In the passenger compartment, legs stretch out so far it takes a conscious effort to remain seated upright, while only a meaningful glance from the spouse discourages the temptation to assume a completely prone position. A compromise is effected by crossing one calf over the other knee in what seems like a debonair posture, while we look out the window at the passing scene - a chance we don't get when doing the driving ourselves while running errands.
On the last trip, our settling-in was just in time to spot the mailman trudging his rounds at the foot of the street. This seemed to call for a wave of recognition. There's no sense cultivating snobbery just because one is riding in a vehicle some 30 feet long.
'I hope Paul told them to hold the mail.' The spousal voice from the other side of the padded interior is somewhat muffled.
'Paul⢠Paul who?'
'The mailman Paul, of course.' She settles her handbag in her lap in a way that says she's decided that the mail will be all right after all. 'And why did you salute him?'
'Salute?' The postal uniform must have triggered some subconscious response - perhaps a throwback to draftee status of many years ago.
'Yes. You didn't just wave. You made a sort of salute - like in the old newsreels of generals or kings or something.'
We're stopped at the school crossing now. The elderly lady crossing guard shoos her charges to the curb, then waves us through with her stop sign. She looks a bit nonplussed as the limousine glides through the intersection. Probably doesn't see too many of these big stretch jobs - not in this neighborhood.
'Did she wave at you or something?' There was more interest now, something quickening the tone of voice. 'You saluted her, too. Do you know her?'
'Just being friendly.' It seems like a good idea to be fascinated with whatever is outside the window. In the reflection, however, there's unmistakable head-shaking visible at the other side of the car, as a traffic light stops us next to a large van with a little girl in the front passenger seat. The child points to the limousine, her eyes widen as she receives a salutary gesture, whereupon which she sticks out her tongue and turns to her mother to whine. She then stares, head rigid, straight ahead through the windshield of the van as the light changes and we glide away from the traffic stop.
Ten silent minutes later, we stop in front of the airline terminal. In another minute, our suitcases are at the curb and the driver collecting the payment.
'Have a good trip, sir,' he responds to his tip, with the spoken words accompanied by a brief brush of his fingers to the peak of his cap. The courtesy obviously calls for an equivalent response, and gets it, triggering a visible stiffening of the spousal figure.
The driver is no sooner gone than his place is taken by the skycap handling curbside check-in. 'Good morning, folks, may I see your tickets?' He runs quickly through the check-in litany before accepting the hand off of some additional currency. The tickets with baggage checks are returned with a flourish and, appropriately enough, a gracious touch of the right hand to his forehead.
This draws an audible gasp as our lifemate hurries immediately into the terminal. But the gesture certainly deserves a response, feet together, standing tall, back straight, fingers extended and joined - the right way.
It takes a couple minutes to scurry into the terminal and catch up with the spouse. She seems to be walking awfully fast - without glancing back even once.
Theodore Rickard is a Yarmouth Port, Mass., free-lance writer for the Tribune-Review.
