A Single Snapshot: Flying Standby

 

I’ve got eight seconds to decide whether I jump on that flight, or wait for the next available one nearly a full day later. In my mind, I’m scanning through my options, rapid-fire, like a spinning rolodex. Do I take that last seat, knowing the only reason it’s been offered to me is that I’m traveling alone? Or do I offer it to Olivia? She’s been waiting around in airports for four days now—in good spirits, I might add—but she’s only ten years old for heaven’s sake.

Take the seat? Give it up? I have eight seconds to decide.

Flying standby when you’ve missed your flight isn’t a pleasant experience. Never having done it before, I couldn’t have known the emotional toll it would take.

During my night in Newark airport, I meet and befriend Dan*, a photographer living in Beijing, and his daughter Olivia*. Olivia couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old, tall, with large curious eyes and long blond hair. Her father is quite easy on the eyes too, tall and lean like his daughter, with sandy tousled hair and a pair of tired eyes darting behind the frames of his black tortoiseshell glasses. I like him instantly, as he carries a skateboard under his arm which he whips out from time to time to ferry himself around the airport terminal. Sitting across from one another at the gate, we exchange stories of woe: me, stranded by a run of bad luck and he, on his fourth day of waiting around in airports, having been stranded in LAX for two days while the airlines get back on track after Hurricane Irene and, like me, “missing” the flight to London.

I’m surprised by how happy and well-adjusted Olivia seems to be. She smiles, timid but bright, and I can’t believe she’s been stranded for four days. Industrious, she makes the most of her time by applying colorful nail polish to her toes. I chat politely with her father over the sharp  odor of the lacquer and learn that he’s taking her home to her mother in London.

As he speaks, I think about what it must be like to live his life, jetsetting between the UK and China, looking the way he does. There’s a note of sadness in his voice, too. Maybe he’s divorced or estranged from Olivia’s mother and I realize he must not see his daughter often. But he is pleasant, although understandably impatient to get his daughter home and to get back to his life in Beijing.

When we miss the last flight to London for the night, Dan—skateboard-powered–reaches the customer service desk ahead of me. His name and Olivia’s get on the standby list for the morning flight before mine. Before mine.  I find myself hoping for a minimum of three open seats.

Overnight, they sleep mere feet away from me, their lithe frames huddled together for warmth in the cold terminal. I want to offer Olivia my sleep sack to use as a blanket, but they are already asleep so I burrow further into it, terrified that I won’t get to Scotland at all. In my heart, I’m wishing that three people booked on the morning flight oversleep, or get stuck in traffic, or cancel. I’m surprised by how mercenary my predicament has made me—or maybe I’ve been that way all along.

You see, what they don’t tell you about flying standby is that the hope is the worst part. Waiting through flight after flight for the gate attendant to call your name and being disappointed when it doesn’t happen. The hope gnaws at your soul like a coyote on carrion, leaving little behind but desperation. Overnight, I steel myself against the hope, preparing myself for the inevitable news that I won’t be able to leave for London Heathrow Airport until almost 24 hours later.

In the morning, I wake early. The airport comes to life as passengers and flight crew begin streaming past. As Dan and Olivia and I stand waiting as our flight boards, the gate attendant calls my name. And I know instinctively from the expression on her face, there’s only one seat left.

I’ve got eight seconds to decide whether I jump on that flight, or wait for the next available one nearly a full day later. In my mind, I’m scanning through my options, rapid-fire, like a spinning rolodex. Do I take that last seat, knowing the only reason it’s been offered to me is that I’m traveling alone? Or do I offer it to Olivia? She’s been waiting around in airports for four days now—in good spirits, I might add—but she’s only ten years old for heaven’s sake.

Take the seat? Give it up? I have eight seconds to decide.

The gate attendant calls my name again and her voice sounds muffled and slow, as though spoken over a great distance. In that moment, the decision is made.  My body quickens to action, hand curling around the handle of my backpack, bicep muscles contracting as I lift, feet moving me toward the jet bridge.

This is my chance, too. And I’m taking it.

As I walk down the dimly lit corridor, my eyes prick with tears. While I’m grateful to get the last seat on the flight, the truth is I’m torn too. I know that had the situation been reversed Dan would have made the same choice as I had, that he probably would have refused an offer that would have put his daughter on a transatlantic flight alone, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I take my seat in an exit row above the right wing, suddenly giddy with delight that I get the roomy seat without having to pay extra for it. Memories of Dan and Olivia quickly sink beneath this wave of euphoria and soon they are forgotten. I place my carry on bag beneath the seat in front of me and buckle my seat belt in preparation for takeoff.

It’s not until our flight is firmly in the air that I see it in black and white, plain as day: No Children This Row.

While I’m not one for believing in signs and such, those four words absolve me of any lingering guilt.

Scotland, I’m finally on my way.

Alrighty folks–‘fess up. What would you have done? Taken the seat? Offered it to Olivia? I’d love to know what others might have done in my place.

*Names have been changed