“Can I ask something?”
Marcus looked at Naomi.
She smiled.
“Your fault for being historic.”
Marcus sighed.
“Go ahead.”
The officer asked:
“What do you wish Officer Vance had done first?”
Marcus answered immediately.
“Look.”
The young officer frowned.
“At your ID?”
“Yes.”
“But more than that.”
Marcus pointed gently to his own eyes.
“Look at what was actually in front of him instead of what he had already decided was there.”
The officer nodded.
Marcus continued.
“Verification begins before documents.”
“It begins when you allow reality to correct your assumptions.”
The young man thanked him.
Marcus moved on.
Naomi pushed wheelchair.
“Pretty good.”
“What?”
“That answer.”
“I’ve had thirty-six years to prepare it.”
They reached Concourse B.
Marcus laughed.
“Again?”
Naomi looked innocent.
“Cheapest flight.”
“Liar.”
They stopped near windows.
Marcus watched people.
A Navy chief in khakis.
Two Marines in civilian clothes carrying garment bags.
Airport police.
Families.
Business travelers.
Children.
No one cared about an old man in wheelchair.
Marcus loved that.
A young Black man nearby wore an obviously fake naval costume.
Cheap fabric.
Incorrect cap.
Plastic medals.
Marcus stared.
Naomi noticed.
“Oh no.”
“What?”
“Don't.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“Your face is doing something.”
The young man was filming a comedy video with friends.
Clearly entertainment.
Marcus shook his head.
Naomi laughed.
“Go arrest him.”
“I hate you.”
“Grandma would love this.”
“Yes.”
He smiled.
She would.
They boarded.
No incident.
Marcus died four years later.
Eighty-eight.
At home.
Naomi beside him.
Ava too.
No last speech.
He had already made enough.
The Navy honored him.
The airport story returned briefly.
News clips.
That famous video.
Vance’s hand.
Radios.
Marcus’s face.
Naomi declined most interviews.
One reporter asked:
“Do you think that incident defined your father’s legacy?”
She laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“What did?”
She thought.