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Seat 2F

By Wanda Bush

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11B.Economy. Center seat. I make my way down the aisle of the jet and find my assigned seat. An extra-large gentleman who smells like cigarettes drags himself out of the row of three chairs so I can enter. I’m courteous as I flump into the petite spot awaiting me. The tobacco user settles down next to me. Another man, I’m thinking size 8X, roosts by the window. Before my purse hits the floor, the men make their claim on the armrests and a stretch beyond, giving me no wiggle room—none. My fitted blue jeans are in harmony with the tight leg space, and my loose-fitting, mint-green blouse snugs against me like spandex, not allowed to flow as designed.
Though I’m fit, I’m not the smallest girl in the world, nor the skinniest. At 5 feet 11 inches, I require more room vertically and horizontally than the average female. My mother often reminds me I have big bones like my father. It’s times like these I wish I didn’t. Airplane seats, theater seats, parking spots—they’re all designed for slim sardines.
The gentlemen’s chitchat back and forth reveals they’re brothers. I remain good-natured, jarring my humorous side to imagine how ridiculous the three of us must look scrunched together. Someone somewhere is watching through a hidden camera and laughing hysterically, I’m sure.
“Ma’am?” An attractive stewardess with short black hair directs her hand towards me. I point to myself, and she nods. I assume she wants me to suck in. “We have an empty seat in first class. Would you be willing to move?”
She doesn’t have to ask me twice, for I recognize the small miracle and seize the gift. I grab my purse (a canvas hobo bag) and retrieve my jacket and carry-on luggage from the compartment above. The men ignite enormous grins. It must have been their plan all along—divide and conquer. Following the stewardess, I scurry to the front of the jet, not spotting a vacant seat along the way. I’m as giddy as a girl on her first date.
2F. First Class. Window seat. That’s where she lands me.
I don’t fly much, so the chance to have prime seating ever again is little to none. After settling into my new spot, I must explore. With no need to look dignified, I pull down the tray in front of me and notice it’s larger than the one in economy. More rear end room and a smidgen more legroom make this girl ecstatic. My shoulders scrunch in excitement, and I pinch myself. Several older couples are sitting behind me and to the side. They converse in blaring voices, and soon, it’s clear they’re retired and traveling together. Their eyes look heavy with sleep, so once we’re off the ground, I’m anticipating a quiet ride.
The moment I relax, a pretty stewardess arrives at my row of two seats. The blond-haired beauty purses her lips and takes a deep breath. A stare of disappointment attempts to shame me as she lets her air out in a delicate huff.
“Ma’am?”
I try to be brave, for I know I’m in danger of being sent back to the compact space on row eleven. My forehead rises and wrinkles as my eyes send out a plea that yells: Please don’t take me away! My voice squeaks, “Yes?”
“I believe you’re sitting in the wrong seat. May I see your ticket?” It’s a demand disguised as a question.
“My original seat was 11B. The stewardess with the black hair moved me up. She said a passenger canceled.”
“There is no black-haired stewardess on this flight.” She emphasizes the word stewardess as her eyes throw darts at me. I dodge them. I offended her, I’m sure. I’m intelligent enough to know the correct term is flight attendant, no matter how boring it sounds. Perhaps I played airport way too much in my childhood. Stewardess is a lovely word, and I refuse to let it go into extinction.
My lips twist to the side as I strain to look ahead toward the front of the plane where I last saw the black-haired stewardess, but my eyes can’t locate her. My shoulders shrug. “I thought she had black hair.”
A man wearing a gray hoodie, which envelops his head like the grim reaper, moves next to the beauty. He looks about the same height as my father and brother, somewhere around 6’5”. He stares at his cell phone. “She’s right,” he announces as he glances over his device and down into the stewardess’s eyes, “Leslie isn’t coming. The seat is, or was, vacant.” I look closer at the gentleman’s face and notice he’s one of those attractive guys who provoke women to gush and blush. He winks at the stewardess while giving a dashing smile. It looks fake to me. He motions towards me. “I guess this lady’s stuck with me.”
The stewardess stands on her tippy toes and moves her lips as close to his ears as she can manage, but I have excellent hearing. “I’ll go see if there’s another seat for her.”
Now my eyes grow wide in anticipation of disappointment. Two pairs of eyes look me over as if I’m livestock getting judged for a ribbon at the state fair. His Handsomeness says, “No, no. It’s good. She doesn’t look like she bites.” An arrogant smile spreads across his face.
He looks back at the snooty stewardess, who purrs and bats her eyes. “Oh, to be so lucky.” She runs her kittenish fingers across his upper back while making goo-goo eyes. One of the older passengers has a question and interrupts the soapy bonding. The stewardess returns to her duties.
I swoop my hair behind my ears, let go a sigh of relief, and grin, not at him, but because I’m allowed to stay in first class. I adjust my seatbelt.
The guy slides into the seat in the smoothest of fashions. “And what’s your name?” He sways into my space a little more than I’m comfortable with.
I lean away, but not before getting a whiff of his swanky cologne. “Sandi.” I force a quick smile.
He pulls his hoodie back, and I see this guy looks around my age of twenty-seven. Handsome may not be the best adjective to describe him. How about gorgeous. His thick, textured, dirty blond hair is lustrous, and the modern clothing he’s styling looks perfect on his tall, slim body. Definitely not my type. I like a rugged man. A working man. A regular guy. This tender prince is city-suave. I doubt he’s ever done a day of hard labor in his life. Soft hands with manicured fingernails indicate he’s never lifted a shovel or brought down a hammer. He embodies the perfect image of smoothness from the top of his head to
the tip of his toes. Yuck!
I turn away from him to look out the window, hoping he’ll take the hint I don’t want to visit. The activity on the ground below captivates my attention.
He leans further into my space to view the tarmac too. His head comes way too close to mine. “Is that Sandi as in Sandra?”
I press myself back against my seat, sending him out of my bubble. He’s nice-looking, for sure, and he’s confident in that knowledge. “No. Sandi. S-A-N-D-I. I was born on the beach.”
He grins. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope. I came into this world early and in a hurry.”
He chuckles, and his smile turns genuine while the lines around his deep-set eyes develop crow’s feet. He plants his elbow on the armrest and taps his fingers under his chin. “An early bird, huh?”
I nod and feel compelled to be neighborly. “What’s your name?” His eyelids flutter, and he stares at me with a dorky look on his face. His head renders a few quick shakes. It appears his mind left orbit, so I interrogate him. “Is it a secret?”
He stammers. “Huh? No … no. I’m sorry. My name is … is …” He goes silent.
“You don’t know your name, or you don’t want to tell me?”
"The truth, Early Bird? I’m trying to decide which alias to give you.”
I give a short emphatic, “Ha. Ha,” and he laughs. Still, he gives me no name.
The pilot breaks into our conversation to make announcements over the PA system, and the stewardess provides disaster instructions as the plane makes its way to the runway. This safety presentation is the most fascinating I’ve ever seen. The poor girl tries her best to look straight ahead, but her eyes keep wandering over to my seatmate. I decide to keep track of how many times her eyes slide to the side to look at the handsome man. Soon I give up and turn toward the window, observing the airport until we taxi out of its sight.
As the plane picks up speed, I stare into the known and unknown. We fly higher and higher until we’re above the clouds. I have the urge to jump into the white fluff and be cuddled by the puffy pillows. God’s handiwork captures my attention— until my seatmate interrupts my spiritual meditation.
“Are you leaving Seattle for Houston, or are you returning to Houston from Seattle, or is Houston a layover?” I look over my shoulder and see Mr. Blue Eyes pointing at my purse on the floor. The woven word, Savannah, runs up and down my bag. “You heading to Savannah?”
“I’m returning to Houston. I bought the bag on a visit to Savannah last year.” I turn my head back to the window.
He clears his voice. “Pretty city, Savannah.” I keep watch over the earth below without making a response. He taps out a beat on the armrest. “Was your trip to Seattle for pleasure or business?”
I roll my eyes. I’m seated next to a Chatty Cathy! I want to snub him, but I experience an inward tug. Okay, Lord, I will be nice. I will be nice to win the respect of outsiders, as your Word says. I Thessalonians 4: 11–12 is the scripture that overtook my life, the scripture I own, and the scripture I try my best to uphold.
“Business.” I recline my chair. His smiling eyes are anxious. If I don’t inquire about his travels, he may pop, so I indulge him. “What about you?”
“Returning from a business trip, too.”
“You live in Houston?” I ask.
His bobblehead bounces as his upper body follows. “I say I do, but I live out in the country. I find it’s easier to say I live in Houston than to explain where my little spot exists.” I shake my head in understanding, and he continues to chatter, telling me facts or fiction I don’t care to hear. “I grew up all over the U.S. until I was seven. My dad was in the Air Force. Guess that’s what instilled my love for traveling.” He speak-sings, “Life on the road one more time,” and nudges me with his elbow. “Yeah, that song is talkin’ about me.”
Oh boy, this guy is cheesy. My head presses against the back of my seat, and I close my eyes to roll them in private. I must look ridiculous, for I discover I can’t roll my eyes with them closed. This new challenge occupies me while I halfway listen to my seatmate’s childhood autobiography. He rattles on and on.
Out of the blue, he sends me a question. “You like music?”
My eyelids jolt open. He expects a response. “Yes, but I also like quiet.” My words escape a bit more flat than intended.
“I’m … I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’ll be quiet.” He sinks back and looks toward the ceiling while twiddling his thumbs. He adjusts the air vent above him and takes to tapping his fingertips against his thighs, squirming like a worm.
He cannot sit still, this one! I sense I hurt his feelings, and my spirit tugs inside me once again, so I turn in my seat toward him and make amends. “I mean, I like to listen to music, but I like to listen to quiet even more.”
He keeps tapping his legs. “Hmm. I’ve never met anyone who likes to listen to the sound of silence. Now there’s a good song.” I shake my head in agreement, and he says, “I enjoy quiet sometimes, I guess, but I’ve never listened to it.”
“I do. A lot of people like the radio on all the time. I’m not one of those people.”
“When you do listen to music, who do you like?”
Shimmering, light-colored eyes pierce mine as his golden eyebrows rise like the sun. Is he wearing sea-blue contacts, or are his eyes naturally made for swimming in? The couple in front of us plops their seats back, breaking the unbidden spell, freeing me from the trance. “For me, it’s the combination of artist, tune, and words. It’s not who I like or what I like. It’s the marriage.”
“And are you?”
“Are I what?”
“Married? Boyfriend?”
My hand wraps around the layered, multi-blue rope necklace I bought on a whim in Seattle. The modish purchase caught me off-guard, as off guard as these questions. A euphoric feeling causes me to imprison a blush that wants to escape. “I thought we were talking about music?”
He points his index finger towards me. “I believe it was you who brought up marriage. So, do you have someone, Early Bird?”
His imploring stare triggers a twitch, as the relationship subject makes me uncomfortable. “I like Tenth Avenue North, and some oldies my dad likes—Wayne Watson and Michael Card.” His face goes blank, and I know why. “You don’t know any of them, do you?”
“I think I’ve heard of them, but I can’t say I know their music.”
“Christian music.”
In rapid motion, his index finger taps his lips. “Have you ever heard of Quinton Stone?”
“The rock star? My sister-in-law’s in love with him, but I’ve never heard his music.”
He lets out a smart-aleck huff. “I find that hard to believe. Once, in an interview, he said everyone in America under the age of forty had heard his music.” His eyes probe mine as if he suspects I’m lying.
I laugh. “Well, he must really think highly of himself, and he’s wrong.”
Chatty Cathy checks out for a moment. He checks back in. “Maybe, if you like, um, maybe you can introduce me to some of your music when we get back to Houston.”
That remark turns me off. “You can find them on the web.” I turn my attention back to the window where white clouds take over the sky, covering both sun and earth. My head shakes back and forth as I’m annoyed at nature and men.
What a typical playboy, amusing himself by toying with me. He likes to see how many girls he can seduce, and this girl isn’t falling for it. It aggravates me when pretty boys work at getting a girl’s attention only to pump up their masculinity. I know what I look like, and I know what he looks like, and never the two shall become entwined. I recall the day I learned there was more to me than average.
***
My sister is three years, and my brother one year older than I am. They’re built tall and lean like my mother’s side of the family. I, on the other hand, am not. Grandfather Dupree would say to my sister, “Pretty girl, you’re so skinny, you can run through raindrops without getting wet.” To my brother, he’d say, “Sport, you’re built like your other grandpa, tall and slender. The world looks up to that breed.” To me, he’d say, “Lassie, you’re as strong as an ox, ain’t ya? A true Dupree.” Those aren’t the words that flatter a young girl’s heart, even though Lassie was a cute dog.
I did have one advantage over my brother and sister. My parents paid to keep me in a sport year-round, whereas they only participated in school sports. When I was nine years old, I overheard my mother explaining this phenomenon to my siblings in hush tones. “Sandi was born chunky, like the Duprees. She needs to stay active so she won’t become—”
“Fat and lazy like Aunt Sue?” My brother’s voice boomed through the walls. My heart wrenched.
“Shhh,” I heard Mother plead. I don’t remember what nicety words she used to complete her sentence, but I can recall the core of their meaning—fat and lazy, like my brother said.
In my bedroom, I stood before my full-length mirror. The body reflecting through the looking glass wasn’t me. It wasn’t what I felt like on the inside. I remember thinking it was unfortunate no one could see my heart or feel my soul. It was a pity what echoed in the mirror was the image people had of me, and that image was the basis for their judgment of me. Then and there, I made up my mind to pray to God for a different body. At bedtime, before I went to my knees, I grabbed my Bible and flipped through the pages. I selected a passage at random to read. 2 Timothy 1:7 glared back at me. I read it several times, as my eyes couldn’t blink away the words. It was a message, a revelation. I knew at that moment, God made me not only strong in body, but also spirit. My voice interrupted the silence. “God’s not making me timid. He’s making me powerful, loving, and self-controlled.” That became the first scripture I ever owned in my heart. Because of it, I became empowered with confidence as I faced each day. I attracted friends by extending a hand of love, and I became stubborn in my food and exercise choices. It became the essence of who I am.
At eleven years of age, I discovered martial arts. Every shape and size can participate in these sports without feeling out of place. Since I was plump and growing taller by the minute, towering over all the girls and boys my age, I was happy to find a sport that was a fit for me. The belt system motivated me to move up the rank ladder to a black belt in karate. After obtaining a second-degree black belt during college, I was asked to assist in teaching the children’s class. I declined. I didn’t have time to be an instructor and train, and I knew I couldn’t afford to miss my workouts. Since college, I've studied different martial art styles and obtained a well-rounded view of the arts. Because of all the exercise, I’ve been able to keep my weight in balance. Thankfully, I’m not fat and lazy, like Aunt Sue.
***
The pilot emerges from the cockpit, and all eyes draw to him. He looks so grand and mighty, even though he misses the six-foot mark by several inches. There’s something about a man in a uniform.
My seatmate jerks his hoodie back up over his head, jumps to his feet, looks at me, and asks, “Save my seat?” He flashes me his perfect smile, and I give him two thumbs up. Prince Charming strolls to the front of the plane and greets the pilot. After fist bumps are shared, my seatmate disappears, and only glimpses now and then of the pilot’s back can I see.
I turn my attention back to the window. The clouds clear, and my eyes jump to the scenery below. It’s incredible how the artwork created by God and tilled by man blankets the entire earth, wrapping it in a quilt. The guy from the seat next to me is a work of art—abstract art.
I like abstract art and how it draws me into its creator's mind as I seek the message intended for expression. It appeals to me. The use of unusual shapes infused with color catches my attention. I get it. Still, some abstracts leave me scratching my head, like my abstract seatmate. He’s bold with lines that produce energy and confusion. After studying a piece of art, I want to discover and understand what the artist is saying, not left searching for a meaning that doesn’t exist. My seatmate is a pretentious piece of arcane art—for sure.

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