Flight Connections

Delayed Departure

Theme: Time

This is the first in a series of three non-erotic stories on monthly themes for a literary periodical to which I submit stories.

She was quieter than normal as we headed to JFK. She was, after all, going to grad school at Stanford. We'd talked about it and I agreed that it was a great opportunity she'd be a fool to pass up. "You'll always regret not going," I said. Every time she asked if I was "sure," I said yes.

There were times when I almost believed that. In truth, I had mixed feelings about it. We'd been together for two years and lived together for one, when it made sense that we share the two-bedroom apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn neither of us could afford alone and both realized there was no one else we'd rather have as a roommate.

And it worked out really well as we both began our post-college lives. I had my job at an internet data-collection firm and she hers as a grunt at a publishing house, though neither of us were in the "office" more than a few times thanks to the pandemic. We had our work stations set up on the dining room table, side-by-side, and at times it seemed that that one year compressed a decade of marriage into it.

She'd always wanted to go to grad school and get an MFA. I was something of a geek and didn't know what an MFA was or what it did or what it was good for, but it was her dream and that was good enough for me.

Even in our last year at Cornell we spoke about that dream of hers, but she put it off because she wanted a year in New York and through a family friend got the job at the publishing house. That it ended up being remote was a downer for her and for her ambitions of an office in midtown or near the Flatiron Building but she still felt part of a greater whole during her interminable Zoom calls.

For those and for mine, we set up a little "studio" in my bedroom (where truth be told I rarely slept) with a very Room-Rater-worthy background of classy if largely unread books as the backdrop mixed among various impressive looking knick-knacks. With the door closed for one, the other couldn't hear what was going on.

In all this, she had applied to several schools, and in the end it was between NYU and Stanford.

And now here we are, on the Van Wyck Expressway heading to JFK and neither of us has much to say. Just banal words.

"You'll call when you get to your room?"

"My ticket's on my phone."

"You'll let me know when you get someone to take care of my share of the rent?"

"I envy the weather you'll have."

We pull up to the American terminal, and as she pays the cabbie I grab her suitcases out of the trunk. The line's longer than I recall, but we finally get to the counter and she gets her bags checked and her seat and we start towards security.

"They won't let you through without a ticket," she reminds me, and as we get to the line for the metal detectors and she only has her backpack and bag for carry-on, she says, "It's time."

When there are only a couple of folks ahead of us we turn to each other and hug.

"I'll miss you."

"I'm not going anywhere. You'll be back for Christmas, yes?"

"We'll see. I may get too busy."

This hits me. That was never part of the plan. Or so I thought.

She's next for TSA and I give her a last hug. She says, "I'll miss you" and I echo it and almost say more but don't and then she drops her backpack and bag on the conveyor belt and removes her shoes and the push of those behind her washes me aside as I watch her go.

She looks back once and gives me a tepid wave before heading to her gate. Gate 17 for SFO.

* * * *

"YOU'RE AN ASSHOLE."

I can't say how often I've told myself that, but it's rare that I do it out loud. A guy near me looks at me, rather pissedly, till I say, "I'm talking about myself. Sorry."

He seems to accept that and continues through and out of the terminal.

I'm in no state to go back just yet and instead find an empty stool at a bar/lounge off to the side with a view to the field. The planes, her plane at least, is at Gate 17, one of the last ones. She'll be boarding in half an hour. And gone half an hour later.

Gone, baby, gone.

I meant to say it. A thousand times I meant to say it, but somehow the "moment" never happened until she had to go through security. And when she did, I got nothing but the slightest wave.

So, yeah, I was--am--an asshole.

I sit with my scotch, though it's still early afternoon, and empty stools on either side and several monitors behind the bartender. The one on the left gives the status of flights on the spur where her gate and flight are.

San Francisco SFO AA9390 1:00 Gate 17 On Time

It's twelve-thirty, and I check the monitor between glances at SportsCenter on the center monitor and sips of my whisky.

San Francisco SFO AA9390 1:00 Gate 17 On Time

I'm catching a cab home cause I'm in no particular hurry to get back to what was until a couple of hours ago our place. What the hell.

"Bartender. I'll have another."

He shakes his head as he pours and I figure he's seen it before, though I say nothing. I feel enough of a schmuck already and don't think being told I'm not the first will be of much help.

San Francisco SFO AA9390 1:30 Gate 17 Delayed

Oh, taunting me. Her, or God's, final nail.

She always wanted to go to grad school and suggested Stanford now and then. "Take advantage of the rare chance to live out west." Who was I to stop her? So when she asked whether she should go I told her she had to. "You'll always regret not going," I told her. Having said it, having actually mouthed the words, and having her respond with a "If you're okay with it" and me insisting I was, there was no turning back.

San Francisco SFO AA9390 1:50 Gate 17 Delayed

Delays won't be a problem for her. She'll get a cab at the airport and zip down to Palo Alto. There's no one there for her. She's just another New Yorker heading alone to the wilds of California.

But why hadn't I said anything? Did she want me to? If I said something, said what I desperately wanted to say, would it have mattered? I really didn't want to ruin the opportunity she was getting. Her dream degree at her dream place.

With me always too dependent on her. No, she never said anything in particular, but I knew I was a drag on her.

I thought the chance to tell her would arrive when she came east for Christmas. She couldn't stay at "our" place, of course, since I have to find a new roommate--though truth be told I haven't made much an effort on that front yet--but even if she went to her folks up outside Boston, I'm sure she'd stop in the City. Or I could head to Marblehead.

Then she dropped the I-might-get-too-busy bomb. And I let it pass. I was an asshole, saying nothing. Nada. Rien.

San Francisco SFO AA9390 XXXX Gate 17 Cancelled

I call to the bartender.

"What does it mean that flight 9390's cancelled."

"Who knows in this day and age? Maybe they can't get a crew. It's all screwed up. But that plane isn't going anywhere. Whoever it is you're thinking of is going to have to regroup. There'll be plenty of folks here in just a minute while they try to figure how they're going to book another flight. American'll be no help."

"Thanks."

I take a last slug of my scotch, pay my tab, and walk to the security area.

Don't be an asshole. Don't be an asshole.

I tell myself this again and again. Don't be an asshole.

People are flooding out, most looking at their phones, she among them. She's nearly upon me when my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and its ring sounds all around me. She looks up.

"I was just calling you," she says, surprised at my being there.

"Don't go," I say.

"Don't go?"

"Don't go. Please."

******

Running Away

Theme: Running Away

I returned to the story on delay and flipped it from her perspective.

It was my dream.

So why did it seem that I was running away? From something? From someone?

I really hadn't planned it. No one had. I'd put off going to grad school. I could experience once, before I settled down into whatever I was going to settle down into, what all the fuss was about. A year in the Big City.

It'd be crazy expensive, even in some hovel in Brooklyn or Queens or wherever recent college grads congregated. Which was a reason to congregate there of course, before the big money folks started buying everything up and fixing everything up.

After a year piled into a place on the east side, my boyfriend heard about a cheap two-bedroom in a third-floor walk-up on a lesser-known street in Williamsburg, Brooklyn and we signed the lease before anyone else could snatch it up.

Then Covid hit. So we were there ALL THE TIME. We were each working and having regular Zoom work calls. And we got closer and closer. Or so I thought. And when I was doing my applying to grad school, he suggested I head out west. I've never been, well, west of the Mississippi as they say other than for quick visits. "Go," he'd say. "It'd be a unique chance for something new."

So I'd applied to USC and Stanford as well as NYU and a few other schools in the east and he was super excited when I got into Stanford's and NYU's MFA programs. Then he started pushing Stanford with that unique-opportunity spiel.

Tell me to stay, I'd think. But he wouldn't. At least he didn't.

As we were in the cab to JFK when I was actually going to Palo Alto, actually moving to Palo Alto, I nearly cried. We didn't say much and traffic was lighter than usual and lighter than I hoped it would be. Then far too soon we were at the terminal and he and I were in the line for the American Airlines counter. I checked my bags--much of my stuff was being shipped separately and was probably in Ohio or Nebraska or somewhere at that point--and with my boarding pass on my phone we headed towards the gate.

Then, though I was walking a little slower than usual, we reached the TSA checkpoint.

"They won't let you through without a ticket," I tell him, and he says he knows. I only have my backpack and a bag for carry-on and I'm a few people from the actual security post. We hug.

"I'll miss you," I tell him and I can't believe how much it's true. I give him an extra squeeze. Please, please, I'm willing him.

He doesn't seem to notice.

"I'm not going anywhere," he says as we separate, our arms still entangled. "You'll be back for Christmas, yes?"

"We'll see. I may get too busy."

I don't know why I said that. Of course I was coming home for Christmas. If not to New York, at least to be with my folks in Marblehead. He'd be able to take Acela up and I could meet him in Boston. And I don't know why I said I might not be coming home.

He looks a bit funny at that, but I'm going with the flow and I say "I'll miss you" and he says he'll miss me and then I'm through security and there's no going back even if I had a reason to. With a final look back and a slight wave, I continue with the flow, to Gate 17.

I check the board:

San Francisco SFO AA9390 1:00 Gate 17 On Time

It's about 12:25 and I find a seat not too close to the gate itself and the crowd and the kids running around but where I'll hear the boarding announcement. There, I can look at the big windows towards the plane. It's a widebody of some sort and I'm in seat 35A. Window on the left side.

Why didn't he say something? Because he wanted me to go. Wants me to go. He kept telling me how great Stanford would be. "A unique opportunity." If I asked him, he'd probably suggest I get a tattoo that said that. Maybe in Greek or, who knows?, Chinese. Unique Opportunity. Fuck him.

Roommate to replace me? Oh, he'll find someone. And she'll replace me and quickly make him forget I ever existed. He'll be the one "too busy" to see me at Christmas.

Why didn't he say something? For that matter, why didn't I? Yeah. Why didn't I tell him I love him? Why did I do what fucking Mr. Collins told Elizabeth he thought she was doing: Playing hard to get.

And was I running away? Was I afraid? That's it. Was I afraid of committing to him? Cliché, I know, but don't they say that there's often an element of truth in every cliché?

I lift my bag and backpack and walk around a bit. Head to the ladies and fill the empty water bottle at a fountain so I'll have it on the plane. On my seat on the port side of the economy part of an American Airlines widebody going from NY's JFK to San Francisco's whatever-they-call-the-damn-airport.

I check the board:

San Francisco SFO AA9390 1:00 Gate 17 On Time

They'll be boarding in a few minutes so I keep myself close, trying to look nonchalant as I anticipate when my row's included in the boarding group so I can get towards the front. I get my phone with the boarding pass out and ready.

Ladies and gentlemen. For American flight 9390 with non-stop service to San Francisco. We'll be boarding shortly, we hope, but we're being told that there's a slight delay. Please stay near the gate as we'll try to get everyone on board as quickly as possible when we get the okay. Right now, we're looking at a one-thirty departure and we thank you for your cooperation.

Fuck. More sitting around regretting what an asshole I've been. Why am I putting this on him? My mom always said God gave me a mouth to use and I didn't use it.

Doesn't matter now. He's halfway back to our--I mean his apartment. Not long before he'll open the window in what had been my room and he'll air it out--meaning air me out.

Get a room, I think as I look over at a couple with their arms around each other's waist. Too old to be honeymooners--though one never knows--so they'll be married for at least ten years. That could be me in ten years. But it won't be. Cause the only person whose arm I want to encircle my waist is sitting in the backseat of a cab on the BQE scrolling through his phone to see who wants to go out with him tonight. It won't be a girl. Too soon for that. Some of his cronies. Ball-and-chain finally gone, one--I'm pretty sure I know which one--will tell him and maybe he'll laugh. But maybe he'll say, "fuck you. Best thing that ever happened to me and she's taking a cab to Palo Alto right now, getting out at her 'new life.'"

And maybe he'll get up, throw a ten on the bar and head back to what was Our Place. And maybe he'll be sad that I'm gone.

Ladies and gentlemen. For American flight 9390 with non-stop service to San Francisco. Don't get up yet. I'm afraid we have more... bad news. Right now, we're being told to expect a one-fifty departure. Again, please don't stray far from the gate since once we do get to board--if we do get to board--we hope to do that quickly so we can get you all there with as slight a delay as possible. And we regret the delay and we thank you for your cooperation. We know things haven't been great for any of us, and we really do appreciate you.

No point in standing. This is not looking good and those of us who'd clustered near the gate move away and find places to drop down, and that's what I do, though it's on the floor near a window.

Everyone's checking their phones. Making calls. Checking alternative flights.

Mr. and Mrs. too-old-to-be-honeymooners have even tired of their cuddliness and are sitting next to one another staring at their own phones and I wonder who each of them would call if they could get away with it.

Yeah, I'm getting cynical here.

Ladies and gentlemen. For what was supposed to be American flight 9390 with non-stop service to San Francisco. Yes, you heard that right. That plane isn't going anywhere anytime soon and certainly not to San Francisco. They're not telling us why, but Flight 9390 is officially cancelled for today. We're sorry. That's all we can say right now.

If you checked baggage, it's being off-loaded and you need to go to Baggage Claim area 3, downstairs in the terminal. As to your tickets, please contact AA. com for details. Again, we're very and truly sorry.

They're very and truly sorry! What am I going to do? Well, I can't stay in this madhouse. I have to get my baggage downstairs. And then what? I'll call him. What choice do I have? I'm sure he'll be okay with me staying until I can get another flight. I'll take a cab when I have my things.

People are flooding out, most looking at their phones. I pull mine out. It'll hurt to see him, knowing I'm going to have to... leave him again. It was so hard this time. But, as I said, what choice do I have?

I hit his speed dial number and it rings. I hear it ringing. On his phone. Then he's standing there. He's not in Williamsburg. He's standing there. In the American terminal.

"I was just calling you," I say, equal parts surprised and thrilled at his presence.

"Don't go," he says.

"Don't go?" I am very confused.

"Don't go. Please."

An Empty Seat on my Plane

Theme: Missed Connections

In this third part, I reconsidered the first two. What if she had flown out to Stanford? What if that was their "missed connection"?

This is an alternative-universe version of the pair of stories I wrote when a flight from New York to San Francisco. This story imagines that that earlier flight went as planned.

"Cabin crew, please prepare for arrival."

We were slowly descending above the southern coast of Long Island for our long approach into JFK. Our electronic devices were off, seat backs in their upright position, and tray tables secured.

None of us were happy. We'd be landing after six New York time, and those connections any of us had were long departed without us. Our flight being nearly two hours late due to a combination of foul Scottish weather and some sort of fuck up with either our crew or our plane, it never being made clear which.

I was one of those unfortunates. My flight to San Francisco was probably over Pittsburgh or Cleveland or somewhere like that with me not being on board. I was still on Scottish time, so I wanted to slide into my own bed for the first time in two weeks as soon as possible.

I wished my foul mood would not disrupt my fond memories of the trip, of wandering around the highlands and the lowlands, exploring Glasgow and Edinburgh. But how could it not?

Thankfully the folks at Edinburgh airport had managed to book me on a later flight home, even if it meant a middle seat. I was so tired, I'd probably be dead asleep as soon as we took off anyway.

The beaches of Long Island got closer and closer as we neared the airport. Beaches I'd frolicked on with my family when I was a kid and with my friends when I was... less of a kid. We didn't live on the Island but drove to its beaches a few times each summer and in the latter capacity we'd flirt shamelessly with the lifeguards when we were on break from college, daring one another to wear as skimpy a bikini as was decent.

I missed those days, to be sure, but I was an adult now and a Californian about to start a job at a San Francisco investment bank.

The plane rocked side-to-side as it hit the runway and we all felt the jerk and slight nausea when its engines reversed, and the subtle feeling of relief for safely landing washed over us as we taxied to the Delta terminal.

We'd not cleared US Customs in Edinburgh so had to go through the exercise now, but by this point I still had plenty of time to catch my new flight after my missed connection with the old one.

With that done and my bags rechecked, I still had about an hour before boarding would begin. I was glad for the post-pandemic refurbishing of the terminal and its array of boutiques--cookie-cutter airport versions of the originals that lined Fifth Avenue or the Champs-Élysées--and eateries so I could wander about killing time.

With a departure at 7:20, I got to the gate area with about twenty minutes to spare. As I approached it, it brought back memories of my being at the American terminal a couple of years earlier. That had been tough. I didn't really want to go but my boyfriend at the time, with whom I shared an apartment in Brooklyn, just let me. That time I prayed that my flight would be delayed so that one or the other of us would come to our senses and express what we felt for one another, or at least that I would express what I felt for him, but the plane wasn't delayed and somewhere over Pittsburgh or Cleveland I realized that my unexpressed love for him was not reciprocated and that he meant to be rid of me when he kept insisting he wouldn't stand in the way of my dream of going to Stanford for grad school and that everything was ahead of and not behind me.

That part of my life had been tough as we drifted apart and whatever it was broke when I decided not to come back east for Christmas, although every other part flourished. I'd finished school and had my MBA. Spent my first summer in a great internship in Palo Alto and that led to the gig on the bottom rung of one of the major financial institutions for all of Silicon Valley.

But as to "that part of my life," I'd gone to Scotland for a reason, and it had worked. The schmuck who I caught in our bed with a supposed friend of mine when I came home unexpectedly--talk about your missed connection--had been exorcised one night in something of a hovel in a dark corner of Glasgow.

It had been our bed, but it hadn't been our place, thank god. It was his and I'd kept my own near Stanford but had moved out of that and managed to snap up a small studio apartment in San Francisco. That was where I was so desperately wanting to sleep and where I'd be when work began.

Ladies and Gentlemen for Delta Airlines Flight 667 with non-stop service to San Francisco. We are now ready to begin the boarding process. We will be starting with First and Comfort Class passengers and Premiere Club members and with those with children and who have special needs. After that, we will be boarding by rows. Please wait until we call your row before approaching us. We have a full flight, thanks to some late arrivals from Europe, so please help us get everyone on board so we can have an on-time departure.

Also, please have your boarding passes out and ready for inspection when you approach the gate.

Again, for First and Comfort Class passengers and Premiere Club members and with those with children and who have special needs, we are ready for boarding.

I was towards the rear of the plane, row 42, so I'd been in the first group of peasants boarding, and it was not long before I'd flashed my boarding pass and dragged my bag down the jetway. I followed the line of other passengers nearly to the last row. My seat was three rows from the last, and I was able to get my carry-on stowed and sat to await the arrival of the passenger who'd grabbed the window seat, hoping they'd perhaps miss the flight.

An older gentleman in a polo shirt and pair of khakis, with graying hair, dropped his carry-on on the aisle seat and after giving me a nod put it in the overhead and sat beside me and made himself comfortable after we'd exchanged hellos.

It looked to be a full flight, as they said, and I found my eyes watching the flow of passengers streaming in and stopping and stowing their own stuff in the rows ahead of me. It was clear that they were boarding the lower rows now and my section was nearly full, except for the window one to my right.

Did I feel lucky? I channeled that famous San Franciscan. Punk?

Close the door. Close the door, I willed to the crew as the flight attendants were wandering back and shutting the overhead bins. Close the door, damnit, close the fucking door.

But the door hadn't yet been closed and a disheveled man who'd plainly run through the terminal and had just made it to the gate before the door was shut and secured--as it now had been--was looking down at his phone with a backpack dangling over his right shoulder and muttering apologies as he passed those grumbling about him delaying our departure.

Then he looked about, directly towards the empty seat to my right, the one I'd been coveting and the one I was about to move to, and then directly towards me and I didn't know what to do.