As soon as the passenger from a connecting flight filled the remaining empty seat next to me, we would depart on the late night flight to San Francisco. Twenty-five minute delay so far.
It was 1970. We get the same travel hassles today, except the airlines used to do it for a profit.
The guy seated in front of the empty seat sported a well kempt Afro that slightly infringed on our space. I thought he might have worked for IBM, as he was wearing the official IBM uniform--an expensive dark suit.
Finally! There was activity at the front of the aircraft. She came running down the aisle like the White Rabbit, carrying too many bags that probably added ten minutes to our delay. Breathing hard she threw everything in the seat and then started to store them in the overhead locker right over the Afro.
She managed to find space for everything but her large purse, which looked like a large straw hat turned upside down. As she lifted up the purse to try and cram it into the locker, it tipped and at least a pound of birdseed poured out on the Afro.
"Oh, my God," she mumbled, and proceeded without permission to dust the Afro. The owner of the Afro put his hands up to cover his head, but said nothing. Nobody said anything about the strange juxtaposition of an Afro and a pound of birdseed. Maybe taking off was more important.
The stewardess expedited the departure process by helping her get buckled in her seat. I had a short conversation with her and found out that she was from Boise, kooky, and not worth the energy to continue the conversation. I never learned the story of the birdseed in her purse. When we deported at SFO, I walked behind the the Afro. It was full of birdseed chaff; the chaff also covered his shoulders like terminal dandruff. I resisted the impulse to brush it off.
(Strange behavior: thirty-some years later, I know I would whisper, "Hey, man, where did you get all that birdseed in your hair?)
I arrived at the hotel at midnight. As I brushed my teeth, birdseed fell out of my hair into the sink.
