Layover

"Candy with grain inside," was the clue. I sat tapping my pen on the first square of the eight-letter entry, which already had an "L" in it, unable to imagine what kind of candy had grain in it. The crossword was a good distraction from the frightful turbulence the plane was experiencing.

It was in the seventies, and I was in my late thirties. Well, actually, I was forty.

I was on the first leg of a fairly long flight to the Pacific Northwest from the Front Range of the Rockies, a hop from Colorado Springs' Peterson Field to Salt Lake City's hub on a noisy old Frontier 580 turboprop. Those planes were built like tanks, but they didn't have the speed or altitude to get above bad weather, so it seemed every flight was a grudge match between airspeed and nausea.

So far, I was okay, but I was hoping we were nearing SLC or I might lose the contest AND my lunch.

Our family was in the midst of moving our son, Denny from our home out to Salem, Oregon. Denny and his dad, my husband Frank, had left the day before yesterday in a U-Haul rental van to take all of Denny's things and a selection of furniture from our house to set him up in his new apartment. He had found a job there, and not coincidentally, Salem was where a certain girl he had met in college lived. With any luck at all, Frank would meet me at McNary Field and we would have a chance to see our son's new home (and maybe this woman who was trying to steal him from me!), before Frank and I flew back home to Colorado.

But it wasn't a direct flight. I was scheduled to stop in Salt Lake and after a one-hour layover, connect with a flight on another 580 (ugh!) to Portland then some kind of "commuter" hop to Salem.

We finally cleared the Continental Divide, and the turbulent updrafts associated with that at about sunset, and I could sense that we'd started our long descent into Salt Lake.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, this is Captain Williams, your pilot today. We have been informed by Salt Lake flight controllers that the Salt Lake City airport is experiencing heavy lake-effect ice fog this evening, with zero visibility and potential for dangerous wing icing. We have been directed to divert to Hill Air Force Base in Ogden for our landing. Hill is not at this time experiencing fog conditions. The Air Force Base is equipped for our safe arrival and, as soon as conditions may permit, for departure on the hop over the lake to SLC International. We are sorry for the inconvenience."

A general hubbub of conversation in the passenger cabin followed this announcement, then the p.a. clicked on again: "Ladies and Gentlemen, Captain Williams has turned on the seat-belt sign for the beginning of our descent into Hill Air Force Base. Please return to your seats, fasten your seat belts, extinguish all smoking materials, and return your seat backs and tray tables to the upright position. If you have removed any carry-on luggage from the overhead bins or from under the seat in front of you, please stow it back away at this time and prepare for landing!"

"Licorice," the man in the seat next to me whispered in my ear.

"Excuse me?" I said, turning to look at him as I cinched my seat belt tighter around me. We had exchanged a few words early in the flight, the minimum courtesies necessary for strangers who are seat-mates on a relatively short flight.

He was a distinguished-looking man of maybe sixty or so, with a full head of grey hair and a thin grey moustache, dressed in a neat, pinstriped, Navy-blue business suit. I had introduced myself as Vic Meadows; "Short for 'Victoria,' of course," I had said, "but nobody calls me that ... it's always just 'Vic'!"

"Not Vickie?" My companion asked.

"No, I hated that nickname as a kid, so my brother started calling me 'Vic,' and it just stuck."

"I like it!" he said, "It fits you!"

He had introduced himself as Arthur Manville. "Long for 'Art,'" he had said, "but nobody calls me that. It's always just 'Arthur'!" I looked at him for a beat or two wondering if he was ridiculing me, then realized from his charming gap-toothed grin that it was intended as a gentle tease, so I laughed lightly, as did he. We had exchanged a few more pleasantries then retreated into our own thoughts and amusements, neither of us looking for a chatty trip.

But now, Arthur Manville was whispering "licorice" in my ear, and I thought perhaps he had lost his mind.

"Licorice," he said again, louder this time. "The candy with grain inside. The word 'rice' is inside the name of the candy!"

Finally realizing what he was talking about, I looked at the crossword puzzle now resting in my lap, my tray table having been stowed as directed. "Oh! Yes! Thank you! I never would have figured that one out!"

"Sure you would have," Arthur said. "I've been watching you plow through that like nobody's business. The New York Times' Friday puzzle in ink? You'd get it pretty soon. I just couldn't resist ... I love a corny clue."

I laughed right out loud at his terrible pun, and he smiled in gratitude that I'd got his little joke. I filled in his suggested answer, then folded the paper in half again, clipped my pen to it and put them both in the pocket of the seat in front of me so I could concentrate on not letting the plane crash.

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We had been sitting on the apron outside a C-130 maintenance hangar on the Hill Air Force Base flight line for over an hour. Out the window, we could see five other civilian airliners – another Frontier 580, two Continental 707's, and two TWA 727's. They were all lit up inside, attached to ground power units, and we could see the tiny faces of passengers inside each plane peering back at us.

After Arthur's help on the "Licorice" clue, we had struck up a closer acquaintance, working together on the puzzle and also chatting about our ruined travel plans, our families, and our lives in general. Arthur was married, too, and was traveling trying to get financial support for a new company who intended to produce computers for use in the home.

I had heard about "home computers," but I couldn't imagine a use for them. My own acquaintance with computers was through my work at the University, where I occasionally assisted one of my department's administrators to input data on a terminal connected to the school's IBM mainframe. What could a family possibly want with a computer in their own home?

"Oh, no, Vic!" Arthur explained, "These new computers aren't at all like what you've seen at the University! Our new computer is a little box about the size of a typewriter. It has a built-in keyboard, and you connect it right to your TV set! You can connect it to other computers using your phone, but mostly, it will just run programs without being connected to anything!"

"Programs?" I asked. I had a general idea what programs were, but what kind of programs would appeal to a normal family?

"It can keep your checkbook, draw pictures on the screen, do math problems, and play all kinds of interesting games!" Arthur was obviously very excited about his new venture, and I tried to seem supportive without letting it be too obvious that I thought he was nuts.

Little did I know.

I was soon in over my head on the subject of computers, and Arthur kindly steered the conversation to our kids. I went on at length about my son and how well he had done in college. I explained about how happy Frank and I were that Denny hadn't gotten drafted and sent to Viet Nam, how we were helping him move to Oregon, and how we were suffering acute separation anxiety, as Denny is our only child. Arthur showed genuine interest, and listened sympathetically. He seemed to know exactly the kind of questions to ask and the things to say to get me to tell him more about my family and our situation.

When the stewardess (yes, they were still called "stewardesses" in those days) announced that they would be serving complimentary wine, beer, and cocktails, I realized that I had been monopolizing the conversation for over an hour since we had landed. We glanced outside to see that several additional civilian airliners had queued up on the apron.

As we watched the drink cart coming down the aisle, Arthur resumed quizzing me gently about my husband, our home, my work, and so-on, and I realized that he was practicing his profession on me. His job was making people feel comfortable and to like him, so that he could get them to invest in his company or buy his product. Arthur certainly wasn't trying to sell me anything or get me to do anything, but as far as getting me to like him, he was doing a terrific job.

Nothing is more attractive in a man than knowing that he thinks YOU are interesting and attractive! And, even though Arthur was probably twenty or more years older than me, I was becoming more and more aware that he was a very attractive man. I was a little embarrassed that, at forty, it felt really very nice to know that attractive men could still be interested in me.

We both chose wine, and from the limited selection of tiny bottles available, we each got a good California Merlot, served with cheap plastic tulip-shaped wine glasses. As we were enjoying our first few sips of wine, I tried to turn the conversation toward learning something of Arthur's life and family and work, but I found it very hard, as he was skillful in re-directing me to my favorite subject ... me.

The speakers crackled to life again for a new announcement.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, conditions in Salt Lake City are improving, and we are told that the runways will be open again in about half an hour." There was a small cheer from around the cabin at this point, quickly subdued when the announcement went on, "Unfortunately, the aircrew of this flight has expired." There was a very worried rush of talk among the passengers at this news, as it sounded as if they were dead. "Federal Aviation Administration rules limit the length of time that the crews of an airliner can be on continuous duty, and this includes the pilot, co-pilot, and flight attendants on this plane. As of twenty minutes ago, this crew has exceeded the legal limit for in-flight duty permitted in the interests of flight safety."

Arthur saw some of the other passengers leaning down, pointing out the windows into the night and whispering among themselves. We could for the first time see the water of the Great Salt Lake, and in the distance the sky glow and a few twinkling lights of Salt Lake City across the lake. The fog had apparently lifted.

One of the 707's and two of the more recently-arrived planes started to taxi out to the active runways, preparing for the hop over to the civilian airport.

"Unfortunately, Ladies and Gentlemen, because regulations prohibit your crew from flying this plane this evening, there will be a delay while a fresh air crew is brought in for the remainder of your flight. We are told that this applies to several of the other flights which have landed here at Hill with us, who are under the same restrictions. We are also informed that replacement crews will become available no sooner than early tomorrow morning."

At this point there was general groaning, open complaining, and some loud grumbling throughout the passenger cabin. "What?" someone said. "Oh, for Christ's sake!" shouted another in frustration. "We can SEE the airport out the damn window!" a man in "first class" (a joke in a 580) said loudly. "Can't we just get a BUS over there?"

Although the Captain was still on the flight deck at the front of the plane, it was as if he had heard that comment. "There is insufficient ground transportation available to drive all of the passengers now at Hill AFB over to SLC International. For those of you who absolutely must get to Salt Lake tonight, I'm afraid your only choice is to try to arrange for a cab at your own expense."

General angry grumbling.

"For the rest of you, we at Frontier offer our sincere apologies, although we remind you that this inconvenience is the result of weather conditions and safety regulations beyond our control," said the Captain. "The Air Force is providing two small shuttle busses to move the over five-hundred passengers in this situation remaining here on the base, into Ogden for the night. This process will take about two hours, although I am pleased to tell you that passengers from this plane will be the first to be shuttled into town."

"Although Frontier is not usually responsible for accommodations required due to weather conditions, because of the further delays due to the air-crew expiration, Frontier will provide all passengers with vouchers for dinner, breakfast tomorrow, and over-night accommodations. Due to the number of passengers involved, facilities in Ogden will be filled to capacity, so we are requesting that, as the flight attendants circulate vouchers to each of you, any passenger who is willing to share a room please indicate this to the stewardess. If you choose to assist us in this way, you will also be given a voucher for free fare on a Frontier flight of your choice at a later date."

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A couple dozen of us were milling about in the lobby of a nice old Best Western motel on US89 in the outskirts of Ogden. The stewardess who had accompanied us had given the desk clerk all of our housing vouchers and then had left with the bus driver to get another load of passengers.

The overwhelmed night manager in front of the registration desk was trying to get everyone's attention.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, please! May I have your attention, please, and we'll get you into your rooms as quickly as we can!"

The group settled down, and the man, who looked to me like he was no older than a high school student, spoke to us again.

"My name is Myron, and I'd like to welcome you to the Ogden Best Western Inn, even though I know you probably don't really want to be here!" A polite laugh confirmed his assessment. "We were given your accommodation vouchers by Frontier Airlines. First, we will register families and folks traveling together into our larger rooms. Then, we have sorted those of you who expressed a willingness to share a room but are not traveling together, by sex ... uh, I mean, by gender, and we will be putting you together in two-bed rooms. Each room to be shared has two full-sized beds, so no one has to share a bed with a stranger!" he finished, clearly a little flustered.

This got a bigger laugh.

"The rest will be accommodated in single-bed rooms. I'm sorry to say that there are simply no additional rooms available, so if you are unsatisfied with the arrangements and can't work them out for yourselves, please let me know, and we will have the shuttle stop by and pick you up again to go to a different lodging."

"There is a good, full-service restaurant in our facility," the clerk said, pointing across the lobby to a hallway with a fancy sign indicating a restaurant was in that direction, "and they will, of course, honor your meal vouchers tonight and tomorrow morning."

"As I read your names, will you please come forward, and one of these young people," and here, Myron indicated two other, even younger-looking clerks behind the registration desk, "will see to your registration and direct you to your rooms."

The two clerks started yelling out names of families and couples traveling together. These people struggled to the front, hefting their carry-on bags (no cute little "wheelies" in those days!), and went quickly through the registration process. Each group was issued a key and a map, and they wandered off to find their rooms.

Eventually, one of the clerks called out, "Arthur Manville and Vic Meadows?"

I groaned inwardly at my foolishness in using my nickname; this gender confusion had dogged me all my life when people read or heard my nickname instead of my full name. I had reserved my airline tickets using "Vic," but it never occurred to me that that might cause an embarrassing problem like this. I looked at Arthur in alarm, but he was grinning at me. As we pushed our way to the front, Arthur said, "Just let me handle this ... we don't want to go back on that shuttle!"

Arthur stepped up to the desk and chatted briefly with the clerk, but there was too much noise in the lobby for me to hear what he was saying. Arthur signed something and the clerk handed him two keys and a map.

"So what's up?" I asked. "What did you work out?"

"C'mon! You'll see!" Arthur said, grabbing me by the elbow and guiding me through the remaining passengers crowded around the front desk, and back out the front door of the building.

We toted our carry-on bags down the sidewalk between the parking lot and the row of rooms to Room 172, which was quite a distance from the lobby and restaurant. Arthur unlocked the door and gestured for me to go in ahead of him.

The room was actually a small, open suite. There was a living area furnished with a big color TV, a sofa, a love seat, an overstuffed chair and a small dinette set, a breakfast bar with a sink, one of those new microwaves, an under-counter refrigerator and a little two-cup coffee pot. There was a sleeping area separated from the living room by the low wall of cabinets and the countertop of the breakfast bar, containing a wide dresser, one of those folding luggage stands, and two full-sized beds, and of course, a nice, clean bathroom near the entrance.

"Wow, this is NICE!" I said. "Is this your room or mine?"

"Well, VIC," Arthur said, emphasizing my masculine-sounding nickname by exaggeratingly lowering his voice, "here's the thing. This is OUR room."

I just looked at him for a long time trying to understand what he had just said. "OUR room?" I asked. "What do you mean, OUR room?"

"I didn't want to get bumped to another place and have to wait for maybe hours, so I finagled this big suite room for us. You can have one of the beds, and I'll sleep over there on the sofa!"

"Oh, I don't know, Arthur! I'm a married woman!"

"Please, Vic, I know you're married! I'm married, too! But I just want to have some dinner and get some sleep tonight. If either of us goes back to the office, they'll send us back out on that damn shuttle again, and who knows how long it will be before we get a room in this little town!"

"Uh, gee, no, Arthur." I said, still trying to politely let him know that this was a really bad idea. "You seem like a really nice guy and all, but I don't really even know you! I'm pretty sure I'm not ready to SLEEP WITH YOU!"

"No, no, no!" Arthur said. "Of course not, and I'm suggesting no such thing! Let's just step inside here," he urged me into the room, closing the door behind us ... we had been discussing this uncomfortable situation while standing half out in the freezing night air. Other stranded passengers were passing us, looking at us oddly, trying to figure out what the problem was.

"If you were sharing a room with another lady," Arthur said, "you wouldn't know her any better than you know me! You know my name and so does the airline and the motel, so if you're worried about me stealing your wallet or something, I could hardly get away with anything like that!"

"Well, Arthur, it's not really stealing my wallet that's giving me concern!" I said. "I'm just more than a little reluctant to share a room with some married man I just met a couple of hours ago!"

"Aha!" Arthur said, his face lighting up. "So, it's not that you're unwilling to share a room with some other married man, but it's just that we haven't known one another long enough, is that it?"

I flashed him a look that would melt metal before I realized that he was teasing me again. I felt myself blushing deeply.

"Look," Arthur said, in a quieter, more conciliatory tone, "nothing's going to happen tonight. We both just need a place to sleep! We can take turns in the bathroom and I, for one, have decent pj's in my carry-on, so I can't see that there's really any problem. Don't you think that you can trust me?"