Worth More Than a Thousand


As I found my seat assignment in the very rear I glanced over to the elderly gentleman at the window seat. He must have been in his nineties. He owed a full head of startlingly white hair that reminded me of Christopher Lloyd in the Back to the Future movies. As I was stuffing my carry on bag in the overhead space he glanced up at me through granny glasses perched on the tip of his thin nose and turned back to the book he had open.

I sat in the middle seat and planted my own reading material in the pouch they always provide on the seat in front of us. As is my habit before take off I looked past the old gent and at the ground workers doing their thing to the plane. Time passed as slowly as it always does when you expect something to happen quickly, or when in a hurry. It seemed hours later and dozens of anonymous thumps later the plane finally filled closed the doors and backed out of its resting place. Another hour or two of subjective time and we were thrusting down the runway and clawing our way into LA’s grimy airspace.

As the plane settled into its own familiar routine and leveled off I glanced at the gentleman with the intent of actually seeing him this time. I was a bit surprised it see him deep into a Stephen King book, one of my past favorites in fact. He must have caught my ironic smile out the corner of an eye for he looked over to me and nodded a silent brief hello. I nodded back as I pulled out my own reading material, a hobby magazine I had already read from cover to cover.

Deciding to interrupt his reading to break the ice I asked, “Like the book so far?”

He smiled and answered without looking over, “He seems to have captured the feeling exceptionally well in this one. I’m pleased with his treatment of us old relics, not too often we get portrayed as the hero.”

I had been looking at the small sliver of bookmarker as he spoke and followed with, “That’s an odd bookmarker.” The sliver I could see and judging by the implied size appeared to be part of an old black and white photograph, or a reproduction.

He looked to me with a look bordering on startlement but at the same time he seemed somewhat pleased. Looking back to the book he removed the marker, bent the bottom page corner over and closed the volume setting it on his lap. The way he held the bookmarker lent itself to imagining it was a fine piece of art, holding it with his fingers on just the edges, not touching the surface and presenting it to me in the space between us for me to see it equally. It was indeed a black and white photograph, dozens of people were standing in a group. Everyone in the picture well dressed in period clothing that I guessed to be in the thirties of the previous century. The two at the very center of the presentation were obviously a bride and groom.

“The best day of my life. The day I married my wife, God rest her.” He paused a moment with a whimsical smile in his eyes and a tremble on his lips. There was something about this Old Gentleman, something in his demeanor that caused me to set the magazine down and think of him with enough respect to apply capitols before the words.

I have done a fair share of traveling, and from time to time taken the gamble of striking up conversations with strangers. More often than not I have regretted it, and for my troubles sat through some of the most boring and inane prattling of shallow self indulgent self important mean spirited clods I’ve ever had the misfortune of crossing paths with. I’ve even been treated with family photos, baby pictures of all varieties, and even tales of bedroom conquests. In all, it usually takes little more than a minute to realize how profound a mistake it had been to engage in conversation with what would at first appear a prime example of the human race. But this Old Gentleman, in just a few sentences, less than a dozen words spoken so reverently tinged with feeling so profound I found myself settling into my seat my own reading material all but forgotten.

He continued, “We exchanged our vows back in Twenty-Nine, one year after her father died. Her older brother gave her to me at the ceremony, He did his father proud the way he bore himself that day…

The flight to New York seemed to pass in minutes as I sat listening to the life experiences of The Old Gentleman as I quickly came the think of him. I feel in that long but brief flight I got to vicariously know his entire family, all four generations. It was He that made that air flight one of the best moments of my life. A true and rare diamond in the heaps of rough stones tumbling through life. As the plane arrived at the gate and everyone stood waiting for the door to open we were forced to say our goodbyes. I shook his aged hand, his grip firm and his skin thin and dry as the outer layer of an onion. I spoke to him one last time saying, “I apologize, but I never did get your name.”

“Albert, Albert Pinnicle. And yours, sir?” He asked maintaining a firm grasp on my hand only releasing it as I exchanged my name for his. He added, “Well met young Sir. Farewell.” with a friendly smile I’d rarely seen from the best of friends. I was in no rush to leave the Old Gentleman in his seat, I felt it would shame me to rush off, as if the time we’d just spent in pleasant conversation meant nothing. I stood and yielded my way to him as he stood from his seat himself. I followed him out of the plane and down the ramp, the two of us the last to leave the plane. I was pleasantly pleased that his step was firm and swift as he strode before me full of energy and without the unsteadiness seen in so many elderly people.

I thought at first he had just stumbled on the transition where the ramp slope changes to the flat floor of the lounge. I was reaching out to steady him out of reflex when he collapsed in an undignified heap face first on the thin carpet. I dimly registered his book tumbling from his hand to rest with it’s spine up against the wall through my shock at the sudden turn of events. Dropping my carryon I knelt to help The Old Gentleman calling his name and asking the usual stupid question posed to someone that is clearly in distress. In seconds I was abruptly shoved out of the way by airport personal and attendants.

The seconds that followed seemed to me have grinded by in glacial speed. Hours later after his lifeless body was wheeled away and I had fielded countless questions as a witness I noticed again his book laying forlorn at the juncture of the wall and floor. I stopped after taking several steps away, I turned and walked back to recover the book left behind. I picked it up and with all the care museum curators give to ancient relics I rescued Albert Pinnicle’s Wedding Photograph from its tomb.