On the edge of his routine

   There was only one line at the airport security entrance.  All the travelers were waiting patiently for their turn to take off their shoes and coats, to be scanned by the magnets.

   Then there were two lines.  Mason was sent to be the head of the new line and he marched forward without a second thought.  But sadly, when got to the sign that said “wait here,” he noticed that there were two lines but only one TSA agent to check passports.  Glancing at the gentleman behind him, he said “uh oh.”  The man reciprocated with a quizzical look, at once affirming Mason’s singular responsibility for the resolution of the problem and also acknowledging that there was indeed a time-sensitive decision to be made.

   Next, the agent called forward a man from the original line.  Mason glanced back again and said jokingly, “this line is purgatory.”  The man’s face told him that he didn’t agree.  The man clearly had plans later that night.

   “Next.”  Said the TSA agent.

   In one movement, Mason glanced left at the head of the original line to see a young man looking down at his documents and left the safety of his line to move forward toward the agent.

   The opportunity seized, he didn’t look back.  He said “Happy Holidays” to the agent but got no response.  He continued on, free of the responsibility.

   Soon after that, he did look back because he heard the agent raise his voice: “There is only one line!”  He paused as the travelers looked at each other, confused.

   One traveler spoke up, “but he sent us down this line….”

   “There is only one of us here, so there’s only one line,” the agent interrupted.  There was no room for discussion.

   As this was happening the young man who was looking his documents approached with his flat-billed hat and two-tone coat.  Mason became conscious of his own clothes, a wrinkled fleece pullover and sun worn pants.  The young man mumbled, still looking down at his documents in a careless sort of way.  His mumbling was clearly the beginnings of a conversation, an invitation to respond with whatever sort of comment Mason preferred.  The mumbling was not an informational message, but an invitation to dialogue.

   “Not looking good back there.”  Mason said.

   “Yeah.”  The young man said with a smile.  

   Mason knew so much about him already.  Before the dialogue even began the young man’s relaxed mumbling had put Mason at ease, disarmed him.  It was clear that he was a calm and confident guy, not bothered by small things, snags in a larger plan and he knew how to small talk.  Mason knew that he came from a culture where talking makes life more enjoyable, makes time pass faster, and keeps everyone from inventing negative thoughts to fill the silence in their heads.  This guy is not from Newark.  Mason thought.  He’s too nice, too genuine.

   Mason glanced down at the guy’s documents and saw 3:35pm.  Feeling like he needed to make up for his line jumping, or maybe he just liked the guy, Mason asked, “what time does your flight leave?”

The guy looked down quickly and in that moment Mason thought that they might both be on the same flight, and then he thought that they might both be the same age.

   “Four o’clock,” he said calmly.  “You?”

   It was three thirty-five.

   “I leave at six, you can go ahead man,” Mason said, putting a hand on the guy’s shoulder and letting him go ahead.

   This unexpected act was so well-received that after switching spots the young man offered his hand to Mason, looked him in the eye and they shook hands with equal strength.

   “Thanks man,” the young man said with a strong smile.

   “You never know…”  Mason mumbled, trying to say that maybe somewhere down the line today this act would have a butterfly effect and ripple so far that he would just barely make the flight, or find a cab, or miss getting hit by a car.  But really he just mumbled.  

   There was mumbling from both sides.  The conversation was essentially an exchange of tones and concepts, not words.

   Then some concrete ideas were exchanged.

   They approached the x-ray belt and the young man said, “Oh yeah, I’m back in America.  I gotta take my shoes off.”

   Mason pictured a lot of places in that moment, none of which were the place the guy had been.  “Where you…uh…where you been living?”

   “Oh, uh… Germany,”  he responded.

   “Ah, nice.”

   “Yeah, there they only make you take ‘em off if you got boots or like shoes with those big heels…”

   Mason nodded in approval and the young man went on to give a semi-detailed explanation of the process in Germany.  Then the guy said something that Mason didn’t hear well, but the words gave him the impression that the young man was finishing a term of service.

   “So yeah…I’m done,” he said.  “I’m a civilian again.”

   Mason nodded again, his body language expressing his understanding.  “Welcome back.”

   He chuckled as he took off his hat and jacket.  “Thanks, man.”

   There was a moment of silence, just five seconds or so, but they both wanted to keep talking.  They were both talkers, they liked to chat in airports.

   They checked out each other’s faces as they spoke, taking in all the gestures and features, creating some place to file all these things they were doing and talking about.  The young man moved through, but he had forgotten to take off his shoes, so he was sent back.  Mason received him with a laugh as he said, “even after all that talk about shoes, right?”

   When the bags came out on the other end, Mason’s bags were all there, but the young man’s bag was missing.  Mason spotted it next to the x-ray operator and realized that his act of goodness may not have had any affect at all in the short-term.  He felt a small sadness.

   “You’re bag’s over there with that guy, man,” Mason said.

   “Aww…, this is the last thing I need,” he said calmly.

   Mason had his things, his shoes were on, his belt was back on, but he didn’t want to go.  He lingered to see what would happen with his friend.  Maybe I will be able to help, he thought.  But he would not be able to help, he was in the way and he had to get into the terminal.  All he could do, and all he did, was say goodbye.

   “Alright, man.  You be good.  Good luck,” Mason said, extending his hand again to shake hands goodbye.  This was going to be another one of those meetings that Mason would decide to let drift away, because it was on the edge of his routine.  

   The young man extended his hand and shook Mason’s hand again.  They gave contented smiles and held eye contact for a moment as Mason walked away down toward his gate.