Coffee at the Airport
With a Dash of Friendship
Travel was something everyone looked forward to. It was an event where you put on your Sunday best and the shiniest pair of patented leather shoes. Bright white shirts were buttoned and starched, and everyone wore a skinny thin tie. This was the dress code of the ’60s. As if everyone flying was going straight to a business meeting or a fancy formal after the plane landed. I remember my parents dragging the whole family to the airport to welcome a friend or relative that came for a visit. My Uncle Alex dropped everything he had to do that day, including going to work, because a friend was in town. Uncle Alex calls my Dad and Uncle Gus and tells them to be outside their apartments because he will be there in ten minutes to pick them up.
“Where are we going?” I heard my father ask over the phone. Then, in astonishment, he blurted out, “ Who’s coming to the airport,…. they have an eight-hour layover.’Before you know it, my Dad was pulling chest drawers and scouring through the bedroom closet for something to wear. He even changed his socks; he just put them on an hour ago. No, everything he wore had to be his Sunday best.
Dad, dressed in his black suit and thin black tie, was pacing in front of our apartment building near the street. A cigarette smoldering from his fingertips. My Dad didn’t mind waiting because it gave him time to have a cigarette. A big red Chevrolet double parks in front of my apartment, and my Daddy darts inside the passenger door. I hear some yelling from the driver, “You are not smoking in my brand new car.” I could see my Dad’s right arm flailing outside the car window with the cigarette in hand. My Dad pleads with him, “ It’s not in the car. Can’t you see it’s out the window? It’s not inside.” I see my Uncle Alex reach for my Dad’s arm, and he bangs my Dad’s arm so that the cigarette falls from his pinched fingers. Once the cigarette drops, the big red Chevrolet bolts away.
When my Uncle Alex was learning to drive, he would make my father leave and cross the street to stop the other cars. My father would cross one street, then cross the other. All the cars yielded to the pedestrian, and Uncle Alex used this opportunity to make his left-hand turn. As soon as Uncle Alex made the left-hand turn, he would pull over, and my father would run and dart back into the passenger door. Uncle Alex was resourceful. They made a good team together, albeit an odd team.
You may not know My Uncle Alex; God rest his soul. He was so charming and likable, that he could convince a blind man to give up his walking cane. His hair was thick and jet black like Elvis Presley’s. He had a smile and a laugh that placed you at ease. He loved people, and he would do anything for them. The person that flew in with an eight-hour layover was an old friend from school. He hadn’t seen him in years, but they kept in touch by phone. Uncle Alex wasn’t going to let this moment pass him by. He was going to the airport to meet his friend. They would catch up somewhere in the terminal.
The three parked that big Ole red Chevrolet at the airport parking lot. The trio walked side by side in their black suits and thin black ties. All three had a spring in their step as they rushed to see Alex’s old school friend. John wasn’t family. But Alex blurred that line; John was his friend and a brother. Uncle Alex’s heart started to beat faster as he grew with excitement. He remembered all the foolish antics they pulled on their school teacher. Of course, they didn't hate him. But the things they thought up were so funny that they couldn’t resist the temptation.
One time, John set two eggs precariously on the top of the chalkboard. The school teacher, oblivious to the two eggs above him, wrote on the chalkboard and tried to teach his lesson plan. All the students were snickering and laughing, the teacher unaware of what was to occur upon him. He had a habit of hitting the chalk on the blackboard and starting writing. The egg moved slightly but did not fall. The teacher kept on writing for ten minutes, and the classroom snickering grew louder and louder. John, of course, was the loudest. To quiet the class commotion, the teacher called upon John to write on the chalkboard. He handed him the chalk and directed him to stand by the blackboard. As it happened, he told him to stand at the center of the blackboard, directly underneath the two eggs. The class busted in an uproar. In frustration, the schoolteacher took the erasure and pounded hard on the blackboard, and with the first swipe of the erasure, both eggs fell upon John’s head and shoulder. A victim of his prank. Johnny just smiled and laughed. My Uncle Alex laughed even harder, to the point that he fell out of his seat. Johny’s prank was ingenious, but somehow Karma twisted the joke and made it priceless.
Johnny stood in the middle of the airport. Now in his mid-thirties, wearing the same black suit and small thin black tie. He had wisps of grey hair behind his ears. Tall and dark, he recognized my Uncle Alex. He walked toward Alex, but before you knew it, my Uncle Alex embraced him like a soldier coming home from a distant war. He hugged his old friend. Gus and my father followed suit and hugged him also. The four gentlemen walked across the terminal and sat at the airport cafe. They only had six hours left to catch up. Uncle Alex dug deep in his back pocket and pulled out his wallet to buy a coffee. He wished he had more time with his friend, and he wanted to take him home and treat him to dinner at his home. But, what Uncle Alex had that moment was a gift from heaven—a cup of coffee and six hours with an old friend. The moment was priceless for Alex; he was with his best friend after twenty years.
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