American Airlines Flight 3084 from Dallas-Fort Worth lands right on time. After the week we’ve all just had, this is a minor miracle. Passengers are washed into the gleaming wide concourse on a wave of body odor and aviation fumes. The sun will be setting in less than an hour, and stars are about to be revealed in the sky above the domed glass ceiling. Welcome to South Bend.
A dapper sixty-year-old gentleman emerges from the restroom. He has run a comb through his fine white hair, but seems to have been having trouble with the hand driers. To be fair, Mel is an old hand at this travel malarky. He spent the extra to get an emergency exit row, put on his eyeshade and slept the entire way. Cas, on the other hand, was way too tight to do that. He still thinks forty is the new twenty, and now he’s cranky because he was bent like a pretzel for the last two hours, nose-to-nose with a colicky baby in 10C. The two friends look over at the preening Adonis placed in their care. Ali. He, of course, completely forgot to check in ahead of time, and he got stuck in a middle seat. But also, typically, he made immediate friends with his seat mates - a Mennonite missionary just back from somewhere in the orient, and a MAGA hat-wearing grandma who is into hot yoga. He’s pulled out his essential oils and they all tried them. By the end of the flight, they have all traded numbers and promised to stay in touch. Cas doesn’t even know what hot yoga is.
Ali catches sight of his reflection in a stainless-steel wall. He pauses to flex, then flashes a smile at a group of teenagers in Notre Dame sweats. How YOU doin? he asks. Cas clips his ear - grow up, Ali, you’re twenty years old for crying out loud. Ali just rolls his eyes and waggles his eyebrows at his new audience. He leaves an extravagant tip at the Chocolate Café and declares loudly that THIS IS THE BEST HOT CHOCOLATE I HAVE EVER TASTED. I mean, like EVER.
From above their heads, Chicago is playing Saturday in the Park for the five hundredth time. Mel saw them in concert back in the day. He sings along while Ali mouths “back in my day” to the woman sitting sideways at an x-ray machine. As the three of them go up the exit corridor a disembodied voice encourages them to keep moving as this is a security zone. Cas is not paying attention. He is on his iPhone trying to get a hotel.
Man, I may just be getting too old for this, says Mel. I gotta make another comfort stop. He hands his water bottle to Ali and disappears into the men’s restroom. Cas feels exhausted - trying to keep the old man on the rails while the kid runs wild. How did he get into this again? His red hair feels greasy - he hates travel.
Baggage Claim is a mess. Someone lost a ski on the way back from Denver. The airlines are still trying to work out where all their cargo got to after last week’s chaos. When the red light finally starts flashing, Cas and Mel join the throng of weary travelers playing Russian roulette with roller bags. It’s not hard to spot their luggage at least. Mel has put a fancy gold sticker on his oversized suitcase - something he got in Memphis like twenty years ago. You know, once upon a time, he was quite the stylish guy. Now he just doesn’t want to lose the presents he’s bringing. Meanwhile, Cas is a Samsonite man, no nonsense, economical. But he’s put an Air Tag on his, plus a big C on the side, just in case the Air Tag gets lost. And Ali? Ali doesn’t believe in luggage. He just has a Nike slingback to match his leather Jordans - all he needs is room for an extra t shirt and his male grooming products. Kids.
Cas’s phone pings. He smiles. I did it, guys. We’ve got a car on the way. The Inn at St Mary’s! And I checked - they’ve got room. I tell you, this is our year!
Mel sighs and picks up his suitcase. All right, Caspar, we’re coming. He snags Ali and pushes him through the doors into the cool night air. We’ve gotta go home another way…
Music: "We Three Kings" from "Crescent City Christmas Card" by Wynton Marsalis
