In Flight

A big, hefty guy next to me, an even bigger guy

already squeezed into the window seat. Big, pleasant

fellows. Strangers before this three-hour non-stop

domestic flight. But they’ve been talking away non-stop

since before take-off. Talking business. Talking sports.

China. India (my next-seat neighbor might have been

from India). Talking Cubs and Red Sox (they both love

them both). Google. The Euro. Leverage. Banks. Bailouts.

Masters of Money (“It will change the way you think”).

Great deals and missed opportunities. Exxon. Fracking.

Megabus. Amtrak. Breakdowns. Lost luggage and

missed connections. A good place to stay in Detroit.

Neither Cheez-Its nor Diet Cokes inhibit the juggernaut.

So much experience, so many theories, so much

friendly advice. The urgent need to tell each other

everything they know before the flight is over—

the Indian fellow occasionally bumping my left arm

in his enthusiasm. “Exactly!” “Absolutely!”

All they’ve learned and thought, pouring out.

Pouring out, yet steering clear of delicate subjects: politics

(they know better than that), or home (an hour into the flight,

“my wife” has become “ex-wife”). No names.

Nothing about movies or television. No mention of

any other book. No music. But thoroughly tuned in

to each other (“Exactly!” “Absolutely!”),

handing over and taking in

whatever they can in 195 minutes—

like old friends.

Except not.

As we begin our rough descent, a startling

silence fills the cabin. One of them has drifted

into sleep. Stretching to look out the window

I can make out farmland, roads, then tractors,

and cars. Some bumps, and the sleeper awakes.

But the conversation is over. Shutting down.

Touching down. Each of us left with our own thoughts

of arrival or another departure. Then the busy powering up

of phones, the clumsy lowering of overhead bags.

Jamming the aisle, eager to get off and on

with our lives. No handshakes. No goodbyes. But

separated in the crowd, and each with a little wave,

they call out. “Sam.” “Andy.”