That Time On My Way to Italy

My grandmother’s red-orange lipstick never failed to stain my cheek. Except now, this farewell kiss is followed by an onslaught of her tears. Having just graduated, I was about to board a plane Italy. I was meeting my father there to backpack across the country for the summer. It will be the first time I’ve left her side for more than a week. This woman has crafted me into the person I am, which I like to think is a decent one.

“Please make sure you use two seatbelts.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Grandma,” I replied, cracking a smile.

“This is serious. You find a way or so help me God…”

I couldn’t help but laugh. She obviously had never boarded a plane before. She lived such a sheltered life, and yet, she couldn’t wait for the day that I graduated and could get out on my own and explore the world; my ticket out. And here I was.

I turned away from her welcoming arms and toward the plane’s entrance. My gate had just been called. Before walking down the frigid passageway, I turn around and give her one last wave goodbye. I thought I was so ready for this. Why was I so nervous? Why did I have this nagging feeling that I wasn’t going to touch the ground again once I stepped onto that plane? Pre-flight jitters, I presumed.

Awkwardly, I stepped into the plane’s aisle and squinted to find my assigned row. I was one of the last ones on, and was sat next to a middle aged man. His eyes looked kind, like those of a father, and yet his outfit contradicted this. Dressed in black from head to toe, he shifted in his seat uncomfortably. Was it I that made him so uneasy all of a sudden? If anything, I was the least-threatening between the two of us. I lifted elbow to discreetly smell-check my underarms. They still smelled mountain fresh, so I just continued to sit there puzzled as to why this man in black broke out in a nervous sweat, his eyes nervously scanning the plane.

Upon liftoff, I got nice and comfy in my sort-of-cushioned seat. I double-checked for a possibility to fasten two seat belts over me like my grandma requested, but there was just no chance. I glanced to my side, and oddly enough caught the man staring right at me. His eyes were ice blue, he was a handsome guy, really, but he looked at me almost pleadingly. I almost asked him if I could help him, he looked as if he’d break out in tears at any moment. Quickly, his stare diverted away from my eyes and to the bathrooms located in the back.

“I hate to be trouble, could I please get through?” He asked in a pleasant manner.

“Of course,” I replied, shifting my legs so he could walk into the aisle. Watching him make his way back, I closed my eyes and dozed off thinking about Italian mountains and what was bothering that nice man.

I woke up an hour later, the man’s seat beside me still vacant. I immediately noted how strange this was, and as I looked around I could hear several other passengers grumbling about needing to use the occupied bathroom. I almost wanted to stand up for him, to tell them he just needed some time to himself. I opened my mouth and shut it immediately, though, realizing that wasn’t really a valid excuse for holding up the restroom. Just as I turned around towards the back, I saw my friendly neighbor step out of the bathroom. He had his hands stuffed in his black sweatshirt and still wore the same troubled expression as before. He looked oddly pale, as if he was going to be sick, or had just finished being sick.

I slightly smiled at him as he made his way back towards me, but he only stared back with a look of terror. He didn’t have to say anything, he was begging me for help. My smile quickly dissipated once he walked right past his seat, towards the cockpit. I gave him the benefit of the doubt at first, thinking he was only approaching a flight attendant to ask a question. But no, he went straight for the cockpit, where the pilots resided.

Of course, he couldn’t get in. After he pushed past the barrier of attendants, he desperately pounded on the door, like his life depended on getting in there. And of course it was locked, why didn’t he think that through?

He turned back around to face the rest of us, his eyes dead on in my direction. At this point, tears were streaming down his face, his blue eyes glassy as ever. Slowly, he raised his arms. In his hands, he held a gun.

“Nobody move,” he shakily demanded. “I’m in charge now.”

And sure, he was in charge, he was the man with the gun after all. But his voice said different. He didn’t want to do this. I knew it. Someone was making him do this. The facts did not change, though: the kind man sitting next to me is hijacking our plane, and Lord knows what he’ll do once he gets a hold of the pilot’s controls.

Everyone backed off immediately. The flight attendants huddled off into corners, now completely silent and unresisting.

“Open the door,” he said to one, almost asking for permission.

When the attendant only blankly stared at him, the man became desperate again.

“Now!’ He now barked in a militant voice.

The attendant stumbled for his keys and punched in the passcode to get through. Once he was in, a gunshot went off. Then another.

“I didn’t mean to!” He screamed, terrified of himself. No one said anything. The pilot and copilot were now shot and killed. He really was in control.

He took a seat in the captain’s chair. His back was now to us, and I looked around to see shocked faces, mothers huddled over their children, an old couple silently bent over in prayer.

I got up. Why am I getting up? Sit down, Charlotte. You’re going to Italy. You’re making it to Italy. Do not go towards the bad guy. What are you thinking?

I wasn’t thinking. I simply got up, and walked down the aisle and outside of the cockpit. I cleared my throat, waiting for him to notice me as he frantically tried to press the right buttons on the control panel. Or, the wrong ones, rather.

He turned his head immediately. He looked like a wreck. His eyes were pleading, he looked more terrified than any of the passengers.

“Hi, I’m Charlotte,” I heard myself say. Wait, Charlotte, you idiot! This man could be a terrorist and seek to kill everyone on this plane, including you, and you start out by saying ‘Hi?’

He didn’t say anything. His gun rested in his lap. But he didn’t shoot me. I took this as a sign of invitation.

Slowly, I eased myself into the copilot seat. We were on auto-cruise right now, but that could only last for so long. Eventually, he’d need to start steering.

I sat there a moment, staring forward at the vast night sky. It was surreal, really. It felt like space; floating in darkness, aimlessly riding with no destination in mind. I became mesmerized. It calmed me. He was just a person. He had a family. He had a past and a childhood, he is human, he has a heart. I could talk him through this.

Before I knew it, I was talking on and on about my life, my childhood, embarrassing moments; I even got him to crack a smile. I told him about the time I was hit with the news of my mother’s death at the young age of eight. Just old enough for it to really mean something, to understand that nothing really does last forever.

When I was through talking, my attention waded back to the black sky. There was a half moon out tonight, my favorite. I use to think it was half white, half black, like ying and yang; the perfect balance.

“Do you have any children?’ I asked out of the blue.

He didn’t say a word, just reached into his pocket and held out a picture of his wife, son, and daughter. They both shared his dirty blonde hair and sharp blue eyes. His wife looked easygoing, tired with the full time job of motherhood, but her composure expressed the love she felt for both her husband and children. We both stared at it, admiring the moment of bliss that was captured of the family. I looked over once again to see tears uncontrollably falling from his eyes. I had never seen someone look so conflicted.

“Who is making you do this?” I softly asked.

He never directly answered my question. All he could mutter was, “He said they would torture and kill each of them if I didn’t take control of this plane and crashed it into the Atlantic.”

I sat there, thinking this over. What terrorist would make a plane crash into an ocean? What political statement would that be making? I considered asking him these questions, but I knew ultimately it was no use.

I smiled. “I pray that no harm ever comes to your family. They seem lovely. And it’s admirable that you’d go to such great measures to protect them.” I wasn’t certain if I even believed my own words; after all, he did just take the lives of two innocent pilots. Although, this visibly did not come easily to him. He was not a natural born killer.

“If you do follow through with this, though, I just want you to know a few things. See that young girl in aisle eight, nervously braiding her hair? If you follow through, she’ll never go to prom. She will never graduate high school or let alone college. She’ll never get to decide if she prefers a lace or satin wedding dress, or when to have children of her own. And that’s only one life. There’s more than 100 people on this plane, including myself. And then there’s you. Your life matters. Your kids are anxiously waiting for you back home, excited to be able to play with daddy. You seem like a smart man, and I’m sure you know that every human’s life on this plane is priceless; they all have something to live for. And so do you.”

Five minutes must have passed until he made a move. Five slow, agonizing minutes. My heart raced once again as I saw him pick up his gun. But this time, he unloaded it. This time, he stood up in front of everyone, their eyes wide with anticipation, and dropped the unloaded gun into the trash can. And then, he walked back to his seat. And I did the same.

I was terrified he would change his mind, that I didn’t persuade him enough to not crash the plane. But until we landed in Amsterdam for a crossover, he sat right there. He sat there until law enforcement took him from his seat immediately upon arrival. Everyone could breathe a sigh of relief, and I was bombarded with hugs and blessings for saving their lives, for convincing him to do the right thing.

I waited for my next flight into Florence, where I would soon be reunited with my father. I thought over what had just happened. I thought about what would come of that man in black. All I did was take the time to talk to someone, because he is a human, and humans need to talk about their conflicts. They also need to listen. We both played our parts. I hope others learn to recognize a good soul when they see one, too. A soul can be good and troubled all at once. It’s all in who takes the time out of their day to realign them on the right path again. I’ll always take pride in that guidance I provided, that one time on my way to Italy.