Nowlin Craver © 2004

Every muscle in Newman Carter’s body ached. He was so tired, and yet still he walked as fast as he could with his luggage carrier behind him, zig–zagging in and out of the slower pedestrian traffic in the airport–DANG he almost hit that lady with his carrier—but he couldn’t slow down. He was not going to miss that flight!

This last 24 hours had been a friggin nightmare, and if he missed this connection he’d end up in a hotel. He was not gonna spend Christmas in a damned hotel. He wanted his own bed; come hell or high water.

Finally he arrived at Gate 34, and the waiting area was empty. His whole body sagged; for a moment, until he saw that the door was still open with a flight attendant taking tickets standing there. “You’d better hurry,” she said. “And you think I got this sweat running down my face at the airport sauna,” he thought to himself. He still walked as fast as he could up the sloping hallway to the airplane door; any little delay could make them lose their place in line for takeoff. When he got there, a male flight attendant blocked his way. “I’m sorry, sir, but you can’t take that on board,” he said, pointing at the bag on Newman’s luggage carrier.

“Hey; I’m allowed two carry-on bags; and this is only one,” Newman said as he disengaged the bag from the luggage carrier.

“It’s too big sir”.

“The hell it is; I’ve traveled all over the world with it. It’s under the dimensions; you can check.”

“But it won’t go under the seat, and all the overhead bins are full. You’ll have to check it.”

“Like hell I will; this is my magic act, my living. It never goes as luggage; never!!!” And with that Newman grabbed his bag and stalked on to the plane.

“But there’s no room, sir,” the attendant called.

“I’ll make it fit under my seat,” Newman yelled back, never slowing a step or looking back. Luckily he had an aisle seat; unluckily he couldn’t make the bag fit under the seat in front of him. No matter how he pushed and shoved he couldn’t quite get it in far enough.

He then bolted up and started opening all the overhead bin doors. “Sir, they’re all full; I’ve already checked.”

“Look at these bags that could fit under people’s seats; make them put them where they belong, and there will be plenty of room.”

“I’m sorry, sir; we can’t do that.”

“I have a right to my one bag on board, and if I don’t get it I’m never flying this friggin’ airline again.”

“Please, sir, I know you’re upset, but this isn’t helping anything. It’s just putting us further behind.”

The flight attendant’s kind tone in the midst of Newman’s hissy fit suddenly made him feel like such a twit. “I’m sorry… I shouldn’t be taking it out on you. I know it isn’t your fault.” And with that he removed the bag from under the seat and handed it to the attendant.

“Thank you, sir. If you’ll follow me, we need to fill out a claim ticket for the bag.” Newman followed dutifully, shuffling his feet along in resignation. As he reached the plane exit, the attendant stopped and paused; then said, “Wait,” as he turned around and started back towards Newman.

The attendant then stopped and handed Newman the bag and opened up an overhead door on the right side. He took out a small bag from the overhead bin, and said, “I’ll just put this up front, and you can stick your bag in there.”

“Thank you so much,” Newman said as he shoved his bag up in the bin. As he slammed the door shut he noticed the sign underneath saying, “PRIVATE: Flight Attendant’s Luggage Only.” Now he really felt like a creep for having been so rude. He had just sat down in his seat, when he remembered he’d left the luggage carrier just outside the plane exit; so he grudgingly got up to go get it.

When he arrived at the doorway, he was surprised to see a line of passengers even later than he was, but he was not surprised by their reaction to the news that they would have to check their carry-on luggage. Standing out from the general grumbling was a young man protectively cradling a guitar in a soft case, explaining that it was an extremely valuable instrument and had to ride with him in the cabin; while the flight attendant explained there was simply no room—and no he couldn’t keep it in his lap. As Newman was picking up his luggage carrier, the young man was pleading to at least have the guitar gate-checked and hand loaded, but once again was denied, being told there was no time. The young man’s whole posture seemed to slump as he gave in and took the baggage claim tickets to fill out.

It really shocked Newman how unfair this all was. How could the flight attendant be so unfeeling; didn’t he realize the precious nature of a musician’s instrument to him and that it would never survive being treated like luggage???? He was just thankful he’d gotten there while there was room left.

By the time he reached his seat, his gratitude had turned to guilt. He’d acted like a jerk, and yet his props were safely stowed away in the cabin. Then suddenly without warning, a thought popped into his head. He tried to ignore it, but it wouldn’t go away. He wondered whether the guy’s guitar would fit in the place where his bag was now… NO. It was too stupid to even consider… After he’d fought so hard to get his bag in the cabin, how could he even think about giving it up now. After all, was that guy’s guitar any more valuable than his magic props? No.

But then again, they probably weren’t as fragile either. He was very proud that his entire act flew in the cabin with him so that he never arrived at a gig with lost or broken props, but now he was going home for a couple of weeks, so a misplaced bag wouldn’t kill him. And if anything were broken, he could replace or rebuild it in that time. But could the same be said for the guy’s guitar?

He didn’t want to get up, but something inside him just wouldn’t let him sit there and let another artist’s precious instrument be subjected to such peril. He walked very slowly toward the front, almost hoping he would be too late. After the fuss he’d made about not putting his bag in cargo, he really felt stupid about even suggesting the idea of giving up his space in the bin. So with trepidation and embarrassment he pulled the attendant over and asked if he thought the guy’s guitar would fit in the employee’s overhead bin. The attendant said, sure; that would be nice if Newman was willing to put his in cargo. He said he was, and the attendant told him to go get his bag. His fear seemed kind of stupid at that moment; what had he expected the attendant to say….”Who in the hell do you think you are trying to keep his guitar from getting crushed, you little moron?”

Newman had a hard time keeping his balance on the way back to his seat; suddenly he felt so tired. He collapsed in his seat, with a feeling of satisfaction for having saved the guy’s guitar. This exhausted, but pleasant, reverie lasted for several minutes until he happened to look out the window and see a luggage handler with his bag. The man looked down at the bag with a quizzical expression on his face, then shrugged his shoulders and tossed the bag from the platform down to a conveyor belt 10 to 20 feet below. Newman suddenly felt sick. When he’d calculated all the possible damage that could be done to his bag and props through rough handling, he’d never considered anything like that. But just think what if it had been the guy’s guitar… That thought still made him glad he’d done it. Kind of.

The relatively short flight was agonizing as Newman imagined all the terrible things that could have happened to his props, and his vain attempts to convince himself that everything was probably okay. He just wished they would hurry up and get there so that he could know for sure. Nothing could be as bad as his imaginings.

When they finally arrived, Newman quickly stood up ready to depart, and then had to wait for a long line of people to make their way down the aisle before he could get out. “He’s the one,” he heard a female voice say, and turned to see a young lady pointing him out to the guy who had the guitar. The guy then passed by Newman saying nothing. Then the young lady passed by and said, “Sorry about that… but thanks.”

The guy didn’t even say thanks. That thought kept running through Newman’s mind over and over as he walked hurriedly to the baggage area. And each time he got more and more disgusted. Sure his girlfriend had said thanks, but it wasn’t her guitar he’d saved. The image of the guy just walking by, saying nothing, kept juxtaposing in his mind with that of his bag being thrown down 20 feet. He’d saved the guy’s guitar and couldn’t he couldn’t even say a simple thanks?!?!?

His anger made him walk all the faster, getting him to the baggage area amazingly fast. All the longer to wait. This gave him time to calm himself down, somewhat. After all, he hadn’t done it for the gratitude… and his stuff was probably okay… he hoped.

Soon, other thoughts were invading his peace. As more and more people started filtering in the baggage area, a vast emptiness engulfed Newman. Standing there by himself, he suddenly realized how alone he was going to be this Christmas. Ironically, it had been something he had to fight for. His sisters had each wanted him to come spend Christmas with their families, but he always kind of felt out of place, like h e was invited as a charity case. Besides, screaming kids, hours and hours of preparing gluttonous meals, and materialistic exchanging of gifts was not a very spiritually uplifting atmosphere to him. But previously, he’d always given into their pleas, and finally had to be cross with them to let him stay home this year. Now standing among all the couples and families, he felt a deep aching to not be alone. But still he didn’t wish he could be with his sisters’ families; he wished he had a family of his own to be with and celebrate Christmas how he wanted to. Which led to more depressing thoughts about his probably never finding someone he could marry.

Luckily, he was jarred from his melancholy by the starting of the conveyor belt as the luggage started descending down the shoot. He sat there anxiously looking for his bag, which he expected to come out first—last on, first off, right? Well, not in this case apparently. In fact, almost everyone else had retrieved their bags and left the baggage area by the time he saw his familiar green and yellow come over the hump. The whole situation just further irritated him because he knew that if he’d kept it in the cabin with him, he’d already be home by now. He knew it shouldn’t bother him like this that the guy hadn’t thanked him—he hadn’t done it for the gratitude. But dammit, it did. He stalked towards the bag, not even wanting to waste the seconds it would take for it to come around to him. Then as he jerked up the bag, he noticed something else—the hook was missing. At the point the bag doubled over there was this hook so that it could be hung on closet rods, and there were little flaps that Velcro’d over it when it was being carried like a bag, except they didn’t work very well and the hanger was always slipping out. As he sat staring at the link which should’ve held the hook, Newman suddenly realized what must’ve happened: When the guy looked down at his bag, he must’ve seen the hook was hanging down, but instead of doing anything about it, just shrugged and tossed it down 20 feet. A shiver ran threw him as he realized that instead of the hook ripping off, his bag could have ripped apart and his entire act been strewn all over the tarmac. Turns out the possibilities could be worse than his imaginings. “No good deed shall go unpunished,” he grumbled to himself as he strapped his bag to his carrier. “But never again… The thankless Jerk.”

As he approached the exit doors, Newman saw a lady with two small children timidly hold up her hand to get his attention and say, “Excuse me, sir, could I–” That’s all Newman heard as he shot out the door, not slowing a step; the last thing he was in the mood for was someone asking for help.

By the time he had reached the curb, he was already feeling guilty. A lady with two small children–what if she really was in trouble somehow? He once again felt very ashamed at how he’d let that small incident affect him so. He went back and said, “Sorry, were you talking to me?”

The lady looked around a little confused, since the area was now completely vacant except for them, “Ummm, I know this may sound a little weird… and I’m kind of embarrassed to ask… but I saw you by yourself and all… and well… was wondering if you’d like to come to our house for Christmas dinner tomorrow.” She said the last part so fast and low that Newman thought he must’ve heard wrong. It was the last thing he could’ve guessed she would be wanting, and he just stood there stunned.

She filled the silence, laughing nervously, “Of course you probably think I’m some kind of nut or something, asking a complete stranger like this…” Newman nodded his head involuntarily. “But I was on your flight and saw what you did giving up your space for the man’s guitar… and you seemed like a good” man… and, well, we’re all alone this Christmas–my husband died last February…. and I thought it might make it easier on the boys if there was a man around on Christmas…not that I want you to think I’m looking for a father for them…” She forced another laugh.

After several seconds of silence with Newman just staring at her, she continued on, “It wouldn’t be much–just a simple dinner, and then singing carols, and reading some from the Bible… I hope that’s all right…” Another long pause. “And don’t think you’d have to bring presents or anything; we’re just exchanging some stuff we made for each other tonight….”

After more of Newman just standing and staring at her, she said, “Well, I’m sorry to have bothered you; I’d probably feel the same way if some strange man had asked me asked me…” She picked up her bags and guided her boys ahead of her out the door. “Hope you have a blessed Christmas!” she called back over her shoulder.

They were almost to the curb before Newman yelled, “No, wait!” Actually he had to go outside and yell it a second time because the automatic doors had already closed behind them. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s just it’s been a long day and I’m really tired… But, yes, I would love to come celebrate Christmas with you and your boys.”

“Oh, thank you!” she almost yelled, flashing a beautiful smile. “No–thank you,” Newman said. “Do you need a ride home?”

“No, we’ve already got shuttle tickets,” she said as she handed him a scrap of paper that she had hurriedly scribbled on. “Here’s our address… I hope it’s not too far away from you,” she said.

“Not at all,” Newman lied. He waited until they boarded the shuttle, and then started the long trek to the cheaper parking. The cold that had earlier made him shudder now felt like a gift to him from God. His mind raced with the improbability of it all… just moments after feeling such pain over being alone for Christmas, a sweet woman asks him to come spend Christmas with her—just the kind of simple, spiritual Christmas he’d almost given up ever having with a family of his own. And all because he had given some guy his place for his guitar. Could such serendipity be purely accidental? Maybe she was the one he’d waited so long for… Then suddenly he felt an overwhelming fear, as he thought about the responsibilities of a wife and two young boys…

“Stop it!” he yelled out loud as he stopped walking and actually slapped himself on the face. “Why do you always get carried away like this,” he continued talking out loud to himself. “Every woman you meet you start thinking ‘is she the one?’ or find some coincidences to make you think she’s been sent to you by God… Sheesh!” He picked up the handle of his luggage carrier, which he had dropped during his tirade to himself and continued on to his car. “A sweet woman asked you to spend Christmas with her and her two darling children; just accept it for the simple gift it is,” he thought as he opened his car and stuck his bag inside.

“Stop it!” he yelled out loud as he stopped walking and actually slapped himself on the face. “Why do you always get carried away like this,” he continued talking out loud to himself. “Every woman you meet you start thinking ‘is she the one?’ or find some coincidences to make you think she’s been sent to you by God… Sheesh!” He picked up the handle of his luggage carrier, which he had dropped during his tirade to himself and continued on to his car. “A sweet woman asked you to spend Christmas with her and her two darling children; just accept it for the simple gift it is,” he thought as he opened his car and stuck his bag inside.

“You know nothing will probably come of it…” He started the engine. “But still, it’s better than spending Christmas alone, eating Swanson’s canned turkey and Stove Top Stuffing.”