It was only a dream...

Reposted from 10/12/07

I'm sitting in this horrible dive of a restaurant in DFW airport, and I'm crying.

Not because the food is horrible (in fact, it's inedible...but I've already eaten so much fabulous food since arriving in Texas that I'm sure I'll survive), but because I've just had a brush with great humility.

I've always thought of the midwest as the friendliest area in the country. I love my city, I feel at home wherever I go in the area, and I don't think twice about telling people how warm midwesterners are as a rule. Dallas, though, has been surprising. I've only been here once before, and I don't recall it being quite this welcoming. Every single person I've dealt with since arriving has been genuine, polite, and kind - examples of southern charm at its finest, I suppose. But none of it prepared me for my arrival at the airport this afternoon.

The driver stopped at the terminal entrance, and carried my bag inside to the check-in kiosk. An American Airlines agent immediately stepped up, said "You look tired, young lady. Let me help you with that", and checked me in. He reassigned me to a bulkhead seat so I could 'stretch out those long legs'. I had to chuckle at that, but was grateful that it put my in Boarding Group 1, which gets to slip through the First Class security lines (which were still quite long). I took my place in line, and watched as three young Marines fell in behind me.

The youngest, who was directly behind me, was on the phone with his mother. "I think I can get on the earlier flight. I'm on stand-by, and I should be home by three......unless they bump me, so I don't know......no, I don't know how full the flight is, but I'll call and let you know when I have a better idea of what's happening......I know, Mom........I know. I love you." I could hear his mom crying on the other end of the line. He hung up and quietly tucked the phone back in his pocket.

I rarely talk to people in airport lines. But I had to know. I turned and smiled.

"Coming home?"

"Yeah," he said.

"Where from?"

"I just got in from Kuwait a few hours ago," he answered.

"Oh." I didn't know what to say. He didn't seem terribly talkative, and I'm not one to pry or ask a lot of questions. But he looked so.....forlorn. "Welcome home," I said.

He smiled. "Thank you, ma'am. It's only for two weeks, though. I still have six months left to go in Iraq before I can come home for good."

"Oh," I said again. Surely he thought I was an idiot by now. "I bet it feels good to be back, even if it's just for a little while. Where's home?"

"Arkansas. Most of my family is there. My mom's waiting for me to get in." He blushed and lowered his head a bit.

"Well, let me tell you this. If anybody bumps you off your earlier flight, they need to be hurt. You need to get home, honey. Anybody gives you trouble, you come find me, huh?"

He laughed. After all, the thought of me defending a Marine is terribly funny.

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

"Can I ask what you do in Iraq?"

"I've got it easy," he said. "I work with money. Most of the transactions there are done in cash these days, so I spend a lot of time counting and moving a lot of money from place to place. It's not very dangerous."

"Wait a second," I interrupted. "You move the money? Like how?"

"In a truck."

"So you mean to tell me that driving a truck filled with cash through Iraq isn't very dangerous?"

"It could be worse," he answered matter-of-factly. "It's just a job." The lack of any inflection in his voice stopped me cold. I shuddered to think of his frame of reference.

"But, hey, in six months I'm out. I'll be going to college, because I'll finally have the money to pay for it. I'm going to Florida State. I can't wait."

Oh, yes. The GI Bill. I'd never thought of it as bribery until that moment.

"I want to be a pharmaceutical rep when I get out of school. I hear the money is pretty good, and it sounds a lot better than counting other people's cash, don't you think?"

I laughed, suddenly feeling that my cushy financial job was a huge waste of time, comparatively speaking. "It sure does. Maybe I could learn a few tricks from you, if I hung around long enough."

At that point, the man behind him picked up his phone, which was ringing. "Hello, baby." He said. "Yeah, I'll be home for dinner tonight. You listen to mommy, and be a good girl, okay? Yes, I love you too, princess.....eighteen days. Daddy loves you, and we're going to have the best eighteen days ever. Now put mommy on the phone, okay?"

By then, we'd reached the security checkpoint. The third boy in the group hadn't spoken a word.

"Please, you boys go ahead of me. I've got over an hour before my flight leaves. You go. Get on your planes, and get home."

I pushed them ahead of me. Three young men, all over six feet tall and built like tanks, and I'm pushing them toward the agent and trying not to cry.

"You can leave your boots on, boys." The security agent grabbed their bags and placed them on the scanner belt. The young one emptied his pockets into the gray bin. I watched as he dumped in his cell phone, three wads of cash, about eight pieces of chewing gum that had fallen out of the wrapper, a handful of receipts, two bite-size candy bars, a crumpled boarding pass, his military ID, a coffee stirrer, and several packets of Splenda. Just like any young kid who didn't have a particular spot to carry things, everything had landed in his pockets. He reminded me of my own son, and how frustrating I find it when I have to search every pair of pants before putting them in the laundry, for fear of cementing gum to everything I own. I choked a bit, and stood there with my shoes in my hand.

One by one, they went through the line. I followed behind, and noticed that the third boy still hadn't spoken. He kept his head down, except to look up at the TSA agent and nod politely as he grabbed his bag.

These boys, these babies, were coming home to visit their mothers before going back to the desert. They had gum in their pockets, hoped they wouldn't be bumped from the early flight so they could be home in time for dinner, and engaged politely in conversation with a dumb-struck woman from Chicago who just wanted to hug them.

"Hey," I said. All three of them turned.

"You guys take care, huh? Be careful." I felt so lame. I didn't know what else to say.

The quiet one, who hadn't said a word up to that point, stepped up beside me and smiled sadly. "That's what we do." He said.

Then he put his hand on my shoulder, and turned away. The very nice people in Dallas walked around me without complaint as I stood there, shoes still in hand, crying for the boys who were too young to drink a beer in the airport bar, but old enough to travel to the other side of the world to fight a war...because it's an honorable way to pay for college.

If you pray tonight, put in a word for the boys from Arkansas who are in the arms of their families for a few short days. And when you see honorable men that makes a difference?

Thank him.

I can't believe I forgot to thank them.