Stranded

My alarm went off at 5:00 the next morning. Though I was tired from the lack of sleep I’d had the night before, I was more excited than I’d ever been. I quickly washed my face, and was pleased to find the bruising had subsided some.

Before leaving my house, I ate a pop-tart and debated over whether to leave a note for my father and brother. Deciding against it, I took my keys, left my house, and locked the door for the last time. With butterflies in my stomach, I left my driveway and began the four hour journey from Aspen to the Denver International Airport.

I passed by towns and cities I’d never heard of, and took in the scenery where I could. When I finally reached the city of Denver, I was already exhausted. It was 9:40 when I pulled into the parking garage of the airport.

Yawning, I stepped out of my car and stretched. I pulled my bags out of my trunk, and walked into the huge airport. Men and women; with briefcases, business suits, and cell phones; passed by me, walking as fast as they could.

I wandered through the airport, searching for someone who worked there who could help me. I must have come across as severely confused, because it wasn’t long before a security guard kindly approached me.

“Could I offer you some help, miss?” he asked me. He had a southern accent and a beaming smile on his face. I nodded, and he took one of my bags happily. With his help, I finally got my ticket and got my bags checked.

“Now let me get this straight,” he said. “You’re seventeen, and going to Amsterdam. By yourself. And not coming back?”

“Yes sir.” I said.

“Well you’re gonna need some energy for that. You’ve got thirty minutes till your plane boards. Why don’t we talk some over breakfast?” he suggested.

“That’d be nice,” I said, happy to have someone to talk to.

We entered Dunkin’ Donuts, where the security guard bought me a donut and a cup of coffee. He sat down in front of me and looked at me through his tortoise-shell glasses.

“So you know enough about me,” I said to him. “Tell me about you.”

“Well. My name’s Rick Eastwood. I have a wife, Angela. And a daughter, Emily. I was born in Sodom, South Georgia, and moved here when I was twenty-four, and here I am today.” He had kind eyes that sparkled behind his glasses. His moustache was speckled with grey and contrasted with his dark skin. “Now really. I want to know why you’re going. Still haven’t told me that part.”

I spent the next twenty minutes telling Rick about my family. And he listened. He actually listened. He didn’t judge me. And he didn’t ask questions. He just listened.

At the end of my spiel, I looked at my watch and saw that my plane boarded in ten minutes. Rick and I parted at the security gate. He shook my hand, gave me a smile, and wished me the best of luck.

I made my way through security and to the gate five minutes before it opened. I sat down in the small lounge and looked around at the people who I’d be flying with to New York. Most were obviously on their way to the big apple for business meetings. One of the men in the lounge appeared to only be a couple years older than I, but he looked far more important. His dark brown hair was slicked back, and he was wearing what looked to be designer jeans, Prada shoes, and a charcoal blazer. He was typing on a Macbook, and had a briefcase open beside him. He was wearing a pair of black thick-rimmed glasses and was focused on typing whatever he had opened on his computer.

The gate opened, and I stood up, my heart beating faster than I could believe. They called the first-class passengers on first, and I expected to see the young man in the blazer enter the plane with them. He remained with the rest of the passengers in the lounge.
The rest of the passengers were let on the plane, and I was the first to take my seat. I had a window seat and was glad to. I arranged all my belongings and picked up one of the magazines in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me. Passengers filed onto the plane and took their seats around me. There was an older man sitting on the aisle seat on the same row as I. There was a seat between the man and myself, and I was anxious to see who would be sitting between us.

Looking up, I saw the man in the charcoal blazer enter the plane. He walked down the aisle slowly, looking at each of the row numbers, and stopped at the row where I was seated. I caught his eye and nervously looked away. He climbed over the older man in the aisle seat, and sat down beside me. I gave him a quiet “good morning,” which he responded to with a grunt.

I waited for the flight attendants to put on their performance telling the passengers what to do in case of an emergency. No one ever listened, though it’d make me more comfortable if they did.

We took off from the ground, and I couldn’t believe where I was. I was actually getting away from my family, from the people I’d gone to school with the past twelve years, from everything. I was starting over, and it was the strangest feeling I’d ever felt. It was like taking the feeling of happiness, and mixing it together with anxiety and stress and confusion and worry and excitement and ambition.

About half an hour into the flight, I got bored. So I turned to the man sitting beside me. He’d pulled out his Macbook again, and was typing, typing, typing away. Maybe I shouldn’t have disturbed him, but I did.

“My name’s Leilah,” I said with the sweetest smile I could muster.

He looked up from his typing and turned his head towards me. “Hello.” He said with little emotion.

I continued to press him into talking to me. “I’m seventeen. How old are you?” I asked, again with a smile.

“Twenty.”

“Well, if you don’t mind my asking, what is it you’re doing?”

“Work.”

“What do you do?”

“I work for my father.”

“Oh. And what does he do?”

“He’s the CEO of Starbucks.”

“Wow. So I’ll assume you’re the kid that went to private school and got like, forty-seven presents every year for your birthday?” I said, dropping the cuteness. There was a moment of silence, which I quickly filled. “You know, the one no one liked?”

“Actually, yes.” He said. I could see the slightest hint of a smile come up.

“And your name?” I asked

“Jackson.”

“Nice to meet you, Jackson.”

I didn’t say anything for a while, and I let him get back to his typing. I listened to some
Ryan Adams, Tom Petty, Amos Lee, and Bob Dylan on my iPod for about an hour and a half. Before I knew it I was asleep and dreaming again.

I woke up as we were preparing to land, and realized my head had been resting on Jackson’s shoulder the whole time. Embarrassed, I lifted my head and stretched my back. The pilot came over the loudspeaker announcing that we would be landing soon

Ten minutes later, we began to file out of the plane. I entered John F. Kennedy International Airport not knowing where to look first. There were more people than I’d ever seen all gathered in one area. I had a layover of only thirty minutes, so I went directly to the gate of my next flight.

Fifteen minutes before the plane to Warsaw began boarding, people began to flood into the lounge. I looked around, and saw more tourists boarding this plane than the one to New York.

They began boarding earlier this time, so I was on the plane a good fifteen minutes before it was scheduled to take off. I had an aisle seat this time, and there was a middle aged man at the window seat.

I took out a book I’d packed in my carry-on and began to read. With my nose in my book, I saw a pair of Prada shoes standing at my row. Looking up, I was shocked to see Jackson once more.

“Now this is just strange,” he said with a smile. I stood up to let him past me. “Where are you going, anyway?” he asked.

“Amsterdam,” I responded.

“Why Amsterdam?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. Just always wanted to go, I guess.”

“You know, there are much nicer places in Europe.”

“Well my plane ticket’s already been purchased,” I said lightheartedly. “Where are you going, then?”

“Amsterdam,” he responded.

“Now hold up,” I said. “Something doesn’t add up here.”

“It’s for business,” He said with a laugh.

“Twenty years old and you’re already worried about business. It’s a shame, I tell you,” I said to him.

He laughed it off and got himself comfortable beside me. This time he didn’t get his laptop out and instead pulled out a pad full of blank paper, along with a pencil. I watched him as he began to sketch out a picture.

“I guess you’re not all business then,” I said.

“Yeah, I went to art school for two years,” he said. “But of course, Dad didn’t approve. And I wasn’t gonna make any money from my art. So. I’m working with my dad. Not exactly what I’d love to be doing, but it puts food on the table.”

“What about your mother?” I asked.

“Oh she was amazing. Always supported my desire to be an artist. She died when I was seven,” he responded.

“You’re kidding,” I said.

“Uh…no. I don’t usually kid about that kind of thing.”

“No, no. I’m just surprised is all. My mother died when I was four. Guess we’re not totally different after all.”

Our plane took off at 7 o’clock PM, and darkness was approaching. Not surprisingly, I fell asleep yet again, and wouldn’t awake to Warsaw.