The True VIPs
I took a red-eye out of New York, bound for Denver. My company had just sealed a significant contract and gave me a business-class seat. As someone who’d never had much, reclining into a wide seat and using genuine silverware felt impossible.
While waiting at the gate, I saw a woman who looked to be about seventy. With her stood a thin, pale little girl, likely six, sporting a knit cap and holding tight to a stuffed bunny. The woman seemed worn out but gentle as she touched the girl’s shoulder.
“Grandma, what’s business class?” the girl wondered.
“That’s where people go if they have money,” the lady replied. “There are bigger seats and real food.”
“Have you ever gone there?”
A sad smile crossed the woman’s face. “No, sweetheart. That’s for important people.”
My heart sank. “Important people.”
I looked down at my boarding pass—Zone 1, Seat 3A. Then I looked back at the little girl. The knit cap wasn’t a fashion statement; it was covering the side effects of treatment. She looked exhausted, her little body fighting a battle much bigger than any corporate contract I had just signed.
I realized in that moment that my definition of “important” was completely wrong.
The gate agent picked up the microphone. “Now boarding Zone 1, Business Class.”
I didn’t head for the jet bridge. Instead, I walked over to the grandmother. She looked up, startled, pulling the little girl slightly closer.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said softly.
“Yes?” she asked, her voice tired.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you,” I said, crouching down to be eye-level with the little girl. “I think there’s been a mix-up with the tickets. You see, I was given these seats for ‘important people,’ but I’m just a guy going to a meeting. I think these seats actually belong to you.”
I held out my boarding pass.
The grandmother looked at the ticket, then at me, confused. “Sir, I don’t understand. We have seats in row 32…”
“I know,” I smiled. “But business class is for people who need extra rest and care. It’s for VIPs. And looking at your granddaughter, I can’t think of anyone more important on this plane than her.”
Tears welled up in the woman’s eyes. “We couldn’t… that’s too much.”
“Please,” I insisted, pressing the ticket into her hand. “It would make me happy. The seats recline all the way back. She can sleep.”
I took their economy tickets from her trembling hand and walked to the counter to handle the swap before she could argue.
When I finally boarded, I walked past row 3. The little girl was already asleep, covered in a plush duvet, the stuffed bunny tucked under her chin. The grandmother mouthed a tearful “Thank you” as I passed.
I made my way back to row 32, seat E. The middle seat. It was cramped. My knees hit the tray table. The air was stuffy.
But as the plane took off and the lights dimmed, I closed my eyes and smiled. I realized that even though I was squeezed between two strangers in the back of the plane, I had never felt richer in my life.
Sometimes, the most expensive seats are the ones you give away.
