Thursday, January 1, 2004
“Sometimes, we’re all alone in a crowd”
As we waited, the unspoken bond borne of the sure knowledge that each of us was there for the same reason was unbroken. Our very presence at Oshkosh had established at least one fact: We were all aviators and that made us willing to reach out and talk to each other. We were a community.
As we sat in the departure lounge waiting to re-enter a world that could only be described as Not Oshkosh, the baseball caps and T-shirts said that 100% of the passengers were fly-in refugees flooding out on their way to somewhere. I talked to a young man who wanted to build a Bearhawk. Another gentleman was on his third Pitts. Another on his fourth Cub. Then, we lined up at the gate and began our cattle-car rush to Chicago and points unknown.
During the short flight south, there was little talking. This, I thought, was odd, until I noticed I wasn’t talking, either. We were each savoring our own thoughts as if preparing for what we knew was to come next. And when it happened, it rolled over us with the suddenness of a flash flood.
The instant we stepped out of the boarding bridge at ORD, we were swept away in the harried flow of people that typifies major airports everywhere. For the first 50 yards or so, you’d see a familiar baseball cap bobbing along in the crowd or catch a fleeting glimpse of the ever-present EAA logo. Then it was all gone. Dilution was complete. Oshkosh was over. The community was scattered and you stopped looking at faces, thinking you might know them. People became nothing more than two-legged projectiles to be avoided in your headlong rush to stand in the next line.
We had a two-hour layover at O’Hare and I was sitting there, my legs dovetailed with those in the facing seats, when I saw her. I was half-asleep and looking at the floor when I saw the flash of a hand-push vacuum between feet under the seats in front of me.
I glanced up and traced the handle to a woman. Maybe 35. Maybe 55. It was hard to tell. She was floating along, deftly dancing through the crowd, her sweeper flicking out like a frog’s tongue as it captured crumbs and bits of trash.
I began watching her eyes and then studied the eyes of others in the crowd. She didn’t even see us. We were just so much noisy furniture she had to sweep around. To the crowd, she was just an extension of the sweeper: a noiseless entity that fluttered around their feet that somehow managed to avoid getting underfoot. She was very good at what she did. And she did it with total invisibility. She didn’t see us. We didn’t see her.
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