My husband’s brother, a captain with Air Canada, calls to say he’ll be in the city for a four-hour layover. Do we want to come to the airport for a visit?
Of course we do. He lives across the country and we don’t get to see him often enough.
We catch up on family news and ask about his flights.
“Spent a couple of months flying to Russia,” he says. “We land, they come onto the flight deck and take our passports. We get them back when we’re about to take off again.”
Sounds a bit intimidating to us.
He waves off our worries. “Nah. Piece of cake. Now, Libya in the day was another story. Never knew what you had in the cargo hold. Sometimes picked up the dead in the desert.”
“What are you doing now? All domestic flights?”
“Yep,” he says. “And I had the nicest young man from here on the flight the other day. He’s deathly afraid of flying so I took him up to the cockpit. Nice young man. Told him if he ever needed a place to stay when he was in Montreal, he could stay at our place.”
We nod politely, but really what does this young man have to do with us?
“He plays hockey,” our brother-in-law adds.
We perk up. “What’s his name?”
“Not Wayne Gretzky!?” we screech in unison.
“Yeah, that’s it. Nice young man. Told him he could stay with us anytime he needed a place in Montreal.”