Everything
had gone well, I thought as I sat in Group D, waiting to board for
Panama City. My mother checked her phone and my sister foraged
through her backpack for a snack.
I
was studying the overhead projector, noting that our departure time
was delayed again. First thirty minutes, then sixty.
“We
don’t have much of a layover before the domestic flight,”
I said to my mother, to prepare her for the worst, even though I held
out hope that we could board soon.
Two
hours passed and still I sat in the hard chairs, gnawing at an
unsweetened chocolate bar, the only snack I had left. I was studying
a man in a large Texan cowboy hat when I realized I’d seen him
before. And a lady with bright pink lipstick and a floral
skirt.
I
had been watching them traverse the aisles of the airport for hours!
“You
know things are bad when you start recognizing the people in the
airport,” I said gloomily to my sister. Women chatted and
laughed as they walked by. Men chuckled. I watched, remembering when
I was one of those happy passengers with a flight to catch, instead
of waiting for a grounded airplane to undergo dubious
examinations.
“Our
domestic flight will be taking off now, in Panama City,” I told
my mom at 4 p.m, picturing the tiny aircraft lifting into the clouds,
three empty seats where we were supposed to be sitting. “I’m
gonna get in line and see what that guy says.”
The
man behind the desk, when I finally reached him, avoided my eyes as
he pecked at his computer.
“No,
I don’t know when you can board,” he gritted.
“Is
there a problem with the plane?”
“There…might
be,” he said vaguely.
“If
there is, what’s going to happen?”
“Then
we’ll put you on a different plane.”
“When
do you think we’ll be put on a different plane?”
“We
don’t have spare planes lying around!” he barked.
I
returned to my seat.
We
finally boarded the airplane and I sank into my seat, pressing my
eyelids. The passengers were tense, muttering and glaring.
“Why
aren’t we movin’?” growled the 20-something kid
next to me. His friend was on my other side. I debated asking if they
wanted to sit together so I could have a window or aisle seat that
wasn’t between their muttered curses. I decided not to. They
were popping gum, scowling, muttering obscenities the longer we
waited. If I said a peep, it might bring their wrath onto me.
The
mic crackled. “Passengers, apologies for that long delay. We
seem to be experiencing some…other issues. We have to ask you
to unboard.”
The
kid beside me, who looked like his name would be Tony, although I
don’t know his name, swore. As we piled to our feet and passed
back into the airport, an older man cracked,
“Panama
City looks a lot like Miami.”
We
bought dinner at a Chilean nook and ate it on the same hard airport
seats that were starting to feel like home. “Keep your
receipts,” I growled to my mom. When we finally reboarded the
airplane, I took my seat between Tony and his friend but jammed
earbuds into my ears to avoid any chance of conversation. With any
luck, they would forget I existed.
“You
think they serve alcohol on this airline?” Tony said. “We
deserve it for all this &^#*&^!”
I
froze, then ripped out my earbuds. “No, they don’t,”
I said quickly. Alcohol was the last thing they needed.
“I’m
gonna ask,” said the other kid. “I don’t care how
much it costs.” I groaned inside when the flight crew brought
out two cans of beer.
“Why
aren’t we MOVING?!” said Tony in a loud voice.
Suddenly
the plane jerked and started rolling. Then it stopped.
“Passengers,
please stay calm, it would appear the wheels were…stuck to the
pavement…” the crackly voice came again.
I
frowned. How would wheels get stuck to the pavement?
“We
have solved THAT issue. Unfortunately, the flight crew has timed out
during the delay…thank you for your patience as we wait for a
new flight crew.”
That
was the end. The plane exploded with passengers swearing, but none as
furious as the boys on each side of me. My seat shook as Tony roared,
“*&*#$$#$% to Panama City!” as if our destination was
somehow to blame for our entrapment in a tiny airplane full of hot
angry passengers.
Keep
calm, I
whispered under my breath. I considered saying something like, “Let’s
try to stay calm,” but I knew Tony would strangle me.
The
plane jerked again and we were once again taxiing on the pavement,
then lifting into the sky. Instead of cheers, the passengers muttered
annoyance. Tony ordered more beer, and when we finally touched down
in Panama City he was relaxed and chill.
“How
are we going to get a flight out now?” my mom said. The
overhead boards were black. It was midnight. There were no domestic
flights. Mom hadn’t flown alone in years, and she was lost, I
could see in the panicked whites of her eyes.
“We’re
gonna have to see a manager,” I said with false bravado,
leading them through the empty airport.
Finally
we stumbled upon a back office with “Gerente” written
on the door.
“Hola?” I
said. My Spanish was good enough to explain that we were in trouble,
but not good enough to explain why, except
with much use of the word “tarde,
MUY tarde.”
The
manager led us back into the main airport and punched some buttons on
the screens.
“I
got you on morning flight,” he said, deciding, I suppose, to
dispense with my Spanish. “But you need hotel tonight.”
“We’ll
just sleep in the airport at this rate, it’s 1 a.m.” I
said, my shoulders screaming in agony from the weight of my luggage,
my stomach growling and gurgling in annoyance at the
emptiness.
“Look
at your mother, she need to sleep,” the manager said.
I
turned around. Mom had folded herself onto one of the cold airport
chairs, her luggage heaped on the floor. I hoped she hadn’t
lost her passport in the shuffle.
We
wandered outside the airport and stood bleakly on the lit sidewalk,
surrounded by palm trees and distant skylines. A yellow taxi cab
appeared in the dark. My Panamanian friends always told me not to get
in random taxis in Panama City.
You
never know, they
said.
But
I was desperate.
I
waved in the darkness, hoping the driver would see me.
“Espera,
no!”
I
turned. The manager had followed us through the glass doors and was
waving at me.
“Getting
into taxis you don’t know, it’s not good idea. I call the
bus for you. Wait.”
“Gracias,”
I said, looking into his eyes, hoping he could read how very much I
meant it.
“Is
no problem,” he said, looking again at Mom, his eyes dark and
sympathetic. Mom, for her part, was beside herself, muttering, “We’re
never gonna get there! We’re never gonna make it…”
I
grabbed Mom’s shoulders. “Mom, I need you to stop saying
that. I need you to be positive.”
The
bus arrived, totally empty (except, of course, for a driver) and we
piled inside as the manager gave the driver instructions to the
hotel.
“Gracias!”
I yelled as the bus pulled away, looking for a nametag on his
uniform. I hadn’t ever seen it.
The
next morning when we arrived back at the airport, I searched for the
midnight manager but his face was not among the airport crew.
I
sank into the seats of our domestic flight, wanting to kiss the blue
vinyl. All I could picture was the manager’s face, full of
sympathy for Mom as he stopped me from getting in a strange taxi at
midnight.
Who
was he? What was his name?
I
emailed the airline a day later, and received no response. He didn’t
have a nametag. He had spoken English. He had gotten us free flights
onto an airline unconnected with the one we’d been traveling
on.
Do
angels exist? I like to think that they do.
Ann
Miranda is a writer and illustrator. Raised in Ohio, she enjoys
writing and reflecting on the ways that our environment and hometown
shape our life experiences. Her favorite genre for reading and
writing is memoir, which she feels is the highest form of writing.
When she isn’t writing or painting, Ann can be found
birdwatching or drinking a latte at her local coffeeshop. Angel in
Panama City is one of her nonfiction short stories.
(Unless
you
type
the
author's name
in
the subject
line
of the message
we
won't know where to send it.)
Another
story by Ann
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