~a column by Colleen O’Brien
As told to me – a story of a traveler’s encounter:
“After waiting for three hours on the tarmac, we are told that all planes are grounded, no flights leaving till the next morning. It’s late at night, thousands of travelers armed with airline company vouchers for transportation, room and food are grabbing cabs and shuttles to motels. Eventually, there are no more cabs, no shuttles returning; a few stragglers wait forlornly in the rain. I am one of them.
“I should have been home about then.
“I decide I am not sleeping in the terminal, so I call Uber, thinking maybe they’d take a voucher, and if they don’t, I don’t care. Immediate result – Uber driver’s name, make of vehicle, license plate number and cost of trip to a Wyndham Motel; he’d be here in nine minutes.
“In one minute, up drives a black SUV like the one described in the Uber phone message. Except that the license plate is different. I start to walk away when the Uber driver leans out and says, ‘I take you. Where you going?’ He has a big smile.
“The two of us have a back and forth about the fact that his name is not supposed to be Saeed, and the license number is still the wrong one.
“For many reasons – I’m tired, I’m wet and cold, and he’s wearing me down – I decide to take a chance with Saeed and his cheerful insistence. As well as his offer of a cheaper fare than the one quoted on my phone.
“I cancel the prior Uber, throw my pack in the back seat and slide into the front with him. The dash and visors are covered with official-looking tags and licenses. They could be real.
“He asks me, ‘You pay cash or card?’
“Uh oh, I think. The guy is friendly, engaging, a good driver, but I tell him I have no cash, only credit cards. I truly hope he’s simply taking me to the Wyndham.
“’Fine. I take credit cards. I pick you up in morning, buy you breakfast.’
“I tell him, No, he doesn’t need to buy me breakfast. I think it’s a little weird he even offers. I spot the Wyndham over to the right and am relieved that Saeed takes the exit ramp. He glides smoothly under the portico, jumps out, runs around the car, opens the back door for my bag and hands it to me as I get out. I give him the ten bucks he quoted.
“He pushes it away and says, ‘Pay in morning. Call me when you get up. I take you to breakfast.’ He’s in the car and in gear, driving away with a slight tap of his horn.
“In the morning, the motel clerk tells me they have no shuttle. I call Saeed, who must have been waiting around the corner, for he’s under the portico by the time I am.
“He asks if I like Waffle House. I say, Sure. And we pass one just off the freeway. Damn, I think, but I don’t point it out. A couple more exits, and Saeed gets off, drives through an industrial area, and there’s a Waffle House. My relief is huge.
“The people there know him. I study the menu, Saeed insisting I order a lot because I have told him I haven’t eaten anything substantial since the morning before, when I started my 10-hour journey that has now become a 26-hour mishap.
“Saeed and I eat and talk. He came to America from Malaysia six years ago to get a degree, in finance, then he started a driver business to make money so he could bring his bride to the States. He now hires five drivers for his cars and is waiting for his wife to join him. He is very sad, he says, so sad he begins to cry. His father died a month ago, he tells me. In Malaysia, from COVID. He never got to talk to him again. He could not even get home for the funeral.
“I console him, tell him about my dad’s death, and we have a deep conversation about how different life becomes once your father is gone.
“’I am changed,’ Saheed says. ‘I no longer so busy, so worried about money. Now I just want to live. Be happy. I live alone. Not good. I hate to eat alone. Why I ask you to breakfast. Life is short.’
“I tell Saheed that he is absolutely right.
“And I knew you were a good guy when I looked into your eyes,” he says to me.
“I am ashamed to tell him I was distrustful of him, but I have a feeling he knows it. He rattles on, his cheerfulness returning when I tell him I’m from Nevada, for he ‘loves’ Las Vegas and has an aunt in Reno. I tell him I’m from Reno, and he shouts, ‘Yes!’ and shows me a text from his aunt, begging him to visit her and his uncle. He goes through his wallet and pulls out a card, shows it to me. It is the address of his aunt’s Malaysian grocery store in Reno. I know where it is.
“He gets me to the airport in plenty of time. We shake hands, look at each other and then we hug. He knows already that when he visits his aunt in Reno, I’ll be taking him out to breakfast.”
