Montana
What Are the Chances?
Bear with me here . . . This story is entirely true.
The pilot comes on over the intercom letting us know we will be landing at Bozeman in about thirty minutes. That’s good, I think. It’s a three-hour flight and about 2 hours and 20 mins ago I quit being comfortable. I’m not a small guy, but I’m also not the starting power forward on an NBA team. Coffins have more room than freaking plane seats. My Airpods were out of juice and the Asian woman beside me must have taken a vow of silence or something. I can’t understand why she didn’t want to talk to the unshaven, long-haired, fidgety guy who can’t afford to buy a skull t-shirt with sleeves on it. I can read the tea leaves though, even with her having on a mask. Forgot mine. Whoopsies.
We do something like landing, I guess. For this pilot, he must been reframing the process as a ‘controlled fall.’ My head bounces off the ceiling and he hits the breaks hard enough to cause my liver to try and escape through my belly button. Don’t look at me for comfort lady. You had your chance to talk about SEC football and heavy metal music. The pilot dithers on, welcoming us and telling us the weather is clear and sunny. I look out the window and confirm his meteorological skills. I’m sitting close to the front and my row-mate bolts ahead defying plane disembarking etiquette.
There is an older lady on the row across the aisle getting up and starting to struggle with her bag and carry-on. Her face reddens and she is clearly embarrassed. There is a family with four kids hovering behind her and I know she can literally feel the pressure of everyone’s impatience. I look at her and say, “Ma’am? Ma’am, let me get that for you.” I lay on the Ma’am and South Carolina drawl thickly hoping it sounds disarming. She isn’t worried about how I look or sound. “Oh my, yes! Thank you so much! I’ve sat too long. My legs just need time to work.” I grab her suitcase and pick it up and look behind her at all the standing passengers, bags in hand, faces set like they’re in Pamplona and the bulls will be unleased on them any moment. “You’re fine. We can all wait a moment.”
I let her walk ahead of me while I carry her bags and mine. We get to the off ramp and people stream past us. I set her carry-on down and hand her bag to her. “Do you have anything at luggage claim? I can carry this stuff for you there.” She says she does, and I offer to take her carry-on for her. “You are just an angel. God sent me an angel. I’ve been worried the whole flight about how I would get off the plane. My legs don’t work well if I sit too long. You’re just my guardian angel. I have a friend meeting me here to help, but I was so worried about getting off the plane.”
How could she know? How could she have any idea of what she just said to me. What she just caused to come alive and squirm in my soul? A wheelchair full of memories and struggles slowly rolls into my mind’s eye. “Wardy? Wardy. Help momma up. My legs just aren’t working well.” Of course, momma . . .
She is still flustered. I forget how easily people are intimidated and stressed out at the prospect of being a public spectacle. I saw my mom endure it for years and now I’m pissed as hell at all of the people who were behind us. I think litigating in criminal and family courts for a decade has caused me to lose my intuition on what is acceptable to say or do to strangers. “Sir, isn’t it true that you snorted two Adderall and beat your kids the night you caught your brother in bed with your wife?” I can’t properly articulate it, but the things lawyers say to people we don’t know kills off some social boundary most people have. I reign it in though.
“Oh, thank you. God sent you. I was praying on the plane my legs would work.” I’m dumbstruck at how perfect the words line up to words I heard my mom say 7-8 years ago. I hope I don’t look like a beached fish. She is smiling now and talkative. She asks, “So where are you from? Why are you in Montana?”
Chuckling, I say “Why am I here? I don’t really know. I’m hoping to find out if that makes sense. Originally I’m from a small town in South Carolina called Orangeburg.”
“Oh. My mom is from Orangeburg.”
The words take a second, but finally they sink in. I look around nervously for Mr. Anderson. Surely, I’m in The Matrix. Then I think I have rescued a crazy person. She is just trying to create some connection. South Carolina is 2500 miles from here. That’s part of the beauty of the trip for me. Everyone and everything is 2500 miles from here, or they were supposed to be.
“Really? Your mom is from Orangeburg? Orangeburg, South Carolina?”
“Yes. My father was in the Air Force and stationed at Shaw Air Force Base in Sumter. He got set up on a blind date with a beautiful nurse from Orangeburg with midnight-black hair and bright green-eyes. He eventually married her. My mom. I grew up in Laurens for a while before we moved to Colorado. Dad is alive and 90 years old. He still does cattle drives for people like in City Slickers.” She laughs at her reference.
I’ve been struck dumb and make a joke about Curly and Jack Palance. My brain is fogged over. The farthest I’ve ever been from home and I find . . . home.
“Sarah! Sarah! Over here!” She waves a woman over. She says to me, “This is the friend I am supposed to meet. Sarah, this is Ward, he’s my angel.” I introduce myself and we talk for a few minutes more. I say my goodbyes.
I start looking for my own suitcase. I think about the utter inexplicability of life and what occurs. I think about coincidences. I think on signs and signals and omens and twists of fate. I think of my mom, who was also a beautiful lady, with midnight-black hair and bright green-eyes. The anniversary of her death is two weeks away. I’m out here alone . . . or am I? Thank you, Momma. Thank you for saying hello.
