I Like People...I Swear

I pride myself as an individual who likes to meet and learn about new people with one exception; I have a difficult time engaging in conversations on planes. This is especially true when I'm on a long flight. There are multiple reasons for this, but the biggest reason is my inability to stay awake. I don't know if it's the recycled air or the gentle roar of the jet engines, but if there were a hijacking you could count on the fact that the terrorists would have little difficulty subduing me. They may even get me a blanket. Not long ago I was booking a flight to London when my boss suggested that we sit next to each other so we could get some work done and get to know each other a little better. I politely passed knowing that it would not bode well for me to conk out and drool all over her. Another reason is that I don't want to make polite conversation for hours on end. I'd rather say hello, read, work, listen to music or slide into the previously mentioned coma.



As I started my latest trek I encountered my ultimate nightmare of a travel neighbor. The plane was completely full and I was one of the last people to board the plane. I was travelling from Boston to Sydney Australia with a connection in L.A. and I was anxious about this first leg, the only one where I wouldn't be booked in business class. To make matters worse, I was in a middle seat. When I got close to my row, the 300 pound plus man said, "You're not going to find a place to put your bag." My heart sunk. It was true, the airline's genius move to charge people to check bags has prompted people to fill up the overhead bins like my new found friend jammed himself into his and a little of my seat.

Once I got the bag squared away some 30 rows behind me, I sat and he started talking. And when I mean talking, he was babbling. He was in Boston for a family reunion, he used to be a DJ, his kids don't speak to him anymore, what did I think of the new Eagles album? I was hit with a barrage of information I wasn't remotely interested it, especially the Eagles new shitty album. Things got worse when we finally started taxiing down the runway and he started flipping through the pocket in front of him, "Man, I should have brought something to read with me for this flight!" No worries, I can talk to the nice bald man about my new heart condition and my love for all things orange.

The flight went on, we chatted, and I politely turned to my reading. Nothing too heavy, just Rolling Stone. Babbles, not having anything to do and obviously attempting to lure me into further banter kept commenting on the pictures in the magazine. Then the coughing started. Not a mild little clear the tickle out my throat mind you, but a loud, violent, productive hack. Excellent, I thought, I've always wanted to have a cold in Australia. This cough occurred every 8 minutes without fail, all the while hacking into his right untissued, unhankerchifed, unnapkined hand.

Every time he spoke, I could feel his hot breath bouncing off of my face. He must of though I was slightly austistic as my new speech impediment appeared as a result of trying to hold my breath and speak at the same time.

After while, not having anything better to do, he proceeded to fart. I couldn't hear them, but I was starting to catch wafts of the corned beef sandwich and Schlitz he probably had earlier. I knew he was rationalizing his gastrointestinal sharing as harmless because he couldn't smell them, but the guy on the other side of me could and probably thought I was the culprit and I was obviously dying from the inside out.

To make an already long story short, he finally slipped into unconsciousness and started drooling on the floor in front of him. I considered putting my foot out for a free shine but I didn't want to get my socks wet.

The flight and my misery finally came to an end, but not without one final moment. What was I to do when he put his phlegm hand out to say goodbye (which he did)? Now I know why Michael Jackson wore that glove. I'd write more but I have to go nurse this cold...