Dennis and Gail sat in their apartment, in the bright light of all the candles crowding his ice cream cake. Everyone was there: their kids and grandkids, their friends, and the good people of “Dennis Shows You Manhattan!”
Dennis closed his eyes and wished for the same thing as always: a new tour bus. He could visualize it so clearly in these moments — Big Apple red, double decker . . .
He drew in a big breath, then blew as hard as he could. Some candles capitulated, but it took everyone’s help, and a few tries, to dispense with all seventy-five. Maybe that counts, he thought. Maybe I’ll get my wish.
Later, in the privacy of their kitchen, Gail presented him with a handmade card.
“Happy birthday, Potato,” she whispered.
Beaming, Dennis opened the card to find a printout marked “CUSTOMER RECEIPT.” For a moment, his body tingled: a new tour bus? How could she have gotten the money? His eyes moved down the page.
Two plane tickets.
What? Why?
“But we have everything in New York,” Dennis pleaded. “That’s the point of living here. Everything comes to us. Everyone, from all over the world.”
“It’s not the same.”
Over the next few weeks, Gail edged Dennis toward a yes. “What if we watch that travel video?” “Why not get passports, just in case?” The tipping point, though, was her suggestion that Dennis take as much from home — from his beloved New York — as he wanted.
Three months later, they were at John F. Kennedy International Airport with six suitcases.
“First time flying with us?” the check-in agent asked.
“First time flying,” said Dennis.
“His birthday present,” Gail added.
The agent smiled. Such a nice couple.
A few clicks on his computer, and the printer spat out brand new boarding passes. “I’ve upgraded you both. Happy birthday, Mr. Pigeon.”
Past security, Dennis and Gail delighted in their visit to a gift shop. The souvenirs here were different from what Dennis was used to in Manhattan, so he scooped up two bags’ worth. Gail found some packaged sushi, which seemed like the perfect lunch. “It’s great,” Dennis declared. The whole thing was starting to feel like a date.
Takeoff was exhilarating. Their bodies angled backward from the plane’s ascent, and Dennis squeezed Gail’s hand twice — their code for “I love you.” “There’s the Verrazzano Bridge!” he exclaimed. “Misspelled on highway signs for decades,” he continued out of habit. Always the tour guide.
Minutes later, their city was behind them.
Everything about the flight was fabulous: the blankets and beverages and even the bathroom. Dennis especially enjoyed adjusting the air blowing down on their seats. “Could’ve used this for the candles!” he joked.
Fourteen hours after takeoff, the plane began its descent. The Pigeons gaped at the world taking shape below, with its new greenery, new water, new roads and cars and houses and all the rest.
At baggage claim, they watched the suitcases go round and round. But as the carousel became more barren, they grew worried.
“We should find someone,” Gail said.
“Can we stay here?” asked Dennis.
And so they stayed.
Until the carousel was empty.
A baggage supervisor told them that she didn’t know what had happened to their suitcases. She was very, very sorry, and she’d personally look into the matter.
The train ride downtown was miserable, as Dennis and Gail cataloged everything in all six missing bags. Dennis was heartbroken that he might never see their things again; Gail was heartbroken at how much of their trip would now have to be spent shopping for mundane items like clothes and toiletries.
“I knew it,” Dennis muttered. “This whole trip was a mistake.”
“Maybe we brought too much stuff,” said Gail. “Maybe that’s why it got lost.”
“You told me to pack as much as I wanted.”
“I don’t think this is my fault.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
That night, they were too deflated to leave their hotel room, and too afraid of setting off another argument to say more than a few words. For dinner, Gail dug through the souvenir bags from JFK, and joylessly ate a chocolate bar shaped like the Statue of Liberty. They barely slept.
The following morning, an exhausted Dennis and Gail slumped in the lobby waiting for help canceling their plans for the day. Two travelers, defeated — like those people Dennis would sometimes see on his bus, suffering the misfortune of a lost hotel booking or a big unexpected expense.
Dennis wistfully admired the itinerary in his hand: tours from morning to night.
The chance of a lifetime.
The phrase rang in his head. Wasn’t this what he told despairing tourists back home?
He fixed his eyes on the front door. Some fingerprint smudges marred the otherwise pristine glass — maybe from people eager to push open the door and see the city, he thought.
He exhaled, and offered Gail his hand. She accepted, squeezing twice.
They strode toward the door, where Dennis added his fingerprint.
Then the couple stepped outside into the bright light of the Tokyo morning sun.
Dennis closed his eyes and wished for the same thing as always: a new tour bus. He could visualize it so clearly in these moments — Big Apple red, double decker . . .
He drew in a big breath, then blew as hard as he could. Some candles capitulated, but it took everyone’s help, and a few tries, to dispense with all seventy-five. Maybe that counts, he thought. Maybe I’ll get my wish.
Later, in the privacy of their kitchen, Gail presented him with a handmade card.
“Happy birthday, Potato,” she whispered.
Beaming, Dennis opened the card to find a printout marked “CUSTOMER RECEIPT.” For a moment, his body tingled: a new tour bus? How could she have gotten the money? His eyes moved down the page.
Two plane tickets.
What? Why?
“But we have everything in New York,” Dennis pleaded. “That’s the point of living here. Everything comes to us. Everyone, from all over the world.”
“It’s not the same.”
Over the next few weeks, Gail edged Dennis toward a yes. “What if we watch that travel video?” “Why not get passports, just in case?” The tipping point, though, was her suggestion that Dennis take as much from home — from his beloved New York — as he wanted.
Three months later, they were at John F. Kennedy International Airport with six suitcases.
“First time flying with us?” the check-in agent asked.
“First time flying,” said Dennis.
“His birthday present,” Gail added.
The agent smiled. Such a nice couple.
A few clicks on his computer, and the printer spat out brand new boarding passes. “I’ve upgraded you both. Happy birthday, Mr. Pigeon.”
Past security, Dennis and Gail delighted in their visit to a gift shop. The souvenirs here were different from what Dennis was used to in Manhattan, so he scooped up two bags’ worth. Gail found some packaged sushi, which seemed like the perfect lunch. “It’s great,” Dennis declared. The whole thing was starting to feel like a date.
Takeoff was exhilarating. Their bodies angled backward from the plane’s ascent, and Dennis squeezed Gail’s hand twice — their code for “I love you.” “There’s the Verrazzano Bridge!” he exclaimed. “Misspelled on highway signs for decades,” he continued out of habit. Always the tour guide.
Minutes later, their city was behind them.
Everything about the flight was fabulous: the blankets and beverages and even the bathroom. Dennis especially enjoyed adjusting the air blowing down on their seats. “Could’ve used this for the candles!” he joked.
Fourteen hours after takeoff, the plane began its descent. The Pigeons gaped at the world taking shape below, with its new greenery, new water, new roads and cars and houses and all the rest.
At baggage claim, they watched the suitcases go round and round. But as the carousel became more barren, they grew worried.
“We should find someone,” Gail said.
“Can we stay here?” asked Dennis.
And so they stayed.
Until the carousel was empty.
A baggage supervisor told them that she didn’t know what had happened to their suitcases. She was very, very sorry, and she’d personally look into the matter.
The train ride downtown was miserable, as Dennis and Gail cataloged everything in all six missing bags. Dennis was heartbroken that he might never see their things again; Gail was heartbroken at how much of their trip would now have to be spent shopping for mundane items like clothes and toiletries.
“I knew it,” Dennis muttered. “This whole trip was a mistake.”
“Maybe we brought too much stuff,” said Gail. “Maybe that’s why it got lost.”
“You told me to pack as much as I wanted.”
“I don’t think this is my fault.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
That night, they were too deflated to leave their hotel room, and too afraid of setting off another argument to say more than a few words. For dinner, Gail dug through the souvenir bags from JFK, and joylessly ate a chocolate bar shaped like the Statue of Liberty. They barely slept.
The following morning, an exhausted Dennis and Gail slumped in the lobby waiting for help canceling their plans for the day. Two travelers, defeated — like those people Dennis would sometimes see on his bus, suffering the misfortune of a lost hotel booking or a big unexpected expense.
Dennis wistfully admired the itinerary in his hand: tours from morning to night.
The chance of a lifetime.
The phrase rang in his head. Wasn’t this what he told despairing tourists back home?
He fixed his eyes on the front door. Some fingerprint smudges marred the otherwise pristine glass — maybe from people eager to push open the door and see the city, he thought.
He exhaled, and offered Gail his hand. She accepted, squeezing twice.
They strode toward the door, where Dennis added his fingerprint.
Then the couple stepped outside into the bright light of the Tokyo morning sun.