact on global warming and their long term plan to erradicate the contaminators…then erase it all.

At the gate, the panic shuffle starts and I remain seated. I remain seated and nothing happens but people acting like the wee critters in an ant farm gone etch-a-sketch. I remain seated when the pilot comes on and tells us they’re having issues with the gate. I remain seated and glance out my window to find work boots and tan legs hanging out from under the gate with a left hand dropped and holding a Fluke. The leads to the meter dangle and a story ribbon spills out, telling me about the guy in the boots and the next guy who comes to help, and the next.

The man who tried to be half of himself and I begin to talk. He comes to Atlanta for training from time to time, I suspect at the Gallaria. I’m right. “There’s not much doing out that way” I say (suddenly channeling a vocabulary that’s not mine) and he confirms which hurts a smidge since it’s not far from The New Life. He’s in route to Costa Mesa. I smile inside at my memories of California. We’ve run our course.

I lean in front of him to South Africa and ask “where are you headed?”

We’ve been on the ground at least 15 minutes now and he doesn’t hear me in the churn. I look at the ticket in his hand with the one good eye that can’t make out anything but smudges and the man next to me does the same.

“Trevor Romain…the author?” he says to South Africa who responds “one and the same” and the same genuine smile I’d seen an hour and a half before. My neighbor introduces himself, though it’s not needed because this newly identified fellow remembers him. He remembers him from nearly a decade ago when my neighbors son had cancer and the kind fellow who kept watch on my empty seat connected with him in the hospital.

There was a reunion I won’t elaborate on other than to say I turned my face to the window to allow them privacy. Privacy, a celebration and a call to a boy who clearly remembered South Africa.

The stranger: http://www.trevorromain.com/blog/
The reminder: everything happens for a reason