If I ever have any extra time in Atlanta airport, it seems I end up in a little corner of it, off to one side. 

I say I’m largely unresponsible for this.  My feet seem to get me there by their own design.  They must pick up a little extra vibration in the floor and make up their mind to go check it out. 

And just like that, there will be a black boy sitting at the piano in the far end of that narrow café.  He’ll be wearing a light tan suit, with a perfectly matched kerchief in the pocket, and a dough hat.  His slacks, on the leg working the pedal tone, will be hiked up a bit and I’ll see that his socks match up with the rest of his outfit. 

Except I don’t do well with those kind of thin excuses for socks; I’ve tried them, and they always end up lower than I’d like in a couple of hours.  They sort of turn into an ankle sock when they shouldn’t be.  And so I’ll stand there for a few minutes, and marvel at his socks.  Because while his right foot works the pedal tone, his left foot works out the tempo in such a crazy, happy-go-lucky tango.  Sometimes his heel taps it, sometimes his toe taps it, sometimes his whole foot runs flat footed up and down. 

And his socks stay right where they are supposed to stay. 

And his music is fantastic.  But then, I don’t know what piano music is really supposed to sound like, so who knows?

I may have stayed there longer if I hadn’t received an urgent message on my phone from my good wife.

It seems she thought our trip was in tatters.  Although we were in Atlanta airport, with tickets on through to right up against the Himalayas, she seemed to think it was a no go.  Perhaps with good reason.  For, while she and her sweet daughter were killing time by walking to and fro upon the face of the dirty carpet and linoleum, and in conversation as women usually are when walking to and fro, one had thought to take her sweater off and handed her passport the other one.  And evidently the conversation was of such nature that neither remembered what actions were taken after that, and now the passport was missing.

The immediate panicked decision from one of them was to retrace their course and look on the floor for it.  But then one of them said it would probably already be stolen and the other said they couldn’t remember where they had walked. 

As a good stalwart husband and father ought to do in such situations, I did nothing.  I was sure my quiet attitude would calm down the frazzles, and sooner, rather than later, rational thought would return to one of them.  (Because it had departed me a few minutes ago.)

And it did.  One of them suggested they look through all their stuff again, and there it was, down in the bottom of the purse, smiling smugly up at them when they opened it. 

*****

We met some folks in Detroit airport, just before we boarded to skip over the pond, that we knew. 

I totally forgot about them ten minutes after we boarded.  If I had remembered, maybe it would have tempered my actions. 

Then again, maybe not.

Because stuff happens on a plane when it’s dark.  Especially when you have hours left to go and it seems like you’ve been couped up in the middle of the middle row of seats, and the guy beside you is gently snoring. 

It worked out to be about 3 in the morning, Kansas time when it started happening.  I hadn’t slept a wink yet; my sweet daughter had caught a couple of snoozes on the other side of my good wife who lounged up against me, sleeping the blissful sleep of a matronly woman such as her. 

There was a show on the screens on the back of the seats in front of us.  I wish I could remember the name of it, but maybe it is better I don’t.  Because if I did, I’d probably go watch it and every rerun there was.  It had something to do with three guys who set up challenges for each other involving cars, time limits, and terrain limits.  It all seemed innocuous enough.  Until they started handing out punishments to each other when they failed to make the goal. 

One scenario was in Africa, in desperately hot temperatures.  One guy’s car failed and he worked frantically to get it going.  Of course, since it was a show, I’m sure he doozied it up on purpose, especially with folks on airplanes at 3 in the morning in mind.  His punishment for loosing the race was that he had to where a turtleneck sweater for the rest of the day in his unairconditioned car in Africa.  For some reason, the recording camera was in his car the rest of the day and we were privy to every one of his groans and absurd comments.

I started to laugh.  At three in the morning though, it’s mostly an insane giggle that shakes and bakes and morphs into outright guffaws, tears, and sniffles, interrupted by the occasional aftershock chortle.  The sweet daughter woke up and stared at her old man incredulously. 

Until she saw the screen.

Pretty soon she was doing the woman’s version of what I was doing. 

The matronly woman who lounged up against me stirred herself.

She awakened enough to see part of what was going on and then quickly convinced herself to go back to sleep. 

But with the daughter and I on each side of her carrying on, as she later said, sleep seemed impossible. 

And she soon got a little grouchy at us.  Because the thing kept circling on us.  We’d just have it under control, sweat and tears wiped away, and we’d have to give it another go.  She later told us there was a lady across the aisle that had watched us and finally gave a look that said we were all but gonners. 

I suppose we were mostly gone. 

And I seriously wonder where those folks we met back in Detroit were seated in that plane.  I hope at least 31 rows either front or back of us. 

I never did see them again, which may be proof they witnessed our debacle and didn’t want anything to do with us after that.