Random Acts of Existentialism

I would guess that it happened somewhere over Denver. I can’t say with certainty, for I am not as skilled as some at reading the intricate light patterns that identify America’s great cities from the air at night. But given that we were halfway through the flight from Indianapolis to L.A., the time seemed about right for Denver. The time, and the turbulence--that singularly jarring, pothole-in-the-sky turbulence that announces one’s passage over the Rockies during the season of summer thermals.

For some moments I’d been watching her, the woman in the window seat to my left, cataloging the telltale signs of the fearful flier. Today’s second-generation white-knuckle fliers--as aware as anyone of the stereotype--take great pains to avoid being found out. But if you’ve flown as much as I have, you can always spot the fearful ones. You look for the set jaw (relaxed just long enough now and then to allow the escape of an anxious sigh) or the ceaseless shifting in the seat (a product not so much of sheer nerves as of an instinctive attempt to render the bucking of the plane less noticeable amid all those other body movements).

This woman’s breath came in quick, shallow gasps; she swallowed frequently and noisily. And though she made a good show of not gripping the armrests, she couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with her hands: They darted from attache case to seat-back pouch to her rapidly moistening face. She would clasp them in front of her, then break them apart, then re-clasp them again.

This had been going on for perhaps 10 minutes when I did something very unlike me: I reached across the empty middle seat and, without a word, took her right hand in mine.

She was neither young enough that my action could be excused as paternal nor old enough that I might have been within my rights to comfort a shaky older flier. No; she was surely within a few years of my own age, and thus the most likely to feel, or at least feign, offense. And at first she did flinch reflexively, shooting me a sidelong look of what I took to be violation. But in the next instant she surrendered to my grip. And in a jittery voice she whispered, “Thank you,” the sound so faint that it was as if she’d merely mouthed the words. Not sure what to say in response, I smiled thinly and nodded.

We flew like this for perhaps 15 minutes. With each new jolt, her hand tensed; more than once I felt a fingernail bite into the soft padding on the outer edge of my hand. Through all this I pointedly avoided looking to my left. I didn’t want her thinking that any further familiarities were called for; I didn’t want her suspecting that my act was, at bottom, an opportunistic pickup above the clouds.

Eventually the turbulence abated. I began to withdraw my hand from hers--propriety seemed to demand that I do so--but she clenched her fingers around my own, holding them in place. “Just till they turn off the seat belt sign,” she whispered.

As if on cue, the chime signaled the calming of the air stream on which we rode. Clumsily, we disengaged. I believe she made the first move, but it’s hard to say. And though I thought I might have felt her pat my hand ever so softly before letting my fingers leave her grip, I’m not sure of that either.

At once she excused herself and walked hurriedly to the lavatory up near the cockpit. Afterward she occupied herself in the front of the plane, kibitzing with the flight attendants and adjacent passengers. She then fumbled through the bin containing the magazines available for in-flight reading, and for some time she sat in an empty seat beneath it, browsing one magazine after another. She did not walk back toward her assigned seat next to me until moments before we were told to re-buckle our seat belts “in preparation for landing.” Reaching our row, she just dropped her head and smiled politely at the floor as she brushed my knee on her way to the window seat. To all appearances, she might have been any ordinary flier needing to squeeze by any other ordinary flier on any ordinary day in the air.

I thought: She’s embarrassed. The image that came to mind was that of a woman who runs into some anonymous someone she’d once invited home in a reckless or drunken moment.

We landed, taxied and reached the gate, all in silence. The plane stopped and that other familiar chime sounded, inviting the usual mad rush into the aisle. I rose to remove my carry-on from the overhead compartment and, as I tugged it free, glanced down and caught her looking up at me. She again formed the words “thank you,” this time producing no sound whatsoever.

“Don’t mention it,” I replied. With that I turned toward the front of the plane, waiting for the congestion to ease so that I could move forward. I didn’t need to look back to know that she’d remained in her seat until I was well up in the cabin.

When I thought about the episode that evening, my first impulse was to feel bad about how things had ended with her--at best awkward, at worst uneasy. It wasn’t until later that I realized I’d been looking at things the wrong way. After all, I’d offered my hand instinctively, expecting nothing in return. Indeed, it was the ultimate existential act, beginning and ending in the moment of its occurrence, serving no larger or lasting purpose.

There are, or should be, such moments of connection in life, moments of need between a man and a woman that have nothing to do with sex but everything to do with intimacy: the profoundly human need to soothe and be soothed.

Sometimes we all need someone to take our hand till the turbulence subsides. No more, and no less, than that.