Flighted Frustration

I was bailing. I was scared. I was unprepared. I was on the nonstop flight to South America in seat 26 B next to the bearded welter weight with thick rimmed glasses and greasy curly hair surrounding a shiny bald top. To the other side of me was a portly woman with a disposition of feigned nobility and importance. The energetic and exaggerated hand gestures along with her tendency to laugh at her own amusements assured me of this. Her stiff brown hair seemed sprayed in place much like the orange tan of her face. I had been sober for nearly 14 hours and trapped between these two characters of America I knew it had been a mistake to stop drinking. How long would it take the stewardess or flight attendant or which ever was the correct terminology to reach me? I needed one of those petite bottles of liquor they served; actually better make that a double. This was a long flight, but if I chugged two of them I might get myself just fucked up enough to harmlessly pass out without the horrific thoughts of my dear friends on either side of me.

I panicked imagining their backgrounds and lives fretting to a nervous degree about the fact that these were people that might have actually reproduced or worse, had people that validated and encouraged them. Who were these insolent strangers anyways? Why were they on my plane, interfering with my trip of spiritual freedom and existential pursuit. Their negative auras were sure to affect my own in such close proximity and I was already aware of the volatile nature of my current state. I was lodged between an untimely graduation from college and a looming full time job so near on the horizon I might as well have been on the edge of the earth myself. Graduation had beckoned way too early and I dreaded the loss of my lifestyle.

Now I was here stuck between insurance agent Lionel and housewife extraordinaire Claire. Between them was Hades and I was firmly slouched in my seat there. I uncomfortably shifted in my position and unwittingly made physical contact with dear Claire when I recklessly threw my arm towards the arm rest dividing our space. When it felt the soft pudginess of her cholesterol deposits I immediately realized I had strayed too far. I ripped my arm back in uncontrolled shock. Thank god she was too absorbed in the god forsaken aerial presentation of Garfield to notice my horrified reaction. How the fuck could anyone with a fully functional brain born before the year 2000 find anything remotely entertaining in this frighteningly appalling trash parading as cinema?

Bored, sober, and out of options I resigned myself to perusing the Continental airlines magazine expecting nothing more then a couple of mildly interesting photographs. Despite the abhorrent movie selection, Continental did surprise me with a most likely unheralded gem. As I thumbed through the Continental magazine placed in the sleeve in front of every seat I settled on a small piece about Cancun drinking hubs, as much a product of itching alcoholism as my former time visiting that foreign city. I’ve never imagined some marketing fueled magazine mass-produced for tired travelers looking for something to put them asleep as a source for fine-tuned and highly entertaining writing. So you can imagine my surprise when I found myself entranced by the delectable piece by Chris Barnett (name confirmation pending) about Yucatan drink specialties.

After streaking through this I imagined it to be a rare fortune of a good writer in a shoddy magazine. To put my theory to the test I flipped back to a previous article and to my now overwhelming surprise found it as engaging as my first discovery. Thus, I must tip my metaphorical cap to these underappreciated literary engineers capable of turning a magazine long advertisement into an unexpected pleasurable experience. Now if only the irritated flight attendant with an inability to communicate with speakers of espanol would lighten her mood.

By some unheeded miracle I reached nearly the fifth hour of flight alive and breathing. The long haired infant continued to laugh playfully every time I smile at him. His brown eyes lit up as he giggled on his mother’s lap. This little kid thankfully distracted my attention from the brutal stench fuming off good ol’ Lionel. My guess is it was a mixture of some odious cologne and untamed body odor. Either way, it was at times hard to breath.

Thankfully I felt the plane descending and that warm, crackly voice on the overhead in fluid Spanish and broken English told me we were approaching our destination, Lima. I could hardly wait to escape from this stale air and lamentable company. Myself, still a snob entrenched in bitter judgments and pretension just looking for some Spanish conversation and Peruvian Pisco.