The man sat in the center seat; I sat on the aisle. The passengers continued to embark, and we both had to get up for the young woman who had the window seat. The man seemed agitated, and I found him quite annoying. He squirmed in his seat, often reaching for something in his back pocket (his wallet I think). Every time he did, he intruded on my limited space, which forced me to have to lean into the aisle to avoid contact. Even when he sat still, his elbows crossed the imaginary line, sometimes poking me in the stomach, other times just touching my arm. He was not a large man, but he took up more space than his size would suggest. I guessed that he was in his mid-forties, Hispanic, sporting a mustache and seemingly oblivious to his frequent impositions.
Several times as we waited for our delayed flight he would make and receive calls and send and receive text messages on the cell phone that he clutched as his last connection to the ground. His voice and fingers were animated, almost frantic. He spoke in Spanish, beyond my ability to comprehend. Even though he occupied the dreaded center seat, I dreaded the thought of sitting next to this encroacher for the long flight to Miami. I was tempted to say something snarky and stern, as if the force of angry words could push him back into his assigned territory. But I held my peace, and just hoped that once we were airborne he would settle down and perhaps, by some miracle of speed and flight, shrink.
Then, in an instant, everything changed. Just as the engines began to rev for our taxi to the runway, his phone rang one last time. The call was brief and, again, in Spanish, and he was clearly distraught. I heard him whimper, and he put on dark glasses to hide his eyes. His legs were trembling, and it was clear that something terrible was wrong. Maybe drawing on my own experience, I thought that someone close to him, perhaps his father, had just died. The young woman in the window seat asked him if he was all right. I could barely make out his hushed and tearful words: "My father died. I loved him very much." The woman tried to comfort him. I remained silent, tears welling up in my eyes.
Later in the flight I took out a small bag of miniature carrots I had in my briefcase and offered it to him, and he gladly took it. I asked him: "Did I hear you say that your father just died?" He said yes. "Did that happen while we were on the plane?" He didn't understand me, and said that his father had died in the Dominican. "This morning?" I asked, and he again said yes. I told him I was sorry. "It's okay," he said. We both knew it was not.
We sat silent during the entire flight. For a while I thought he was sleeping, but I'm not sure he ever really was. When the plane landed, I asked him if he had brothers and sisters. He told me that he did, and they were in the Dominican. "So you'll see them tonight?" "Yes," he said. As I left, I said "Take care." "Thank you," he said, "and thank you for the carrots." He still had the bag in his hands, unopened.
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