Many
years ago I read of an experience at Christmastime which took place when
thousands of weary travelers were stranded in the congested Atlanta, Georgia,
airport. An ice storm had seriously delayed air travel as these people were
trying to get wherever they most wanted to be for Christmas—most likely home.
It
happened in December of 1970. As the midnight hour tolled, unhappy
passengers clustered around ticket counters, conferring anxiously with agents
whose cheerfulness had long since evaporated. They too wanted to be home. A few
people managed to doze in uncomfortable seats. Others gathered at the
newsstands to thumb silently through paperback books.
If
there was a common bond among this diverse throng, it was loneliness—pervasive,
inescapable, suffocating loneliness. But airport decorum required that each
traveler maintain his invisible barrier against all the others. Better to be
lonely than to be involved, which inevitably meant listening to the complaints
of gloomy and disheartened fellow travelers.
The
fact of the matter was that there were more passengers than there were
available seats on any of the planes. When an occasional plane managed to break
out, more travelers stayed behind than made it aboard. The words “Standby,”
“Reservation confirmed,” and “First-class passenger” settled priorities and
bespoke money, power, influence, foresight—or the lack thereof.
Gate
67 in Atlanta was a microcosm of the whole cavernous airport. Scarcely more
than a glassed-in cubicle, it was jammed with travelers hoping to fly to New
Orleans, Dallas, and points west. Except for the fortunate few traveling in
pairs, there was little conversation at Gate 67. A salesman stared absently
into space, as if resigned. A young mother cradled an infant in her arms,
gently rocking in a vain effort to soothe the soft whimpering.
Then
there was a man in a finely tailored grey flannel suit who somehow seemed
impervious to the collective suffering. There was a certain indifference about
his manner. He was absorbed in paperwork—figuring the year-end corporate
profits, perhaps. A nerve-frayed traveler sitting nearby, observing this busy
man might have identified him as an Ebenezer Scrooge.
Suddenly,
the relative silence was broken by a commotion. A young man in military
uniform, no more than 19 years old, was in animated conversation with the desk
agent. The boy held a low-priority ticket. He pleaded with the agent to help
him get to New Orleans so that he could take the bus to the obscure Louisiana
village he called home.
The
agent wearily told him the prospects were poor for the next 24 hours, maybe
longer. The boy grew frantic. Immediately after Christmas his unit was to be
sent to Vietnam—where at that time war was raging—and if he didn’t make this
flight, he might never again spend Christmas at home. Even the businessman
looked up from his cryptic computations to show a guarded interest. The agent
clearly was moved, even a bit embarrassed. But he could only offer sympathy—not
hope. The boy stood at the departure desk, casting anxious looks around the
crowded room as if seeking just one friendly face.
Finally,
the agent announced that the flight was ready for boarding. The travelers, who
had been waiting long hours, heaved themselves up, gathered their belongings,
and shuffled down the small corridor to the waiting aircraft: twenty, thirty, a
hundred—until there were no more seats. The agent turned to the frantic young
soldier and shrugged.
Inexplicably,
the businessman had lingered behind. Now he stepped forward. “I have a
confirmed ticket,” he quietly told the agent. “I’d like to give my seat to this
young man.” The agent stared incredulously; then he motioned to the soldier.
Unable to speak, tears streaming down his face, the boy in olive drab shook
hands with the man in the gray flannel suit, who simply murmured, “Good luck.
Have a fine Christmas. Good luck.”
As
the plane door closed and the engines began their rising whine, the businessman
turned away, clutching his briefcase, and trudged toward the all-night
restaurant.
No
more than a few among the thousands stranded there at the Atlanta airport
witnessed the drama at Gate 67. But for those who did, the sullenness, the
frustration, the hostility—all dissolved into a glow. That act of love and
kindness between strangers had brought the spirit of Christmas into their hearts.
The lights of the
departing plane blinked, star like, as the craft moved off into the darkness.
The infant slept silently now in the lap of the young mother. Perhaps
another flight would be leaving before many more hours. But those who witnessed
the interchange were less impatient. The glow lingered, gently and pervasively,
in that small glass and plastic stable at Gate 67.
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