Move. Move. Move. Move. Move. I shouted silently at his back. Frustration and impatience were oozing from my pores creating a toxic cloud around me and the ten or so passengers behind me waiting to get to their seats. I changed my mantra to Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. And directed it to inwardly instead of to the elderly man making a slow, unsteady pilgrimage to his seat.
I could actually see my seat, 16C, just past the old man’s long right ear whenever he bobbed to the left. Soon I’d be able to unload the backpack that was currently joining forces with my bra strap to cut a groove into my left shoulder. I’d be able to sit down, put my face in my book, and disappear for a few hours into the kind of silence I can almost never find during the semester. But not yet. The rubber tip of the old man’s cane had gotten stuck on the base of the aisle seat as he passed row 10 and he now made an agonizingly slow revolution of his ancient head to see what had happened; first the long ear, then each layer of jowl and then one shaggy eyebrow came into view as he turned, forcing me to step back a pace and my backpack to thrust into the chest of the tall man behind me. The tall man grunted and I turned to make a sincere yet exasperated apology, tilting my head toward the old man by way of explanation. “Close quarters!” I attempted jovially, but the tall man never looked at me, arms now folded across his chest, eyes insistently focused on the space three inches above my head.
The old man in front of me had by now disengaged his cane from row 10 and our plodding caravan continued. We passed row 12 without incident but at row 13, things got tricky again. He seemed to need a break. He made a full stop, so full I wondered if his breathing had stopped as well. His cane was suspended a few inches above the ground and I was relieved when I saw him finally lower it and shake out his shoulder a bit. I was sandwiched now between him and Tall Man, whose loud impatient breaths were forming storm clouds above my head. My nose was inches from the old man’s shiny pink scalp, scantily clad in strands of white. Looking down, I saw that he wore beige trousers and a wide high belt that hit his torso at random, almost without reference to a waist. His short-sleeve shirt screamed Old Dude. Its color, an insipid matte salmon, no longer existed in fashion. I could almost feel the stretch gabardine and imagine that if I were to reach out to touch it, the tiniest callous on my finger would catch at that fabric and leave a puckered burr. I resisted touching it but it wasn’t easy. I couldn’t see the front of the shirt, but I just knew it was a button down and had stiff lapels and one chest pocket. Where had he gotten it? Had he owned it since its heyday in the 1950’s? Or had he bought it in recent years at a shop that specialized in time capsule artifacts? It was spotless though and maybe even freshly pressed. Through it, I could make out the outline of his sleeveless undershirt, crescent-moons framing each rounded shoulder blade. I knew for sure the t-shirt was thick white cotton, worn soft with age and laundering. I could imagine that soft shirt, like a second skin, both protective and comforting and probably smelling of laundry soap. And before I could stop myself, I leaned in close and sniffed his shoulder.
He caught me.
One bushy brow raised as it turned along with one long ear, in my direction. And one remarkably clear blue eye filled with unmistakable mirth. His upper lip quivered slightly as he formed words. “Do I smell like shit?” he croaked, smiling. “I hope I don’t smell like shit.”
“N...no. No! What?” I croaked back, my brain frozen by my own audacity and embarrassment. Why had I sniffed this guy? What else might I do?
He nodded once, slowly, and returned the eye, the ear, the bushy brow to their former task of getting to his seat. But now his way was blocked, as a woman in row 14 had taken advantage of the delay, had jumped into the aisle and was rummaging through the overhead compartment for something.
I recovered myself enough to stammer “I’m so sorry, sir.” close to his ear. What else could I say?
“Oh!” he said without turning, in a voice that made me want to hand him a lozenge. “Life’s too short to be sorry.”
Now I was struck with a desire to hug this old guy and after the sniffing incident and the near shirt-touch, I decided it would be best to simply jam my hands into my pockets. 16C would be my refuge.
He spoke again, over his shoulder, “I’m Roy.” The woman who’d been blocking the aisle found what she’d been looking for and took her seat and he began to shuffle forward again.
Roy. There was an air of understated triumph about him that I hadn’t noticed before. He was a proud man. And a cheerful man. And well groomed. What else had I missed? Roy. He was Roy of course, not just some old man. This insight made me consider giving Tall Man another shot, but a swift glance backward withered this thought before it had fully formed.
Turning back to face forward, my backpack got snagged on the aisle seat and I lost my balance, tripped slightly and my cheek landed on that shoulder I’d been sniffing. The sharp tang of blood filled my mouth and I knew I had bit my lip hard. “Young lady,” laughed Roy hoarsely over his shoulder, as he righted himself, “if you don’t stop flirting with me, I may get the wrong idea.”
A stifled chortle behind me and I knew that Tall Man had seen and heard it all. Not only was 16C going to be my refuge, it would be my oasis; a place where I could make some sense of the world again. And a place to save myself and others from my perverse inclinations.
We were approaching row 16 now and I was desperately trying to formulate an appropriate non-sniffing salute, something light-hearted, that might erase my fumbles and earn me some respect in Roy’s clear eyes. I decided on a cheery, “Take good care, Roy!” to be delivered just as I slid into my row. I thought he might turn then and I might be able to see the front of that shirt, his other eye and ear and to form a full picture of him to take with me.
Roy stopped, though, at row 16, and croaked, “Here we go. 16B.”