[Missed Part 1? Shortcut to reading it is here.]

Vancouver International Airport is not the world’s largest airport by any means, though it does boast several well-vacuumed terminals, and, like all Canadian airports, a Tim Hortons counter manned by bored Chinese women wearing hairnets. The odds that the man and I—the same angry little man who had attempted to run me down with his pick-up truck in Gastown 24 hours earlier and then gave me a verbal dressing down from his lowered driver’s side window because, according to him, I was in his way—would wind up not only in the same terminal as me but also at the same gate as me had to be practically nil. Of all the flights leaving that busy travel day, it would take a Christmas miracle for he and I to be on the same one.

I suppose it was simply too good for the universe not to make true. Fifteen minutes later, on the far side of security, the Menacer and his gray-faced wife and his pair of howling tots arrived at my gate. I guess it makes sense when you think about it, that the Menacer and his family would also be flying to Toronto. Sometimes it seems as if ninety-five percent of all Vancouverites are former residents of Toronto.

I studied the Menacer from a distance. Without his truck surrounding him, he seemed smaller, like a knight without his armor or a famously cruel teacher outside the classroom. He was a slight man with poor posture and tired eyes who looked to be about three or four bad days away from the end of his rope. Whatever magic he and his wife might have once had was obviously gone, at least for the time being. They barely acknowledged one another’s presence. Any love or affection or tenderness that might have once passed between the two of them was now being soaked up by the two infants who were climbing all over them.

I felt this undeniable urge to confront the Menacer, to say something, to connect with him somehow. There wasn’t anything hostile or vengeful in what I wanted to do. I would simply acknowledge him, ask him if he was, in fact, that same person who’d menaced me with his truck a day earlier. He’d sheepishly say yes, then apologize. Then I’d grow radiant with forgiveness. I’d say, “That’s OK. Let’s put it behind us. Hey, Merry Christmas to you and your family.” I might even put a hand on his shoulder, which, in my fantasy, was trembling. Then he’d say, “Thank you. Boy, you seem like a large-hearted and excellent person.”

Then I’d say, “I try.”

The Air Canada representative behind the counter picked up a microphone and announced that boarding for Toronto would begin soon, and that this flight, like every Air Canada flight I have ever been on, was overbooked. How on earth Air Canada gets away with this bullshit is beyond me. The woman wanted to know if anyone would be willing to take a later flight in exchange for a $400 voucher which could be used to purchase a future ticket on an overbooked Air Canada flight. If so, that person should report to the counter immediately for rebooking.

With boarding imminent, I visited the men’s room one final time. While in the men’s room, the Menacer and one of the tots entered behind me. They disappeared into a stall and locked the door. I couldn’t help but overhear their conversation.

“You have to unbutton your pants before you go.”

“Why dad?”

“Because that’s how it works for big boys in the bathroom.”

Silence.

“Go into the toilet. Into the toilet. That’s it. I’m so proud of you.”

“Am I doing good, dad? Making peepees?”

“You’re doing great making peepees.”

“Are we going on the airplane?”

“In a minute we are, yes. We need to finish up in here first.”

By the time I came out of the bathroom, the woman at the Air Canada desk had transformed into an auctioneer. She was up to $600 in vouchers and rising. “If anyone, anyone at all, would be willing to take a later flight to Toronto today in exchange for $600 in future airline vouchers, please see me at the counter,” she said. Then, just moments before boarding began, the offer jumped to $800 not in vouchers but in cash to anyone willing to forego his or her seat. Eight hundred in cash—how could you not be tempted by that? Looking back, I wish I’d known that my Syracuse flight had already been cancelled. I wish I’d known that I wasn’t going to make it home that day anyway, and that I was going to be spending the night in a cold, corporate hotel room in Toronto.  I could have used that $800. Instead, I thought defiantly, Screw you, Air Canada, I am boarding. I boarded and took my seat. I watched the Menacer and his family board, thinking that maybe the universe had one final surprise for me, that we would all be seated together. In the end, the Menacer and I were about twenty rows apart. He would deplane before me in Toronto. I wouldn’t see him again. In the end, I never a word to the man. I didn’t need to. Hell, for all I know he might not even have been the same guy. That doesn’t matter. What matters is that I found my way around my anger back to some sort of understanding. We never know why people do the things they do until you have the whole picture. And the whole picture is almost always more complicated than you could have anticipated.

I took one of my little pills and tried to settle in. My little pills are Ativan, which I get from my family doctor. I don’t drink anymore, but the way I always describe the experience of taking an Ativan is that it’s like taking two quick drinks. I’m 6’3″, and I’m trying to comport my frame into an airline that’s designed for someone who is, at most, about 5’7″. The Ativan helps me deal with that.

I noticed that the man seated directly in front of me was tall, like me. He was wearing a pretty big dose of cologne, which only made me feel more claustrophobic. I got the sense that this man was one of those people who would, as soon as the flight leveled off at 35,000 feet, crank his seat all the way back as far as it would go. People do this all the time—crank back their seats without the slightest regard for what they might do to the person seated behind them. I’ve spent so many flights staring at the tops of my fellow travelers heads, boiling with rage, that I’ve become an expert on recognizing the stages of male pattern baldness. So, even before the plane left the gate out of Vancouver, I leaned forward and said, “Excuse me, sorry to bother you, but there’s a tall person back here, so please keep that in mind when reclining your seat.”

The cologne-wearer seemed a little miffed. “Well,” he said, not quite turning to face me, “there’s a tall person up here too.”

Go ahead and be miffed, buddy, I thought. He knows I’m back here, so mission accomplished.

The plane took off. The Ativan did what it’s supposed to do. I worked out a crossword puzzle as the G-forces pinned me to my seat.

More to come. Sooner rather than later, I promise.