ALONE
By Ed Teja
Stepping out of the van from
the hotel, Jenny got her bag and
stopped to stare. The airport terminal was jammed with holiday travelers.
She screwed up her face, gathered
her courage, and stepped through
the automatic doors to join the throng. She’d done everything she could online
and now she wound her way through the packed and slow-moving line that
eventually took her through security.
When she emerged in a crowded
waiting area at the gate, she shifted
her grip on her carry-on bag and took a deep breath.
She had over an hour to wait
— to survive.
Long lines stretched out of
every one of the coffee shops and
restaurants, snaking all the way back to the seating area. People stood there,
oblivious to the others, focused on their phones.
The sight of the crowds, the
way people pressed in at the register
where they placed their orders and paid the exorbitant prices the places
charged, made her reconsider the idea of getting something to eat or drink.
The process she’d need
to go through promised indigestion, even if
the coffee sounded good.
Instead, she took weary refuge
in the form of an empty plastic
chair at the end of a long row of people sitting in plastic chairs, facing another
row of humanity seated in even more plastic chairs.
Settling down as best she could,
Jenny took out the novel she’d
brought and tried to focus her attention on the printed page, but the story needed
too much thought. The chaos around her disturbed that.
She had thought she’d
braced herself for the crowds and the chaos
of holiday travel. But it wore her down.
She had been among them, been
one of them, for far too long —
flying from California, heading back east, to Virginia. There, she had been crowded
into her mother’s small house along with her brothers and their families and a
constant rotation of neighbors and family friends.
Gathering the family was the
reason for her trip—they observed the ritual
of coming together for the holidays. And, of course, it was good to see Jeff and
Tom again (although it disturbed her that her older brothers had both gotten
heavy), to see their wives and kids, and, of course, mom. That was great.
She had arrived, and they embraced,
and then she unpacked, telling
herself that she was glad she had come, happy that she hadn’t given in to her
concerns and distaste for crowds.
That delight lasted about an
hour.
After that, the commotion, the
constant buzz, began to eat at her.
People bounced around plans (“Should we send out for pizza? Are we going to go
to the park? The kids love the park).
There was no time to think or
stare. She missed thinking and
staring. Slowly, imperceptibly, her mood darkened, taking an oppressive and
depressing turn.
Once they’d exchanged
news, she had disappointingly little to say
to them. She found it hard to take an interest in niece Suzie’s new ballet
shoes (“Watch me twirl, Aunt Jenny!”), and feigning enthusiasm and excitement
grew tiring.
Soon, she began ducking outside.
Despite the cold (and how she
hated cold) she needed a fix of aloneness, of quiet.
Unlike her siblings and their
boisterous families, Jenny lived
alone, if you didn’t count a rather large aloe plant named Fred. Her small
house would seem like a silent mansion when she returned to it.
Not that Jenny was a hermit.
No, Jenny liked people. She loved her
family. She had wonderful friends. And she enjoyed them. One at a time, they
were the greatest. It was whenever people came together en masse, when
individuals merged into a crowd, they became for her, a different beast.
After endless hours of chit-chat
amid the clatter of dishes, the
murmurs of dozens of conversations, and the cries of children, she suffered the
pangs of withdrawal. Like some smoker going out for a guilty puff or two, she
went outside she gasped in the space, frosty as it was. And, like the smoker,
when she returned, the cries of, “Where did you go?” gave her twinges of guilt.
No, not twinges. They were full-tilt
pangs of guilt. Guilt that she
hadn’t wanted to come. Guilt that she wanted to leave. Guilt that they might
know, had to know, how she felt. Guilt over not being sufficiently interested
in her family to overcome this.
The suffocation of guilt and
that coming from the crowding fed each
other and made breathing difficult. Having trouble breathing made being in with
too many people claustrophobic. Ducking outside to capture a breath of fresh air
made her feel guilty. She put on her bravest face, smiled, and felt like she
was lying to her family.
And yet, somehow, she survived
the weekend. She held her tongue,
tried not to show that she would rather be anywhere else, and smiled.
She did a lot of smiling.
Heading home was the final round
in the battle.
Although she was leaving her
smothering family behind her, the
crowding remained for the trip home. The trouble breathing, and guilt about not
fitting in, not being able to move, other than being jammed into a herd (giving
her the sense she was headed inexorably for a cliff)… all those feelings persisted,
kept her tense. Finding it hard to breathe became the norm.
But this, she told herself,
was the last leg. She could endure.
She sat in her hard plastic
chair and closed her eyes, letting the murmuring
wash around her and mask everything else. She could almost pretend she was
alone.
“Jenny Elroy, please come
to the customer service desk at gate
twenty-three,” a voice announced.
Hearing her name on the public
address system, having the message
penetrate her consciousness, startled her. She’d never been paged anywhere
before. Dazed, and feeling on display, she stood and went to the counter where
a fair-haired young man smiled at her and cocked his head.
Oddly, no one else was at the
desk. There was no line at all, even
though every other desk was swamped.
“You paged me. Jenny Elroy.”
His eyes sparkled delightedly.
Blue eyes. Welcoming, friendly eyes.
He held out a hand. “May I see your ticket?” he asked.
“Of course.” She
dug it from her purse. “Is something wrong?”
“Not at all.” He
glanced at the ticket and then a monitor on his
desk. “We noted that you weren’t happy at sitting in a middle seat.”
She couldn’t remember
telling anyone that. Had she complained to
someone?
“I must have mentioned
I’d prefer a window,” she said. “This
crowding gets to me. But it’s all right, really. I’ll be okay. I understand
there aren’t other seats.”
“But if there were other
seats, as I understand it, you’d rather be
alone?”
“Alone?” Was that
even possible? “Well, I’d like to have the space
to breathe.”
The young man chuckled. “Well,
I’m with a special customer service
group. We try to accommodate those who are not comfortable with some of the
routine procedures. We appreciate that some folks don’t fit in well with
standard airline protocols.”
That was her. “You work
for the airline?”
“For a special group,
not a single airline.” He did things at the
keyboard. “And, if having space is important to you…”
“It is.”
“Then I might have an
option for you.”
“That would be amazing.
But how? All these people…”
“There are enough like
you, people who need to be alone, that we have
set up another flight.” He pointed at the terminal. She couldn’t see what he
was pointing at.
“Yes! This one will be
leaving right away. I should warn you that
the flight time is a bit longer. We need to make two extra stops to accommodate
our other passengers. And in that time, your views might change.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I need to know that being
alone is truly important to you.”
“It is.”
“In that case, if you
won’t mind being alone for some time, I
recommend you switch to this flight. I have a window seat available and the
seats next to you will be empty.”
Her heart raced. This was like
winning the lottery.
“That would be so very
lovely.”
“Now, this flight has
a special rule: you can’t speak to the other
passengers. They can’t speak to you either. But if that suits you —"
“That sounds wonderful.”
You had only your carry-on bag,
correct?”
“Yes. It was just a quick
trip.”
“Then, if you understand
what I’ve told you, that it is a longer
flight and there won’t be any conversation, I can put you on that flight. It’s
boarding right now.”
“Yes, thank you. That
would be wonderful.” Her relief astounded
her.
The smiling young man typed
some things into his computer and then
handed her a new boarding pass.
“There you are.”
He pointed to an open door. “There is your gate.”
Hefting her bag, she made her
way down the jetway. A smiling flight
attendant, who had eyes quite like the young man’s, wordlessly led her down the
jetway and silently pointed her to the back of the plane.
Walking down the aisle to her
seat, she found that the plane was
half full, maybe even less. Again, given the crowds at the airport, the crush
of humanity trying to get rides home, that came as a surprise. While sitting in
her plastic chair she had heard a series of announcements telling passengers
that the planes were overbooked and that good Samaritans willing to give up
their seats would be given accommodation and compensation.
And yet, here was this plane
with the incredible luxury of many
empty seats. The few passengers had been spaced out as if someone had made an
effort to give each passenger all the room they could. That seemed unusual, curious,
and wonderful.
And no one was talking. There
wasn’t a murmur.
Each person silently settled
into his or her seat.
Seats A, B, and C in her row
(twenty-seven) were empty. A, the
window seat, was hers.
She pulled her travel pillow
out of her bag and then shoved it
under the seat in front of her. Grabbing the plastic bag containing a blanket
from the seat, she sat down, tearing the bag open and spreading it over her,
then buckled the seat belt over it.
She sighed happily as a mechanical
voice made the routine
announcements and the plane moved away from the gate. It taxied out onto the
runway and was soon airborne.
As they lifted off, the flight
attendant came by and, with a silent
smile, checked her seat belt and moved on, leaving her alone.
“Alone.”
She mouthed the word, wondering
if there was a sweeter one.
With her head pressing her travel
pillow against the bulkhead, Jenny
closed her eyes and fell asleep to the lullaby of the throbbing engines.
The young man had said there
would be two stops, and in her deep
sleep, she was vaguely aware of the sounds and sensations of the plane landing.
Lights came on and, through one open eye, she watched a few people stand. They pulled
their bags down from the overhead bins.
The door shut and the lights
went out.
Soon the plane was airborne
again.
# # #
Jenny woke from a thick and
heavy sleep, cocooned by her blanket
and wrapped in the steady low drone, the regular pulsing of the jet engine.
The light in the cabin was dim
and soft gray. Across the cabin, on
the opposite side, a single open shade let yellow sunlight dance across an
empty seat and a tray table.
Shifting her position as she
woke, she turned toward the aisle,
looking, wondering. All the seats she could see were empty.
An aisle seat ahead of her had
a blanket sitting on it and some
trash stuck in the pocket of the seat back.
The seats on the other side
of the aisle were empty too. Craning
her neck around, she saw the entire cabin was empty and still. No one coughed
or shuffled in their seats. Not a single child whimpered or cried.
The cabin was empty.
Opening the window confirmed
that they were airborne. She saw
little but clouds and, looking down, the outlines of foggy streets and the
rectangular spots that had to be buildings were just visible.
The plane was descending, and
the buildings grew bigger. The plane
passed over a large area of concrete that had to be a parking lot. She could
make out a few cars, then a large oval structure — a stadium of some kind.
Reaching for the attendant call
button, she pressed it. The button
depressed and the light came on, but there was no ding, no sound to indicate
that it had done anything.
After a time, she got up and
walked unsteadily down the aisle
toward the back, where the bathrooms and the galley were.
If they were on approach, the
crew would be cleaning, putting
things away.
The galley was empty as well.
So were the bathrooms.
As she made her way toward the
front, the sound of the engines
changed.
An idea flickered. She opened
the door to an overhead compartment.
It was empty. She opened another and it was also empty.
It wasn’t just the people
that had gone. They’d taken their things
with them.
How had she slept through the
second landing and takeoff?
Stepping forward, into the business
class, she took a seat, a
large, luxurious seat, and buckled in. A grinding announced an adjustment of the
plane’s flaps followed by the loud whirring of the landing gear coming down.
Turning to look through the
window, buildings and roads grew larger
— but the roads were empty. The engines whined and the landing gear clunked
into place, locking.
She closed her eyes, as she
always did, for the touchdown, anticipating
the squeal and the brief skid that reunited the ungainly craft with the ground.
The plane slowed, turned, and
taxied to the gate.
Jenny sat for a moment, listening
to the whine of the engines
winding down.
The door clattered and light
poured in from the jetway. Still, she
sat, wanting to savor the sense of having this plane all to herself.
Finally, she got her bag and
walked out. There was no crew standing
at the door to thank her for flying with them. No one else carried a bag down
the empty jetway. She strolled into an empty waiting that waited to be filled.
She went past empty concession stands, open for business but without staff or
customers. She traveled down empty escalators and along empty moving sidewalks
until she reached the automated doors, and heard the whizzing as they opened—for
her alone.
The terminal was exactly as
she remembered it, except that no one
else was in it.
She looked both ways at the
empty arrival area, crossing the street
to the long-term parking, where she’d left her car — the only car. She bought a
ticket from a vending machine to cover the weekend parking fee and drove to the
exit where she fed it to a machine that raised the gate and gave her access to
the highway, which flowed out and merged with a completely empty freeway.
The tension rushed out of her
neck and shoulders. She rocked her
head, noting how light her body seemed — as if gravity had been discounted for
a time. Then, playfully, she changed lanes without signaling, as if testing the
idea that the freeway was as packed as it normally was and that somehow she
couldn’t see anyone else.
But it was indeed empty.
“Finally alone,”
she said.
Hearing herself saying the words,
having them rise above the
background road noise and fill the car, made it more tangible.
The intangible (aloneness) became
palpable.
Of course, eventually, she would
get lonely. Sooner or later, she
would miss having someone to talk to, someone to touch.
But that would come later. For
now, for some space in time, for
some reason she didn’t understand (or care to question), Jenny had the space
she needed. She was truly alone.
And delighted.
THE END