Late to the Gate

On Sunday morning I accompanied my 16-year-old granddaughter to the airport to catch a flight home to Illinois. I didn’t leave the airport until her plane was in the air just in case they had to return to the gate.

After the plane pulled away from the gate a harried looking couple came running to the desk. The man was frantic, calling “Where’s the agent?”

He pointed at the plane on the tarmac, looked at me, and asked, “Is that the flight to Charlotte?”

“Yes, sir,” I said.

“Where’s the gate agent?”

I shrugged.

The woman remained calm while her traveling companion raged. “We’re late. We’ll have to take a later flight,” she said.

“But it’s right there!” He said, pointing out the window again.

The gate agent returned to angry demands. “You need to have that plane open up.”

“I’m sorry sir, but once the doors are closed the…