My Virgin America flight to New York was completely booked and I had reserved seat 5E for myself, thinking that if I can’t have an aisle seat at least I can be close to the front of the airplane so I can be one of the first people off it. I overlooked the fact that the closer you sit to the front, the closer to the back of line you’ll be when boarding. So, I was in group F, the final group which should otherwise be categorized as the group which is not afforded the opportunity to put anything in the overhead bins and is forced to check in their carry-on bags. I was saved, however, by a 5’3” brunette who distracted the flight attendants by putting up a fight when they asked her to check in her coat. I managed to slither through with 2 carry-ons, my sweatshirt strewn over my bags and my tennis racquet (a lethal weapon, it turns out, as you walk through the aisles and stumble on outward angled feet, causing you to grab onto the closest seat and allowing the racquet to swing to your inside arm and into the face of an unbeknownst recipient).
Anyway, I’m digressing and honesty is, in fact, a relevant moral to this story. As we waited in the aisles for the crowds to shift forward, the Napoleonette decided to make a call. Standing in her black leggings, black suede knee high boots, wife beater under a grey cut up 80’s sweatshirt, black plasticky headband with heart shapes engraved into it and hair so tightly pulled back it made me thankful that hair is already dead and not experiencing the suffocating pain of being so wound, she readjusted her plaid wool winter coat, dropped her ticket and proceeded to have a conversation with her right leg lunged and her left leg stiff as a board. I want to define my coming actions as eaves dropping, but I’m pretty sure that in any contained environment, such as an elevator, airplane, office, street corner, all is fair game.
“Hey,” she said. “Thanks for watching Lola last night.” Let me interject here and mention this was the first time I realized that thing under her arm was a heinous coat and not a matty discolored dog. I’m assuming Lola is not her child but really didn’t put much thought into who Lola might be. With a completely straight face and speaking at Olympic speeds, she quickly followed her thanks with, “well, you know, why would anyone want to get to know a crazy psycho. You’re a crazy psycho.” Woah! Should we send a search party for Lola?! Did you seriously allow a crazy psycho watch your dear Lola? Are you concerned at all?? You haven’t once asked about her well being! She’s not your kid, right? She’s a plant, right? Please tell me she’s your pillow friend who you hide from everyone but the voice at the other end of the receiver. Without any real remorse, she says, “I’m sorry but I’m just being honest with you. Have a safe trip to Canada. What? You can’t find it? You need a passport to go to Canada?” I almost tapped her to say, “Friend, people like you make me think we should pass a law requiring a passport and a visa to go to New York.” But no, she’s an honest person and, quite frankly, I’m not sane, my face is tear stained and my eyes are bloodshot so why would I subject myself to a tirade from a woman who left Lola with a crazy psycho. All of a sudden, my ear tunes in behind me to a man leaving a voice message, “John, hey, it’s Jeff Smith.” I stopped listening right then and there because I couldn’t help but feel bad for this 6’5” married giant. Why hasn’t he changed his name?! Does he have identity and insecurity issues, always feeling like he doesn’t stand out and like he’s a nobody because he’s everybody? Poor guy.
Finally, I get to my row. Yes, row 5. All this has happened in the mere walk from the entrance of the plain to my approach to row 5. I sit down. To my right is a screenplay writing East Asian girl in yellow pants and to my left is a too cool for school dude with thick, black rimmed glasses, a cap, blue and yellow plaid shirt, boating shoes and tapered, rolled up jeans with a serious flatulence problem. Here’s my chance, right? To implement today’s lesson? Tell my compatriot writer that her dialogue (because, yes, I read over her shoulder) is boring and tell the white steve urquell to my left to please isolate himself in the bathroom until he feels ready to be in public? Ahh, can I do it??
Ha. Of course not. Instead, I’m writing it to everyone else. But, baby steps, right? It’s just day 1.
Ugh. He just farted again.
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