I suppose life could be worse. I’m not sick anymore. They opened the deli back up for us. I’m being toasted.
Exhaling regret, I lift my own paper cup to tap against his. “To the first year of my new life.”
The concoction is sweet and creamy. It warms me from the inside, like satisfaction. I’m glad I picked up this trip.
“To God’s plan to prosper you and not to harm you. To give you a future and a hope.” Nathan sips, then grins over the top of his paper cup. “I think I just gave you a birthday verse. Jeremiah 29:11.”
I’ve never had a birthday verse before. I can’t say that I believe God has plans for me, but I appreciate that Nathan does. “I’ll take it. I could use a little more hope for my future. Some help to find some purpose.”
The waitress brings our sandwiches. Grilled bread and cheese melt together to create a buttery scent more delicious than science can explain. With the added layer of caramelized onions, it takes on a whole new level of tantalizing aroma. And that’s before I even bite into the sandwich.
I speak around my mouthful of crispy gooeyness. “Move over, birthday cake.”
Nathan pulls the sandwich away from his mouth to try to break stretchy strings of cheese. He grabs a napkin to help. “The chef has certainly found her purpose.”
“No kidding,” I say, though I’d never considered creating delicious food to be a life purpose. But it’s improved my life.
I look toward the counter to catch our server’s eye and signal our appreciation. She didn’t have to open her little shop back up. In the grand scheme of airports, she plays a small part, but today she made a huge difference.
Maybe that’s what a life purpose could be about. Not about becoming great the way I’d longed for as a ballerina, but to serve as I do now.
With this new perspective, I look around at all the hangry passengers the deli employee saved me from. There’s a businessman who very well could sell the farm equipment that brought us these incredible onions, an elderly couple who might have been here to visit the family they raised and who now run their old farm, and a mom with kids who have the potential to one day grow more onions for future generations.
I nod toward a woman at the gate who is taking up a whole row of seats to ... lie down for a nap? “What’s her purpose?”
Nathan glances out at Sleeping Beauty. “She’s helping other passengers meet their step count for the day since they can’t sit down.”
“Very thoughtful of her.” I grin. This could be a fun game. “What about him?” I tilt my head toward a man having a loud argument over the phone.
“Oh, you don’t know?” Nathan swallows so he can get into his story. “He’s a lawyer. The good kind. He’s fighting to keep criminals off the streets.”
I lean forward. “He’s not going to refuse to put his phone in Airplane Mode and then give me dirty looks when I wait patiently for him to hang up so we can take off?”
“Oh, he most definitely will,” Nathan affirms. “But it’s for a good cause.”
I snort. Nathan grins proudly for making me snort. And we continue on with our little game until Vincent calls to let us know Denver has lifted their ground stop. We need to board immediately.
In record time our passengers are buckled, the doors are armed, and we take off from my favorite little airport. Then I panic.
I’ve never worked aft before. Our flight to Walla Walla was so short that I didn’t have to do anything, but our flight to Denver is long enough that everyone has time to wash down their grilled cheese with a soda. There are so many carts and bins back here. Which cart do I use for service?
I pull out my electronic flight attendant device. In the airlines, we refer to it as an EFAD, but it’s simply an iPhone that contains all our flight information, announcements, and the entire company manual. We’re required to keep it charged and log into the app for each flight, though upon takeoff and landing, we stash it under a thigh so our hands are free to assume brace position. I thought this weird at first, like pouring juice into a trash bag, though now I find myself sliding my own phone underneath my thigh every time I sit. Anyway, I need it now to look up cart configuration.
The service manual provides a photo of how to set up the top of the cart with cups, napkins, coffee, and other essentials such as tea bags and creamer. This isn’t something they teach in training, and it takes me a ridiculously long time to dig through the various bins to find everything. Finally I push my way up the aisle to start with business class.
I smile triumphantly at the guy who’d refused, as predicted, to put his phone in Airplane Mode. He’s on his computer now. “May I get you something to drink?”
He doesn’t even glance over. “Cranberry juice. With ice.”
“You got it.” In my mind, I’m hydrating him to help him keep prisoners behind bars.
I grip a plastic cup, which is way too slick and lightweight to grip easily. Did the airlines test market these things for safety? Oh well. It’s not as if I haven’t sprayed someone with juice before.
I’ll fill the cup with ice first so there’s some weight to keep it in my hand when pouring cranberry juice. Brilliant. I’m getting the hang of this.
I tug open the ice drawer and reach for the ice scoop. There isn’t one.
We had ice scoops when I worked first class. Oh wait. I’d had to dig it out of the supplies drawer. I missed my chance to do that this time.
