Knight 3
Rescue at the Airport
by Ruth Tindugan
The flight from San Francisco to Denver was delayed for thirty minutes. I have to catch the next flight to Jamestown, North Dakota, my final destination. Per my boarding pass,
that flight is departing in thirty minutes.
A text message flashes on my phone: twenty five minutes walk to the gate where the airplane to Jamestown would be “departing on time”.
I grip my carry-on, walk out the tube past the wheelchairs on standby, and find myself in a huge concourse, packed with travelers creating the airport chaos of December.
I follow the signs to my gate, straight ahead along with what seems like an overflow of people spilling from everywhere. I have no idea where I am, but I hurry on.
After a “long” walk, I stop an airport worker. “How do I get to gate 70?”
“Go straight ahead. Follow the signs. You will have to go down and take the train to concourse C. Then you take the escalator going up, and follow the signs to the gate.”
My jaws tighten. I am scared of tunnels.
From the escalator, I join the passengers waiting on the platform. A train just left.
A sign flashes “next train in five minutes”. I wince. Another five minutes of waiting is purgatory. If I miss my flight, it will be hell. I loosen my winter scarf as heat wraps around my neck. The words “help me not to miss the plane” whirl in my mind like a gust of wind swirling bits of nervous thoughts while racing with time. A quote tucked in my mind since high school suddenly surfaces:
Time is too slow for those who wait, too long for those who grieve,
Too fast for those who fear, and too short for those who rejoice.
But to those who love, time is not.”
My son is getting married in two days. I can’t miss this flight.
Everyone walks toward the edge of the platform at the rumbling sound of an oncoming train. I follow. As the door opens, I step inside and hold onto a pole standing like the rest. The door closes, the train jolts, and suddenly, the uncertainty that has been simmering in my head boils over as I realize I am not sure if I am on the right train!
I turn to the man next to me. “This is going to Concourse C, right? I’ve never been at this airport, and my plane was delayed, and I’m afraid I’d miss my flight, and may son is getting married, and… “ I swallow the words stuck in my throat, embarrassed at my spiel loud enough for everyone to hear.
“Yes, you’re on the right train,” the man says. “Been at this airport more than I can count. I live here in Denver and this is my last stop.” He tilts his head, and looks at me. “I’ll walk you to the gate.”
My face lights up, and my shoulders sag with relief. He nods.
I follow him out of the train. Another escalator up. Turn left. Keep walking. Turn right. I am half running, skirting ahead of other travelers.
“You’re walking too fast,” he says. Just then I realize the man is still with me. “Don’t worry. You’ll make it. The plane will not leave without you.” His voice is calm. He is not rushed, just steady. I exhale as his peace loops me in, and I step into his pace.
“Where did you fly from?'“ I ask, panting.
“San Francisco,” he says. “I own a business here in Denver and fly there once or twice a week for some projects.” He hands me his business card. I slip it into my jacket without reading it.
We turn into a dim, deserted area. The only sound that echoes down the corridor is our quick footsteps and the rattling wheels of my carry-on luggage. I would panic if I am walking here alone, I say to myself, half aloud. By this time I have a sinking feeling that I’m over the estimated walk time to the gate. I speed up.
“Don’t worry, “ he says. “You’re almost there.” I slow down again, strangely feeling re-assured by this stranger who by all accounts, knows the way.
Another turn, and, there finally, the last gate at the concourse. The lounge is empty, except for the airline attendant at the counter. I hand her my boarding pass, and run.
“Have a safe trip!” he calls out. I quickly turn my head. He is standing by the counter watching me. I wave and yelled, “Thank you. Bye!”
The engine’s full volume blasts into my ears, and the door closes instantly as the flight attendant ushers me in. I scurry toward my seat. I feel my cheeks burning as all eyes stare at me — the passenger they all endured waiting for. The plane is delayed, sorry, but I am on it.
“Thank God,” I say to myself as I settle down, then close my eyes as the plane takes off into the night.
I think of the man who walked me all the way through from the tunnel to the gate.
His presence made me feel safe. His calm voice was reassuring. “You’ll get there, I promise.” I was a damsel in distress, and he was the knight that walked me out of the woods. My thoughts about his actions are beyond grateful.
I pull out his business card. Then something hit me: if Denver was his last stop, shouldn’t he be at the arrival area? Why was he down at the trains instead?
I will never know.
A week later, I mailed him a thank you Christmas card. Never heard back.
I lost his business card, forgot his name. I don’t remember his face.
But I have two pictures of him in my memory: one, a man in a white shirt and gray slacks, walking beside me when I was afraid; the second, him standing by the airline counter, watching me walk toward the waiting airplane, just as he said he would.