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I’m entering an airport that looks more like a bus station. Or maybe like a small-town VFW, only with far stronger security and no bar.  They do serve bottled beer and Bloody Mary’s at the café in the corner – soupy red shit poured straight from a pre-mixed bottle – but aside from that, nothing.  It’s 9am, anyway.  I’ve arrived only forty minutes before my flight is due to take off because, well, it’s Punta Gorda Airport and there are only four flights pushing back from the gates today. In total. I’m standing at the edge of something that doesn’t so much resemble a line as a smattering of people awaiting the same thing.  It’s like the opening hour at the box office for a Willy Nelson concert, and everyone in line is just as fat as you’d expect.

So point is that I’m at the back of this loose line, waiting to check in for a flight home from vacation.  Given that it’s a flight home from vacation, and I’m supposed to be on it, I get the feeling that it will go as these things always go for me: the plane will be late, they’ll lose my baggage, and once I reach the other side, something will happen that’ll force me to wait it out in Chicago instead of returning home to Adama, as planned. 

By the time I reach the front of the line, the horrorshow’s already begun.

“What do you mean you gave away his seat?” a woman’s barking.

I stride to my place at the podium on the far right, sighing as I take a glance down the row. The woman pitching a fit is round and freckled, with a froggy neck-waddle and a mouth to match.  Her hair’s an obvious bottle-red, the kind of auburn hoark that comes when you try to dye hair that’s too dark for such things.

“We reserved this seat in advance, ma’am.”

The attendant serving Frog-woman does what all frustrated airline employees do when facing a tempest of a customer: she shakes her head with pursed lips, her eyes fixed on her computer.

Frog-woman is causing such a scene that she’s actually drawn the attention of every attendant at the short bank of check-in stations at PGA.  Still, I hand over my driver’s license to the middle-aged gentleman standing across the counter from me. He’s well tanned. His jet black hair fades to silver at the edges.  His eyes suggest he’s more intrigued by Frog-woman than annoyed. He’s like a kid watching a carnival barker. In any case, he takes my driver’s license, and after a furtive last look at the woman, punches my information into the computer.

“I’m sorry,” the attendant serving Frog-woman says. “I’m trying to work it out. It’s just that it looks like the flight was overbooked and—”

“You just gave his seat away!” Frog-woman yells.

My heart sinks.  Overbooked.

“No I didn’t,” the attendant says.

“I just watched you do it, ma’am! How can you give away my father’s seat like that?”

“Look, ma’am,” the attendant says, speaking the word “ma’am” like it’s the most insidious insult imaginable, “I’m trying to get this nice family into the same row.” She points at what does indeed appear to be a nice family standing at the end of the check-in counter. Everyone in the family wears a nervous smile, all of them ridiculously blonde and not at all tanned.  There’s a hefty but still healthy young father and a demure, mildly attractive wife.  Kicking around at their feet are two twin boys, as towheaded as the morning sun. The father clutches a newborn baby to his broad shoulder.  In both delicate hands, the mother holds what appears to be an array of boarding passes, kind of like a nun might hold a bible.

“But, ma’am, you just gave my father’s seat away!”

“No I didn’t, ma’am,” the attendant says calmly. “I’m simply trying to—”

“Yes you did, ma’am.  Ma’am, we booked this flight two weeks ago.  We paid extra to ensure that my father had an assigned seat.”

In this argument, I spot a lie, and a quick glance over at the attendant serving Frog-woman suggests that she spots it, too.  This flight wasn’t available two weeks ago, see.  It’s only just been added to accommodate the better-than-expected holiday rush. 

The attendant holds up a quieting hand. “Ma’am, I’m trying to resolve the issue. If you just give me a—”

“You did just give away his seat, ma’am.  I heard you say that you were giving my father’s seat to this family—” She points at the family as if pointing into some dark abyss. “—and now you’re telling me there are no more seats available.”

I sigh and watch my attendant clacking in my information. He’s suppressing a laugh. I can see it.  But then there’s sudden disappointment in his eyes, and in it I read that I’m not getting a seat, either.

“Ma’am, would you please just listen to me,” Frog-woman says.

The flight attendant holds up a finger. She’s on the phone now, working shit out.

“Ma’am, I worked for an airline for twenty-three years,” Frog-woman announces. “Eastern Air.  And I don’t appreciate being treated like this.”

I consider pointing out to Frog-woman that if what she says is true – that she did indeed spend twenty-three years as an airline employee – then nobody in this airport should understand better the notion that taking out her anger on a check-in attendant is an utter waste of time.  The attendant didn’t overbook the flight.  It’s not her fault.  And there’s nothing she can do about it.  But I don’t say anything.  I just watch my own attendant sigh.  He’s still silent, and my license continues to rest on the terminal in front of him, so I figure I’m screwed.

I look back.  No one in line behind me.  I look to the security check-in.  No one in line there, either.  I look to the blonde family, noting that they all appear content, but wary.  Everyone’s ticketed and through to the gate.  It’s going to be down to me and Frog-woman’s father.

“Ma’am, we went to a lot of trouble getting down here, you know, ma’am,” Frog-woman grumbles. “My dad’s senile, ma’am, and he can’t just do this by himself.”

I glance back at the old man standing in the substantial shadow of his daughter. He’s wearing a White Sox fishing cap and a White Sox windbreaker. He wears the same glassy-eyed look you see in every elderly person described as “senile.” But I notice he’s blushing. And it breaks my heart.

The attendant presses the phone to her chest, still calm in expression and action. “I realize that, ma’am, and I’m trying to resolve the situation.”

Long story slightly shorter, this bad noise continues for at least ten minutes – right on past the time when I would have expected to be boarding the plane. The blonde family passes through security and out of sight.  Frog-woman demands to see a manager, and is granted her request. She cools a little when the manager speaks in docile tones, promising a free round trip ticket if her father doesn’t get a seat. Meanwhile, both Frog-woman’s attendant and mine coordinate to print two boarding passes without assigned seats – under the assumption that it’s possible the company didn’t make a mistake, possible that the plane (which was chartered just for this occasion) is bigger than the computers are suggesting, possible that there might be two seats left after all the passengers have shuffled aboard.  This seems to placate Frog-woman, and the old man appears relieved that all the yelling has ceased. 

I thank my attendant and stroll past Frog-woman.  As I pass, I tell her that if it comes down to it, and there’s only one seat left, her father can have it.

“You’re sure?” she asks, her anger melting suddenly into the look of someone who’s just been relieved of a heavy burden.

I nod. “I can always take a later flight.”

“But they say they don’t have anything available until the 18th.”

“It’ll work out.”

She thanks me profusely and I leave her in my wake.  I get through security in about thirty seconds (regional airports rule) and find that my gate – one of two in the entire building – is swarming with people.  When I lay my eyes on the scene, I already know I’m not getting a seat.  I’m betting the old man won’t, either.

This doesn’t bother me, for some reason.  For some reason, I’m completely docile, like maybe seeing Frog-woman fly off the handle took me to some kind of Buddhist plane, reminded me that there’s no sense in getting all bent out of shape over things you can’t control.  I grab a coffee and a bottle of water from the café in the corner, then settle in for the chaos to follow.

Boarding begins. The gate attendants announce that they’ve decided to switch to open seating, to accommodate all of the large families with small children.  Everyone groans.  Ugliness follows. Old men howl at uniformed women about the sanctity of assigned seats.  The gate attendants apologize, passing the buck to the flight attendants on board the approaching plane.  The plane parks.  People herd through the gate’s bay doors, onto the unseasonably chilly tarmac, and head up the stairs into the plane.

I wait.  In the opposite corner of the gate area, Frog-woman and her father do the same.  I’m guessing Frog-woman got special permission to pass through security sans boarding pass on account of her father’s well-broadcasted condition.  When we’re the only ones left at the gate, the two of them meander over to me, the daughter diligently and loudly calling to her father to keep pace. She’s monstrous, speaking to the old man as if this is all his fault.

But when she sits down next to me, she’s like Gandhi, she’s so freaking reverent.  “Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Your dad needs the seat more than I do.”  I’m speaking as if I’m making a great sacrifice, of course, but really I’m not.  I conduct my work from my laptop, so it’s not like I need to be in any place in particular at any given time.  There will be future flights.  And besides, who wouldn’t want to spend an extra day in Florida, given that they’ve got a free place to stay and an amazing woman to stay with?

“You’re so kind,” she says, doe-eyed.

Her sudden and overwhelming appreciation is almost as off-putting as her anger had been.  Likewise the royal treatment I receive from everyone in the airport when it turns out that there is, in fact, only one seat left and I agree to let the old man take it.  In short, everyone fawns over me like I’m the Jesus of Punta Gorda.  I’m ushered into a manager’s office and offered free lunch.  I’m granted the aforementioned complimentary round trip ticket.  Efficiently, I’m booked on a flight through a competing airline in a competing airport.  The change fee I paid to switch from a previous flight to this flight in the first place (long story) is waved without question.  All I’ve done is agree to delay my departure by eight hours.  I’ll still arrive home tonight.  But everyone’s treating me as if I just rescued an injured pony from the glue factory and set him up with a good and loving home.

Here’s why all this troubles me: isn’t this what we’re all supposed to do?  If we’re in a position where we can help a person – especially if that person is in special need – aren’t we supposed to help them?  Shouldn’t it be expected of us?  And if it’s not expected now, didn’t it used to be?

What happened to accountability?  What happened to simple human kindness?  I’ve seen Mad Men, so I know it existed (at least to a stronger degree) in my grandparents’ generation.  I suspect that some form of it existed in my parents’ generation, too.  My father, at least, would have done the same thing I did.  Wouldn’t have yours?

I did what any man with a conscience would have done in that situation: I let an old man take a flight he’d strained to get to, helped him get away from his horrible daughter at the intended time. And for my trouble, I scored a pantload of nice loot.  I got a $75 change-fee refunded.  I’m getting free transportation from my destination airport to my dad’s house, where I’m staying tonight.  I get to fly wherever Direct Air flies and at the date of my choosing.  For free.  And best of all, I got to spend an extra half-day in Florida with a woman who continues to blow me away every single day I’m with her.  Let’s not all fall all over ourselves about my “sacrifice.”

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