Flee Before Biker Santa Claus

When I was in middle school, my mother moved from Florida to Vermont to live with my step-father. My parents worked out an arrangement where I would visit her over long school holidays several times a year, flying as an unaccompanied minor.

I am, and always have been, the sort of person who is happy to have random conversations with strangers, so I would end up with a “plane buddy” by the end of every flight.

One such temporary friend was a — presumably — nice middle-aged man with whom I had chatted back and forth with for the entire three-hour flight about nothing much at all. We were leaving the terminal and walking together towards the baggage claim when I spotted my step-dad at the terminal entrance waiting for me.

I happily pointed and said, “There’s my step-dad!”

But by the time I turned back around, my companion had vanished.

When I asked my step-dad what happened, he said he saw me pointing and the man with me took one look at him, turned pale as a sheet, and then fled the other way.

I should point out that my step-father is a massive man whose appearance is best described as “biker Santa Claus,” and he is twice as strong as he looks. I have no idea if that guy had any unsavory intentions or if he was just afraid he would be accused of such, but I did get a light scolding from my step-dad about being too trusting of random men in airports.