I’m rolling my luggage up to the ticket counter at Westchester Airport. I’m the kind who goes away for the weekend and takes both a full-size suitcase and a carry-on. I like to be prepared for all occasions.
This means that weighing my suitcase at the airport is always a moment of truth. Under 50 pounds, all’s well. Over 50 pounds, I have to disembowel my luggage in full view of everyone to find other places—my carry-on, my purse, my pockets—for some of the heavier bits: a travel-sized surge protector, a surprisingly heavy compact umbrella, a mini flashlight with extra batteries. If I thought I could get through the TSA security check wearing an extra pair of shoes as mittens, I would do so.
Westchester Airport is a small airport where you still weigh your luggage and get boarding passes from a ticket agent, which I like. But today there’s only one agent at the counter. The man talking to the agent is trying to rebook a flight to Florida. So, I get in line behind him.
I notice he only has a carry-on and that the luggage scale is empty. If, while he is still talking to the ticket agent, I weigh my luggage and discover it’s overweight, I can start rearranging my stuff, so all will be in order by the time the ticket agent is ready for me. I hoist my 28-inch suitcase onto the scale and hold my breath…. Forty-nine pounds!
I’m celebrating the numbers displayed on the baggage scale as if I myself had just hit my goal weight, when a second agent appears at the counter. Before I can lift my 49-pound suitcase off the scale and roll it over to her, a lady and her young daughter of about eight or nine, who were behind me in line, are standing in front of the new agent. They cut the line!
I consider saying something, but it doesn’t seem worthwhile. I can see from the lady’s rickety carry-on and her hodgepodge of tattered tote bags, that she is not a seasoned traveler. I stay put and wait for the first agent, who is still helping the man find a flight to Florida.
As I’m standing there, I hear the new agent tell the lady that her rolling carry-on is too big. I glance over and see that she has over-stuffed the front pocket of the bag, which means it no longer fits into the metal ‘is your carry-on the right size’ cage-like contraption. I wish I could help her, but I don’t think I can: all of their tote bags are packed to near bursting, and the lady and her daughter are wearing only tank tops and bike shorts so they don’t have pockets in which to squirrel away their stuff for the flight.
I hear the lady explain that their flight East was the daughter’s first airplane ride, and they’re now trying to make their way back home to the West Coast. Yesterday’s flight cancelations across the whole Eastern seaboard forced them to reschedule their flights. Unlike the man, a frequent flyer unfazed by the need to rebook his flight, the lady and her daughter are visibly distraught and intimidated by the rigmarole of airports and flight cancelations.
The ticket agent explains that a carry-on must fit into the overhead compartment or be checked. ‘If you’d like to check your carry-on, you just need to pay the checked baggage fee.’
‘We need to get home,’ the lady pleads. Something in her voice makes me look up from my phone. Her eyes are filling with tears.
‘Are you okay?’ I ask.
She nods, but as she attempts to pay to check her carry-on, both of her credit cards are rejected. It is clear from the tote bags that the lady and her daughter are using as luggage that they’re not people of means. Flight delays, which are merely an annoyance for those with sufficient funds, have more serious consequences for those who don’t. I wonder if unanticipated expenses, such as an extra night in a hotel, caused this lady to expend whatever resources she has.
When she realizes she doesn’t have enough cash in her wallet, she frantically searches the bottom of her purse for any coins or dollar bills that may be hiding there. Finding nothing, she begins to weep. Her young daughter looks overwhelmed.
The scene hurts my heart. I’m about to take the money out of my wallet to pay her fee, perhaps to comfort myself as much as anyone else, when the man going to Florida slips his credit card to the agent.
I know I should be grateful – he just saved me the baggage fee and the lady gets to check her bag: win, win. But I’m acutely aware that I failed to step up. I am berating myself for hesitating when an agent becomes available. It’s my turn. I get my boarding pass, check my luggage, and head towards TSA.
Wendy K. Mages, a Mercy University Professor, is a Pushcart Prize nominee and an award-winning poet and author. For links to her writing and videos of some of her storytelling performances, visit her website sites.google.com/view/wendy-mages-storyteller
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Story illustration made with human creativity and artificial intelligence.