Middle Seat
As we stood nearby the exit space in the economy section of the United Airlines flight that would be departing from San Francisco to Taipei, my wife and I were determined to make every last second count before we had to take our seats. This flight would be more than 12 hours in length, the longest single journey with our 18 month old daughter who would hopefully spend most of the trip splayed out across our laps since she had no assigned seat for herself. This was the last flight capping off a month long journey in Japan and the US to see our parents, letting them meet Luna for the first time. She had never met any family members since her birth, the result of Covid-19 fears and the international minefield of travel restrictions keeping us at bay for one and a half years.
Being a first-time traveler with an infant, I realized what a boon it is to have priority boarding. On our previous flight on the way to Japan, the staff at check-in even gave us seats where there was no one in front of us — that sort of front row in the middle section. During those flights we could prop our feet up on the outside wall of the lavatory partition (flights are the only instance I ever use the word “lavatory” when referring to a restroom). This gave us a little area where we could create Luna’s tiny world in mid-air. She leafed through the in-flight magazines and safety instructions multiple times on her previous flights. On her very first flight from Taipei to Tokyo, the flight crew on the ANA flight even gave her a handwritten postcard, as well as a few small gifts (including infant eating utensils which we still have) in order to commemorate the occasion. These small bits of effort go a long way in creating positive experiences.
As the time neared for the cabin doors to close, our hopes of having an empty window seat were dashed when a gigantic man about ten years my junior lifted his carry-on above our seats and “pardon me’d” his way past the two of us. Wearing a light blue mask that hid his shorn stubble and a maroon baseball cap, I could sense he was one of my fellow countrymen. Although we were boarding in San Franciso, I detected an accent that most definitely had a Southern drawl. It twanged my heartstrings like an old dusty banjo when he spoke, and I decided that I would make the most of our flight by engaging “Mr. Action Hero” during the flight.
“Sorry you’ve gotta be squeezed in next to the three of us. Hopefully she’ll be able to sleep most of the flight.” I pointed at Luna who was giving our seat mate the once over, cocking her head to one side while strumming on her bottom lip like a curious monkey-pup.
“Nah, no biggie. I got two of ’em. Hey there little fellah’.” Luna continued to eye the stranger warily as I was drawn to his Southern hospitality. I didn’t correct his mistaking Luna’s gender to be male — it just didn’t seem important at the moment.
“First time going to Taiwan?” I asked.
“Yup, first time going to Asia. I’ll be there for 6 weeks. Doin’ this ‘un as a favor to one of the guys I work with. He was like, ‘Can you go to Taiwan for 6 weeks’ and get this engineering project started?” This peaked my interest…a first-timer to Asia!
“Wow….so you’ve never experienced jetlag, either. What are you working on anyway?” he definitely wasn’t the English-teacher type. I felt myself intrigued and in the heat of a rare blast of Southern US cultural exchange that had parked itself right next to us.
“I’m with an engineering company, and we got subcontracted out by GE to take on this project. Tryinna’ git our foot in the door with the Asian market, I s’pose.”
As I guessed, it turned out he was from the South, Texas in fact — a state that is able to fit 19 Taiwan islands within its border. As the plane pulled back and started it’s trek to the runway for take-off, I began to learn more about our seat-mate. He proudly shared details about his hometown in Texas and pulled out his phone giving me a Google Maps tour of the state which I had only been to once during my college days on a now somewhat foggy-in-memory trip to South Padre Island. As my seat-mate talked to me and connected with his fellow countryman, the masculine baritone Texas notes put me in a trance — the walls of the plane cabin dissipated and I was pulled through a time-tube. My wife and daughter slipped out of site as I slipped down the tunnel…
I’m looking at the broken bottles on the beach, the chemical taste of gas station Lays’ potato chips on the tip of my tongue, the cheap and youthful tingle in my mouth of a cheap rum and coke. I’m here with the current iteration of my college improv performance group — Full Frontal Comedy. It’s a paired-down version of the group, with only the male members present, and improv performers are awkwardly out of place on the testosterone-laced South Padre Spring Break experience— myself, Sean, Sam, and Kevin are here for the duration. At the beginning of the trip, Kevin tells me that he forgot to bring his wallet, and so I tell him not to worry — I agree to treat him to all the meals, but I make the stipulation that I will only purchase Circle K hot dogs for him during the entire stay in an attempt to troll his absentmindedness.
I’m standing at the hotel check-in contemplating the best pick-up line for the cute Latina girl who checked us in at the front desk.
I’m waiting for no one with a drink in my hand.
I’m walking by the wet t-shirt contest on the beach.
I’m playing the role of a college student on Spring Break.
I board a free service shuttle van. I notice the “click” of the van door behind me as it shuts. I sit in the van and look at the luminous eyes of the other passengers, staring at me. All of the faces are white, and the girl closest to me talks in a gentle voice about the dangers of drinking and Spring Break and she directs my attention to the Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. All I wanted was a ride to the other end of the island for karaoke. The van slowly glides past traffic, a floating island of devout believers amongst an island of Spring Break traffic and debris.
My Texan seat-mate rises only once during the entire flight to Taipei. I’m astounded at the amount of liquid he’s able to hold within his body. Maybe his bladder is 19 times the size of mine. As he floats in that state of half-sleep that comes with sitting on international flight, he leans against the window, hat still on his head, his jacket hanging over his face to block out the world of the plane’s interior. I have the film version of Murakami’s “Drive My Car” paused, the screen lit up in illumination. We’re in mid-fight and my daughter has woken up in a foreign environment, unaware of where she is. I get up to carry her around. This is part of the joy of travel with an infant — carrying her around while the world is asleep, somewhere above some ocean or land mass. She smiles and raises her finger to point at the lavatory sign.
The rest of the flight goes in fits and bursts between half-sleep and half-daze, my daughter across both of our laps. My Texan companion stays stoic with his face covered by his hat. Towards the end of the flight, the lights come on, and we find ourselves amidst another conversation. I’m drawn into his accent and “foreignness,” even though he’s a homegrown American boy.
“Anything West of here is basically Mexico. You might as well not be in America anymore,” he points to the map of Texas and indicates a large swath of land in the Western portion.
“So what do you think the biggest issue is facing Texas now? What’s the biggest problem?” I ask, genuinely curious.
He scrunches his eyes and answers, “I’d say it’d have to be the Californians moving to Texas,” he says with conviction.
My eyes can’t help wander to his phone screen-saver when he looks at it. I see a young woman and a boy I assume to be her son. The Texan mentioned to me that he has two children, but is separated from his wife. At some point he also talked about his new girlfriend and his son as well. It’s easy to connect the dots.
Kevin, Sean, and I wait outside the holding center where they kept our friend and fellow improviser, Sam, for the night. He spent the evening locked up, and we’re here to pick him up after what must have been a dreadful evening. It’s the kind of situation that lends itself to Spring Break lore for years after, and we’ll never know what it was like to sleep in that holding cell with whomever it was he had to share with.
I wasn’t there when Sam was grabbed and taken into custody by the police, but I was there when he committed his offense. Out of place and with a lot of free time to spare after checking into the hotel, we simply continued to drink alcohol in the lobby nearby the check-in line at the hotel where we were staying. Apparently, watching Spring Breakers check-in was the best we could do for entertainment at the time. Nursing another rum and coke in the lobby where I continued to silently crush on the receptionist, my friend, Sean, approached Sam who was hovering and lilting precariously close to a group of girls waiting to check-in for their room keys. From his glazed look on his face and shifting eye movement, I could sense that he was looking for an opening to talk with them.
“Hey Sam, why are you standing next to the line?” Sean asked.
“So I can do this!” Sam responded.
WHAAAAAAP!
I remember the sound of the slap more than the motion itself. It was the sound of the palm of Sam’s hand coming down with great force on the exposed thigh of one of the girls’ in the line. Skin against skin contact. At the time, I was in a bit of a rum and coke fog, but I remember the shock of the moment, the look on the girl’s face — her reaction as Sam continued to lilt back and forth, waiting for the onslaught of anger. It felt so cinematic to me, and at the time I think I disassociated myself with our relationship, seeing it from afar.
“Get away from me you fucking asshole!” the girl screamed. This was now a real scene and Sam took off as the hotel reception (my girl?) called for security. Sam ran out of the lobby, out of the hotel, out the back. Security pursued and caught him, slamming his face down in the sand as they apprehended him.
Kevin, Sean and I split up after the slap. Sean told me to go back to the room and get rid of the alcohol as Kevin was underaged, but instead I ended up walking in a daze and chatting with someone about karaoke at the other end of the island. I took my own irresponsible turn and meandered off the scene and into the van of Christian missionaries.
It wasn’t until the next day when we were able to pull the pieces back together and clean up after our friend. We stood outside under the blazing Sun burning off any hangovers from the previous evening as we embraced the reality of consequences.
“I really have no idea how Uvalde happened. I don’t know how they messed up that bad,” the Texan and I have come to address current events and the recent mass shooting in Uvalde, Texas. We go back and forth about the news and I ask him about guns and shootings in Texas in general.
“I guarantee you that nothing like that would’ve happened in my hometown. Probably 90% of the teachers in my elementary school have concealed weapons in their desks. No way that someone would be thinking about doing something like that where I’m from.”
My own thoughts about gun violence run deep and are very personal, but I want to listen to what my seat mate has to share. I say nothing about how my 22 year old cousin was gunned down in the crossfire of gang violence in Boston. I remain silent about my sister’s best friend who was killed while watching a movie in her living room, and the man in the apartment next door was cleaning his rifle, only to have it go off, firing a round through the wall and into her skull. My sister fortunately didn’t show up to watch the movie together that evening. I mention nothing about how my high school tennis teammate’s 11 year old brother was killed while attending a gun safety introduction course at the nearby Virginia Military Institute. The instructor neglected to note a round in one of the weapons, and a death resulted due to this oversight. No information is shared about any of these tragedies to the Texan, but my mind can’t help going to these places every time the topic of gun violence comes up. I don’t judge the him or his opinions. My mindset from the middle seat is to grab the chance to know his point of view.
“Matthew Mcconaughey needs to keep his mouth shut,” the Texan says as we talk about how the actor made an appearance at the White House in response to the Uvalde shooting. A native of Uvalde, Mcconaughey spoke out against gun violence from the perspective of a parent and a local. The Texan has strong views about the actor and his political views. The consequences of the shooting tragedy make themselves heard, even as we bite into our airplane lasagna.
As the back door opens to the facility, the first thing I notice is that Sam is not wearing a shirt. I can’t remember if he’s wearing shoes or not, but in my recollection he is barefoot. He is still dressed in his swimming trunks he was wearing on the previous evening, but the string has been torn out of them, making the shorts lose their elasticity. In order to keep the shorts from falling off of his body, he has to walk with one hand holding up the shorts, while his other arm sways back and forth as humans do when we walk. When they pulled the string, they stripped away his dignity as well.
The light of the sun shines off Sam’s bald head. His eyes squint and his head is cocked to one side. I imagine that it must have been a long night for him. As he approaches, I can see the dry white flecks around the corners of his mouth, probably evidence of dehydration, sleeping under an air conditioner, or perhaps still a reaction from a bad hangover. He narrows his eyes at us and adjusts to the natural light as he walks and his mouth is twisted into an awkward and embarrassed expression. It’s an expression that says, “I know…I messed up.”
We direct Sam to the rental car. He’s tall and sits on the passenger side. Sean drives. Kevin and I are in the back, an empty space in the middle, ready to be filled by our friend’s story as we depart.
“My name’s Blaze,” the Texan puts out his hand after we touchdown and pull into Taoyuan airport. In all my flights where I’ve ever engaged in conversations with the passengers next to me, I’ve always noticed that names are never exchanged until the very end of the flight. I credit this detail to the fact that when we strike up a conversation with our seat mates, we’re already very much in another human’s personal space. Additionally, we’re also on a journey together — a shared experience. Names come at the end of a flight. When we touch back down to the Earth, then we feel obliged to say who we are. Before that time, we let the conversation go wherever it will and share a journey and story together. We just need to be open to listening and sharing as there’s nowhere else to go. We can be stuck in the middle or we can enjoy the ride and create an adventure of discovery. Our time is full of moments we only ever get to experience once.
As we leave the plane, we go our separate ways. We exit the aircraft, picking up our stroller along the way. As we step off the ramp from the aircraft into Taoyuan airport, we are greeted by signs warning us not to bring any sort of meat or produce into Taiwan in order to keep out diseases. From this point, we have multiple steps and forms to complete in long lines to go through the Covid protocols. These are capped off by saliva tests outside of the airport, followed-up by partly-subsidized government taxis to take us home. Later that evening I turn on the TV for a moment and learn that Nancy Pelosi landed in Taipei’s other airport, Songshan 松山機場, only hours after we arrived. At that moment, I do not know that the next day rockets will be fired from China’s Fujian 福建 Province over Taipei as we sleep amidst the highest China/Taiwan tensions in decades. But we go about our unpacking, our lives, our routines as we take a middle seat to history. It’s good to be home.
I know that I will most likely never see Blaze again, and I take our shared experience as something where we can learn from one another. Had he sat one row behind me, we most likely never would have talked. Things could have gone an entirely different direction had we never said a word to one another — neighbors already in each other’s spaces but for whatever reason stubbornly refuse to take that first step and open up. In a way it’s easy to never say anything, to take the middle seat, plug in the movie, close our eyes and never connect with the humanity sitting by our side. But life has so much more flavor when it’s not easy. And while traveling with a baby may not be easy, it certainly is an adventure, even from the middle seat.
