smileytraveler

Chicago O'Hare

I'm in the seat. I'm buckled in. Oh, baby Jesus take the wheel of the plane and fly oh so high.

I should have collapsed weeks ago. I should have given myself a break and maybe gone outside and looked at birds or something. Why do we push ourselves so hard for things that don't matter and take it out on our loved ones when we're tired, wrecked, grumpy, and borderline psycho?

I'm in the seat, alright, but not in my seat. When I booked this flight I was desperate to get out of Ireland. I usually fly standby on passes but there wasn't a chance in hell of me getting out of there in the next week, so it was either live in the airport for a week (I'm nuts, so could be fun) or use my points.

I've been saving these damn points for over two years. I had visions in my head of going to London, Chile, and maybe back to Mexico. I could have gone to all three on the points I had.

But two nights ago I had to pull the trigger and use my precious, precious points so I could go home and cry alone like a big girl.

They wanted 110k freakin' points for a one-way. It hurt just looking at it. Apparently it's a popular time to fly this route. I feel feisty so I look at the First/Business class offering and they're asking 135k. Screw it. Let's do this – I'm gonna spend it all. I'm gonna get on that damn plane and get me a bed and champagne and they're gonna feed my face and I'm gonna start the journey off right.

I pick my seats. On the connection to my sweet little [redacted] po'dunk town we're on a puddle-jumper so I specifically choose a window alone so I can have some privacy and work on a book I've wanted to write for like a billion years about my crazy travel adventures. I can only write when I'm depressed or angry (couldn't you tell?) so now is the perfect time for productivity!

Once I board the plane for said connection I arrive at my precious seat. There's a body in it. I'm pissed because I'll have to now speak with this person and I don't want to speak with this person.

He's got headphones on and he's happily derping on his phone. Aren't they all?

Me: Excuse me, sir.

Him: [No response. Continues to derp on phone.]

Me: Um, excuse me?

I've got my inside voice on, tuned to sweet little girl.

*Him: [Derp.]

The sweet little girl sits down in the seat across the aisle and must behave rudely by waving her hand in this guy's face to get his attention. I'm surprised how long I have to wave before he notices anything. But not really. Anyone derping on a phone nowadays wouldn't notice a goddamned nuclear bomb if it went off.

He's annoyed. This should be fun.

Me: Hi. Did you specifically request this seat?

('Cause I did motherfucker.)

Him: 3C.

I look puzzled.

Him: I'm in 3C!

His tone is abrupt and he makes brief eye contact before getting back to his phone. He's probably writing the next great symphony and needed some space to reconnect with the muse. That's what I was hoping but, nope, I looked at his phone and it was a movie.

Am I crazy? Everyone's telling me this lately so I don't question him whatsoever. Instead I look above his head and read very slowly what my eyeballs see.

3A

I calmly take my ticket out again and read the symbols, one at a time: 3A.

With a blank expression I take not my seat next to a nice lady who immediately notices what's going on. She's airline staff flying to meet her team in my little po'dunk town.

Nice Lady: Let me see your ticket?

Here.

Nice Lady: Oh, yeah. He's in your seat.

Thank you, Nice Lady. I'm not crazy.

All of a sudden homeboy gets a change of heart and graciously removes his earbuds to speak.

Him: Do you want to switch? I'm happy to do so.

Me: No, that's alright.

I get up to put my bag in the overhead bin.

Him: Are you sure?

Me: Oh, yes. Absolutely.

What makes this scene so funny is that my back was turned to him so he didn't know how empty, hollow, and demonic my eyes looked as I'm speaking these words. My voice is Disney Princess with a sprinkle of passive-aggressive.

After Takeoff

Just look at him over there, the smug little shit. He's not looking out the window and daydreaming. He's not writing bitchy blog posts about mean people who steal your seat on airplanes. No, he's got the shade down and is still derping on that goddamned phone.

Hearken! He speaks!

Him: You see, they put me here. My other flight got switched around and...(he trails off)...you know. Crazy airlines. But they assigned me here. Are you sure you don't want to switch seats?

F'n liar. But at least he's starting to act like he gives a damn.

Me: What does your ticket say?

Paper don't lie, bub. I can't remember his answer but I do know that by now I'm so over this guy. Enjoy your darkness and derping.

What am I supposed to do? It's already so awkward I can't switch now. He should have just moved like a gentleman when I waved my hand in his face.

I can't write. All I can do is fantasize about my new enemy, the filthy usurper, 'cause I'm bored and, okay, a little drunk.

I 'aint gonna lie, he's good-looking. He's an obvious former frat boy who grew up into a studly man-bro. So perhaps I could proposition him to get my revenge:

You're a dick. Hey! I'm a dick, too! Whaddya say we have angry sex in the airport broom closet while hating each other and ourselves?

I could then smack him in the face repeatedly while screaming you like that, dickhead?!

This way there would be no jailtime for me.