“You got my text!”
“I did,” I assure my surprised bejeweled traveler. Last year, I gave out my cell number to a few of my favorite elderly passengers so they didn’t have to tangle with the automated terminal transport system. The miracle of technology is a conversation that Mrs. Eisenberg and I often revisit.
“Did you see that awful man walking right behind me? He was wearing shorts on the plane and those terrible shoes that go through your toes!” Mrs. Eisenberg declares loudly enough that the “awful man” can hear exactly what she thinks.
“You mean flip-flops?”
“Yes, those! Just terrible. I don’t particularly care to see people’s bare feet at my pool club—I certainly don’t want to be staring at them on an enclosed airplane.” Mrs. Eisenberg scrunches up her nose in disgust as she adjusts the buckle on her purse strap that’s likely cutting into her shoulder. I nod apologetically to flip-flop guy as he swiftly maneuvers past us.
“Antonia, is that a new shade of lipstick?” Mrs. Eisenberg stops to ask, blissfully unaware that we are blocking the flow of foot traffic spilling into the terminal. I put an index finger to my lips, trying toremember if what I have on is one of mine or something I borrowed from my girls. “It becomes your coloring. I like that one for you.” She wags her finger toward my face and then grabs the crook of my elbow so I may escort her to my cart.I hope my lipstick is not in the bottom of my bag covered in exploded hand cream and lint.
“Thank you,” I respond, dropping my head, unsure how to receive a compliment from a woman who, I’m guessing, hasn’t left the house without an array of Estée Lauder products perfectly applied to her face since the invention of Astroturf.
Settling Mrs. Eisenberg into my cart, I move the attention off me by jumping right to the desert gossip. “So, Mrs. Eisenberg, how’s the Scottsdale crew? What do you all have lined up for winter?” We’re stuck behind a family spread across the corridor, swinging a toddler wearing a kitty cat backpack. I bite my lower lip to keep myself from informing them this is not a Saturday stroll in Golden Gate Park, and they need to keep it moving along.
“When are you going to start calling me Sylvia?” Mrs. Eisenberg asks sharply, placing a bony fist on her hip to emphasize her point.
“When are you going to start calling me Toni?” I tease, meeting her pseudo-indignation.
“I’ll do no such thing. Antonia is a grown woman’s name, and in front of God and the doctor, it’s what your mother chose for you. All these girls running around sounding like boys on a Little League team. Ridiculous. You’re too smart and too pretty to be called anything akin to an outfielder.” Mrs. Eisenberg does not hold back on her opinions. A right she claims she earned in the women’s liberation movement in the sixties and then fully embraced when she turned eighty. My guess is she’s always been liberal with her sentiments.
“Is this a new cart? These seats feel new.” Mrs. Eisenberg pats the firm pleather and snags the doughnut with no doubt that it’s hers. “If you want to be taken seriously, you have to go by Antonia.”
“Whatisgoing on with the desert crew?” I repeat, guiding Mrs. Eisenberg back to our original topic and off scrutinizing my name andmy future. She pulls a miniature boxed water from first class out of her purse, slowly unscrews the top, and takes a drink, no doubt wetting her throat to spill the news she’s been holding on to for the two-hour flight.
“Well, we are now down to only two drivers for Saturday-night dance lessons. Me and Patrick. Fred gave it up over the summer. Well, actually, the state took his driver’s license. He failed to share the news with the group. Probably mortified since he used to drive race cars for a living. Now Elaine has to ride with me since, you know.” Mrs. Eisenberg raises her eyebrows at me, so she doesn’t have to repeat the unspeakable. Indeed, I do know. The story is that Elaine, who apparently talks about everything and nothing at the same time, put the moves on Patrick too soon after his wife, Sally, had to be placed in a memory care facility. He declined her advances, and Elaine’s subsequent public humiliation at the Vintage Club spring fling brunch last year has forced her to now avoid Patrick at all costs. Mrs. Eisenberg didn’t shy away from declaring that Patrick dodged a bullet.
“I should charge like Uber,” Mrs. Eisenberg states, nodding once for emphasis.
“You know what Uber is?” I blurt, surprised by the casual mention of ridesharing.
“Well, of course I do. I’ll be ordering one every Saturday night for Elaine on my next trip to Scottsdale.” Mrs. Eisenberg giggles at her own joke, and I can’t help but join her. I’ve been hearing about what a pain Elaine is for a while.
“Enough about me. What’s new with you? It’s been almost a month since we’ve seen each other. Any progress on that frozen food in a coin purse idea?”
“The empanadillas? That idea was four, five months ago, September-ish maybe? When you went down to Arizona this time, I was working through food warmers for lunch boxes. Open them up, shake to create an exothermic reaction, and then set your lunch container on top of them to heat up your meal.”
“Right, right. I’m remembering now—sort of. I don’t get it, but I recall it. Besides, what if you’re having a Nicoise salad for lunch? I always have a salad for lunch.”
“Well, no need to remember it. I have no idea what I was thinking. It was stupid.” I exhale with defeat. One more busted project has ended up in the landfill of misspent money and time that I don’t have to spare.
“Not so stupid,” Mrs. Eisenberg asserts, an attempt to comfort me. “Though I don’t think I quite understood why someone would use the packets when you can just heat your leftovers in a microwave. Everyone has a microwave.”
Exactly,I admit to myself.
“Believe me, Antonia, the process of building something from nothing is miserable and thankless, and there are far more failures than successes. One day when you follow through on one of these ideas you’ve been sharing with me over the years, it’s going to be a huge hit. I know it in my bones. Work hard, and luck will bend your way. It’s the answer for anyone trying to get ahead.”
I smile at Mrs. Eisenberg’s sermon. I know she believes the platitudes she doles out, but hers is a charmed life where dreams come true behind perfectly manicured hedges. Mrs. Eisenberg is as clueless to how hard I work as she is to the financial struggles I face as a single mom from the moment I leave my house in the morning to when I drop dead into bed at night.
“Let’s hope you’re right, Mrs. Eisenberg,” I reply, withholding all the obvious reasons I’m still driving this transportation cart and not hard at work on said “huge hit.”
“I’m always right, Antonia,” Mrs. Eisenberg confirms without hesitation.
We arrive at the elevator, where a wheelchair waits for us. I hop out and extend my hand for Mrs. Eisenberg to hold on to. She steps off the cart and does a one-eighty to sit down in the wheelchair. Once Mrs. Eisenberg is settled, I push the elevator button and take her down two floors to baggage claim to meet her granddaughter. In the lift,Mrs. Eisenberg pops a mint LIFE SAVER in her mouth and then holds the roll up to me, her routine gesture that signals our time together is coming to a close.
We exit the elevator, and I push Mrs. Eisenberg over to the illuminated board that lists flight numbers and their corresponding luggage carousels.
“I’m at number six,” Mrs. Eisenberg announces before I have even found her flight. Her physical stamina to navigate the length of an airport may be waning, but her eyesight remains impressively sharp.
