Ask For Neal

Packing enough clothes for a 15-day trip oversees into two checked bags is enough of a challenge, but as we were carrying tools to use on a worksite, keeping the weight of the bags under fifty pounds became something of a problem. Barbara and I decided to purchase a large duffle bag to hold mostly my things and some tools. We also bought a small duffle bag for me to use for a short stay at a safari lodge as well as to accommodate the luggage restrictions of the small aircraft that flew us to the game conservancy.

Suffice it to say, the large duffle bag was a mistake. With its bulkiness, and at just under fifty pounds, it taxed both my strength and my pleasant disposition every time I had to move it. Why I didn’t buy one with wheels is a question I’m still asking. Let’s just say the unwieldy device was enough to make a preacher cuss.

Clothes tend to shift around inside a duffle bag that’s not bursting at the seams. We did a lot of motel hopping in Kenya, so what was in the middle of the bag one night might be at the end of the bag the next night or a night or two later. Organization was a nightmare, but adding to the nightmare was the fact that our motels, by and large, lacked spaces allocated for baggage. There were none of those nice little folding racks found in cheap American motels. Conditions for living out of a suitcase were less than ideal.

I swore I would buy a large suitcase with wheels before lugging the duffle bag back to Pontotoc, but with the dollar’s weakness against the schilling, a bargain was not to be found. And, going through check-in at the airport in Nairobi on the night of our departure, I was still lugging the cumbersome, loathsome duffle bag.

I had left some clothes for the disadvantaged in Kenya and all the tools were donated to Habitat for Humanity, but part of the weight of these was offset by the souvenirs we had bought. It was a few pounds lighter than before, but not by a noticeable amount.

Check-in went fairly normal. I handed over my passport for scanning, a boarding pass was issued, and my bag was checked and strapped with a luggage tag, and a luggage stub was affixed to the back of my boarding pass.

Three hours later, around midnight, we filed, orderly, aboard the airplane that would take us to London. I had hardly gotten comfortable in my window seat when an airline representative boarded and asked if I were Mr. Carter.

I assured her I was, and she handed me another luggage stub, stating simply, “This has your baggage claim number.”

I pocketed it, all the while wondering why I had two stubs and only one bag.

After deplaning in London, a couple of our team members, including me, had to pick up a boarding pass at the American Airlines counter, as there had been a printer problem back in Nairobi. The very nice lady, who issued my pass, informed me there was no bag on our flight that matched the claim number assigned to me. I then retrieved the stub given me after boarding in Nairobi. It matched a bag on the flight, but she said I would have to go to the gate and identify the bag before it could be stowed aboard my flight to Chicago.

An agent adjacent to her had been tuned in to what we were discussing, and he said, “That’s my flight,” which I supposed to mean he would be assisting at the gate.

“Don’t worry, Sir,” he stated, “I’ll meet you at the gate and take you down to identify your bag. Just ask for Neal.”

But, as you might suppose at airports such as London’s, the gate assignment for my flight was not immediately forthcoming, especially since I was looking at a more than four-hour-layover. Fortunately, when traveling with a group, time passes more quickly than when traveling alone.

When we finally were in line to access the gate (lots of security in London) there was no Neal. I spoke to an agent at the gate desk and explained I was to meet Neal about a matter of luggage. Shortly afterwards, Neal arrived, found me and told me the baggage was not yet at the gate but should be shortly.

“I’ll find you as soon as the baggage is here,” he assured me.

“I’m easy to spot,” I replied, “in my red jacket with Ole Miss on the front.”

About ten minutes passed and Neal motioned for me to follow him. He was wearing a lime-green security vest, so I wondered what other passengers thought as I followed him from the waiting area. He led me into a room where another security guard met us and from there we went through security doors accessible by badges and passcodes.

At some point, Neal asked about Ole Miss, “Isn’t that the college in the movie Sandra Bullock was in?”

Knowing he was talking about the Michael Oher story and the movie “Blind Side,” I respondeded affirmatively, somewhat surprised by his memory. The other guard accompanied us at all times. An exterior door was raised and there sat my duffle bag on the pavement.

“Is this your bag?” Neal inquired.

I could see my name tag on the handles as well as the red/white/blue ribbon tied onto one end, and I responded, “Yes, it is. My name is on the name tag.”

Neal didn’t take my word of it he bent down to flip over the name tag, read it, right himself, and quiz, “The Bodock Post?” even, pronouncing bodock correctly.

“Yeah, that’s my newsletter,” I replied.

We chatted briefly about my hobby as we made our way to the waiting area of the gate via a different route of security doors. I looked inside my billfold to find my last Bodock Post business card and gave it to him. He gave me his, as well.

I thanked him for his helpfulness and was generally impressed with his politeness and professional manner, to say nothing of London Heathrow’s security measures. Fly American, I say, and if you do get to London Heathrow Airport sometime ask for Neal.