Late Sept. 2001
To tell or not to tell, that is the question, I think while sitting on a toilet in the women’s room at the San Francisco Airport. It was a week to the day after the 9-11 attack in New York. I am on my way to visit my ailing Mother, who lives in Detroit. Security is high, and we are all asked to be alert for the unusual. Throughout the airport, over and over again, the message “Do not leave your bags unattended.” is announced. However, while entering a restroom, a grandmotherly woman approaches me and asks if I want her to watch my bag. I responded with a firm but pleasant “No” and quickly shut the door. Placing my derriere on the seat, I think all I want to do is get on the plane, nestle down into my assigned seat, and listen to my iPod. But now, I’m not sure what to do.
So, I contemplate the situation. What is wrong with that woman? Doesn’t she know that question is out of the question nowadays? Surely, she must live under a rock. Shaking my head in desperation, I look around the stall. The toilet paper roll is on the left, the Kotex garbage can is on the right, and my purse is hanging on the hook in the middle of the door to encase me. I look down and see my knees hiding my feet, and my suitcase is blocking the way out. There is not much room to maneuver anything. So, I start to think about the grandmotherly woman again.
If I had to describe her, could I? Let’s see. She is an old, white woman with apple cheeks, dressed in a flowery dress, wearing flat walking shoes. Her grayish-white hair is straight into a bun, and she wears wired-rimmed glasses that frame her rounded eyes. She seemed innocent enough. But is she really? Maybe she isn’t so innocent. Perhaps she is a man dressed like a woman who…oh hell, Joyce, let’s not go too far with this or get too paranoid. After all, she did get through security, and now she is down by the gates.
All the more reason to think about what just occurred: Crip, I think, am I in charge of the whole world now? What is my responsibility to others, considering what happened a week ago? Do I need to tell someone what just happened to me? If I don’t tell and the airport blows up, what will that feel like? Or will I even be around to feel it? Oh heck, let me just get out of this stale, wash my hands, and maybe some clarity will come to me.
But, what continues are more thoughts. Damn, why did this happen to me? All I wanted to do was make a pit stop before boarding my flight to Detroit. Now I am in charge of this whole terminal. Ok, ok, let me try and stop this craziness. What I will do is leave the restroom and look around the gates for the woman. If I don’t see her, I will tell one of the agents what happened to me. If I do see her well, I’ll decide what to do then.
I leave the restroom and immediately become vigilant, scanning the crowds to find her. Not seeing her, I decided to wait in line to talk to an agent. Just then, I heard a flight call for a plane boarding for Atlanta. Turning towards the announced gate, I see the grandmotherly woman surrounded by what appears to be her family, and she is walking towards the entrance of that gate. Relieved to see her boarding, I shake my head in relief, feeling at least the terminal is secure. Then, I wonder if the plane heading for Atlanta will land safely. Chuckling to myself, I think, if I read about it in the papers, at least it’s not on my watch anymore!