I arrive on the plane bound for Row 8, Seat F totally excited about my window seat when I come upon this huge hunk of a man sitting in the middle of my row. Think hip hop artist Heavy D meets Michael Oher of The Blind Side. He is dressed in all black: black hoodie (the hood was up) dark sunglasses, black leather jacket, black pants and he is covered in bling. He looks like a movie star and is SUPERHERO large; so much so that I notice straight away that half of his body seems to be spilling over into my tiny space. It is absurd and comical and also a momentary conundrum. I think to myself, “Wow, Sarah. The only way this seating arrangement is going to work is if you just crawl up onto this man’s lap and he holds you like a baby for the 3-hour flight.” For a split second I imagine the two of us at a circus performing together as ventriloquist and puppet, with me on his lap while both of us sing “We Both Reached for The Gun” from the musical Chicago.
When he looks up and sees me standing there he greets me with an apologetic wince and then gets up to let me in. And as he just towers over me I can tell that he is the gentlest giant, like Hagrid to my tiny wisp of a Harry Potter.
“I’m huge,” he says. “I bought this seat with extra leg room but this is not cool. I’m sorry.”
I want to break the ice and put this man at ease, so I say exactly how I am feeling in the moment.
“Well, this just strikes me as very funny. It’s a situational comedy, isn’t it? But I must tell you: I already feel safe on this plane — like you are my protector.”
He looks down and chuckles.
“I am a bodyguard,” he says.
We laugh.
“I thought you might be a rap artist,” I say.
“I work with a lot of big names in the music industry, “ he replies. “And I am also a bounty hunter.”
I gasped. Whoahh. Wait! …A BOUNTY HUNTER? I cannot BELIEVE my great fortune!! I am about to be stuck on a plane touching legs and playing twister for three hours with a bounty hunter! I have no idea what a bounty hunter does. But I envision this man stalking and then apprehending bad guys. He is chewing bubblegum and I can smell his sweet breath. His right leg looks as big as my entire body.
I say, “A bounty hunter? Doesn’t your mother worry about you?”
He pauses. All is still in his mind.
“She’s dead now, but ohhh, my mother worried plenty.”
“What was your mother’s name?”
And that’s all it takes. For the next 30 minutes as the plane stays grounded on the tarmac he tells me all about his wonderful mother and his twin sister who he loves but who is an addict; how he raised her little girl and put her through college and how proud he is that she has stayed on the honor roll; how he was almost killed a few times by protecting huge artists in the music scene; how to stun someone by punching them straight in the chest; how important it is to have control of one’s situation and all entry and exit points and how he had been duped by corrupt police when he had called for back-up; how one of his “packages” had been murdered by people in their posse due to jealousy; how he cares for the talent that he is employed to keep safe from all danger. He laughs a lot. Somehow his bodyguard guard has come down and the miracle of it all was that he was allowing me into his world.
Suddenly, a voice comes over the loudspeaker and breaks the spell.
“Unfortunately the captain has not arrived to fly this plane so we must cancel the flight and must ask everyone to exit the plane. Thank you.”
How disappointing! How ludicrous! How LUCKY that I won’t have to sit plastered like the cartoon roadrunner totally smashed against the plane window with one of my legs askew and prickling in pain.
After we exit, we stand together to say goodbye before he runs off to try and find a direct flight to Miami and I go off to change my ticket.
“You take care of yourself,” I say, suddenly feeling a swoosh of motherly worry fill my heart.
My mind goes to the story he had shared with me of being in a club in the middle of the night and knowing something wasn’t right and then suddenly being put in a headlock and having to free himself by breaking the guy’s finger and then using his body as a shield as guns are pulled.
“Stay safe,” I say.
“I will.”
He won’t. We hug. And as I watch him walk away, I take note of how funny it is that I am feeling this overwhelming deep desire to protect the protector; to guard the tender heart of this sweet soul and keep him safe.
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