Airport Angel
Sometimes help not only comes when you least expect it, it also arrives in the most unlikely of forms. At least that was my experience three weeks ago when returning to my home airport from a three-day Florida trip.
It was 10 pm, the end of a long day. I was eager to get home and ready to sleep in my own bed. I found my vehicle where I had left it, pulled forward in a double row of parking spots so it faced outward. I tossed the baggage in the back, then climbed in and pulled from the space.
As I drove across the parking deck to the other side, the vehicle fought me, determined to veer right. Only then did I notice the cockeyed slant of the dashboard, the SUV listing to right like a boat filling with water. Letting a slow, tired breath escape, I pulled into the next open space to get a visual of what I already suspected: a flat tire.
Out of the vehicle, I trudged to the passenger side where the lifeless front tire sat deflated like my hopes of getting home quickly. I’d approached the car earlier from the driver’s side, so the flat tire had been hidden from view. Changing a tire is never fun, but it’s worse late at night when you want to get home and into bed.
My last flat tire had been the year before during a nine-day getaway at a beautiful mountain cabin in West Jefferson, NC. Generous friends had loaned me the cabin to work on a novel. At some point on the last full day of the stay, my tire had plucked a nail from somewhere along the route to the cabin, most likely at the nearby house that had been under construction. I didn’t discover the flat until the next morning after the vehicle was loaded for my return trip home. After extracting the entire contents of my stay from the SUV hatch to access the spare, I found it soft as well. No flats in the 4 years prior had left me complacent, neglecting to check the spare tire’s air pressure.
Back at the airport parking deck, I knew my spare should be fine this time but I still wasn’t thrilled about the delay and effort to change the tire. I climbed in the car to phone my wife that I’d be later than planned. She could have picked me up, saving me the exertion until the next morning when I was rested and clad in more suitable clothes. But as attractive as the idea seemed, rousing the kids from cozy beds on a school night wasn’t an option we cared to take.
As I hung up with her, the side of a massive white truck filled my rearview mirror as it crept past the back of my vehicle before stopping. Peering out my rear passenger side window, I read the words Airport Authority on the white truck’s door. From the time I’d pulled from my parking spot to this moment, was less than five minutes. It seemed strange an Airport Authority truck would arrive so quickly.
I slid from my SUV and walked toward the white truck as its door opened. I expected a burly guy in overalls to lumber from the truck, much like what I’ve seen when tow trucks remove disabled vehicles. Instead, a shapely pair of tan legs emerged. The owner of the legs then leapt down from the tall truck. I stood looking at a petite brunette somewhere in her thirties wearing short denim shorts, a polo shirt, and the biggest smile I’d seen in a few days.
“Looked like you needed some help,” she said.
An image flashed across that active mind of my mine, one of this tiny woman wrangling my tire from the wheel lugs as I idly watched. I started to tell her I could handle it, but she bee-lined to the back of the truck to slide out a large metal canister. Compressed air.
“If it’s a slow leak, you can make it far enough to get some sealant or have it fixed.”
Relief washed over me. Perhaps changing a tire before bed was not in my destiny.
The compressed air only filled the tire halfway, so she and I walked down two flights of stairs to a utility room where they kept a large compressor. Mary Anne—as I later learned—had started to carry the heavy canister the whole way, but I wouldn’t let her. I outweighed her by at least 90 pounds, so she agreed, probably so my ego wouldn’t get bruised.
The whole time we walked, Mary Anne was cheerful, continuously smiling, enjoying herself. Her smile radiated until one crept onto my face and stayed. I’m sure my previous expression had been a gnarled frown, angry at the flat.
Her demeanor wasn’t what I expected from someone working a night shift. Was she excited about life in general? Did she get a boost from assisting stranded travelers? Or did she hold a secret to life and beyond that other people don’t know or have long forgotten? As we talked, my mood elevated. Light-heartedness replaced frustration. Re-energized, I saw the world through different eyes. I understand it’s part of her job responsibilities to assist people in need, but I believe she is the type of person who'd stop to help people regardless of her job. We filled the tire the rest of the way and I thanked her before she shifted the truck in gear and drove away into the night.
As I drove toward the parking deck exit, I couldn’t shake the sensation that I’d just been visited by an angel, those entities sent from the heavens to help and guide us. As I eased into the ticket booth bay to pay for the parking, I tried to remember if I’d ever even seen an Airport Authority vehicle in the twelve years I’d been flying from that airport. How had Mary Anne appeared from nowhere so quickly to help? Had she been staking out the vehicle with the flat tire, ready to assist whenever the owner came back?
I felt the urge to ask the parking booth attendant about her, to ask if he knew of her so I might glean some secret knowledge around her enthusiasm for life. But fear held me back. I worried my curiosity might be misinterpreted.
Instead, my imagination took over. What if I had asked about her and received a dull-eyed stare back, followed by “No one named Mary Anne works at the airport.”? Would this rigid box I call reality have shifted, to acquire new dimensions and bizarre slants to change my perceptions? I don’t know the answer. But this I do know:
Angels exist.
Whether they’re direct from the heavens above or appear via a more circuitous route doesn’t really matter. I simply take comfort knowing they walk among us, roaming this earth to help travelers in need on their journeys through life.
