Sorry Man

The phone call always meant some very distraught person needed a Sorry Man. Somewhere between the disaster and the cleanup, George was responsible for making some sense of what had happened. That’s how he found himself sitting in an apartment scattered with photos and clothes and dirty dishes. A DNR sheet hung on the back of the door. On the top appeared the name of this place’s former occupant, Joseph Porter. In the “next of kin” block was the name of his daughter, Jennifer.

One of the photos hung against the paisley wallpaper in the kitchen, a place of honor. The frame glass was fogged by years of smoke from the stovetop, but George knew that behind it was the image of a man and a little girl at the beach. They had found her father here, with the burner on, spices scattered about, and something simmering in the pot. You expect the scene of death to smell horrible, but Joe hadn’t been gone long and one of the signature features of his dishes had been their soothing aromas.

I can’t do this, George thought, and stood.

He wandered to the window and watched a jet arch across the sky. Somewhere up there, someone was probably having a rough time. If they were, it was going to be George’s job to respond to their complaints.

“It must have been quite a shock when Ms. Long started removing her clothes and chewing on the seat cushion. I also contacted her family and found that she had been taking a powerful drug for depression. It does not normally affect her in this way, but due to anxiety about her first time on an airplane, Ms. Long began drinking and it did not react well with her medication. She wants you to know that she appreciates your kind assistance, even after she vomited in your lap. We extend our humblest apologies for the incident. Please find enclosed a voucher for a ticket anywhere in the continental US.”

There were many Sorry Men and Women at George’s airline, but he was popular because he found the story inside the bad experience. Everyone appreciated a consolation prize, but if that’s all they wanted there would be no need for George. Just send a form letter and be done.

Just as important as compensation was the knowledge that someone understood their discomfort. For most people, flying is an intensely impersonal experience. You are nothing but a seat number, packed in an airborne sarcophagus with hundreds of other faceless passengers.

George turned the mishaps into narratives, so that he might turn the seat numbers into people whose lives mattered. Sometimes that meant adding a little fiction, such as the notion that Ms. Jones wanted to thank the woman who had been sitting next to her. Ms. Jones didn’t remember the incident and denied it had ever happened.

Then there were the times when his family called on him because he was the one with the words. He’d agreed to eulogize his uncle Joe, but is this how people saw him, as the Sorry Man for everything? “I understand it was quite traumatic when the cosmos took him away, but I hope these two tickets to the afterlife will help you feel better. I am sorry, but they are one way.”

George left the apartment and crossed the street to a cobblestone plaza. His eyes stung in the sun’s glare and he at first did not recognize the woman sitting on the rim of a fountain's pool. Then he noticed her staring up at the window he’d just been standing in.

“Jennifer?” he said as he sat next to her.

“Do you know how many times I looked at that window, trying to get the nerve to go up there? Sometimes he’d stand in it and I’d be right here. His eyes were so bad he couldn’t see me. I never went to him and now he’s gone.”

After a moment of quiet, George said “After your father got sober, I started visiting him every so often. Once he went to that window mid-sentence and it seemed so odd. Now I understand.”

“You think he spotted me? Even with glasses he couldn’t see a damn thing.”

“Remember when we were kids and we all went to Long Beach? I was building sandcastles and you’d gone to the water. Your mom lost sight of you and started yelling. Your dad stood up and looked across the whole beach. I remember being afraid he’d stumble into my castle because he was already a bit drunk.”

“I guess you weren’t too worried.” she said, smiling.

“Forgive me, I was six. But I don’t think Uncle Joe was worried either. He spotted you digging for shells in the sand far down the beach, where it was less crowded.”

“Nobody ever told me about that.”

“Your mom took a picture that day. It’s still hanging in the kitchen.” George pressed on, though Jennifer started crying. “I don’t think his eyesight mattered. It seemed like he could always know you were near through some other sense.”

“If he knew I was here…”

“It’s the same as on the beach. You needed some space. He was happy just to know where you were and that you were okay. And he was always afraid he’d hurt you if he was around too much. I guess he did hurt you eventually. He thought it was best to let you do things in your own time.”

“I waited too long.”

George looked into the sky. The plane’s contrails were all that remained of it. The way they hung there seemed to defy the cold, thin air.

“If he could pick you out from a distance and spot you down here no matter how blind he was getting, do you really think he can’t see you now?”

Jennifer’s tears turned to sobs. As with so many of his stories, George didn't know at first if he’d done more harm than good. Then the woman put her arm around him and he knew it was right. She had been angry for a long time about her father’s absence and angrier still about her own, but George realized that his true skill was standing between two entities that could not come to terms without him.

Airlines were not people and could not feel remorse. Uncle Joe was ever so human, but could no longer speak for himself. For years his daughter had looked at the window and hoped she could face her dad. At last, it was George who’d stood there in his place and come down. He’d better have a message from Joe with him.

Was it true? Thinking of that photo that was so smudged by the accumulations of time that only half blind Joseph Porter could see it clearly anymore, George had a feeling that this time it was the truth.

He put his arm around and Jenny and said, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.” she said.