He waddled down the aisle like an Easter Island statue,
smashing every seat as he sweated his way to the back of the plane. His
heartbeat visible in his neck, chins and forehead, his eyes buried deep in the
red pounding flesh. The zipper on
his pants was two feet long, a custom job; and like his glasses, the inner face
of his watch was coated with a yellowish layer of condensation.
In a bizarre defiance of logic and courtesy he had several
large items around his neck, a fanny pack, and a large backpack, complete with
two one liter bottles of water attached to each side. It was my extreme hope
that he was headed to the back of the plane, out the door, and back onto the
tarmac. But no, he was headed toward the only empty seat on the plane, the one
next to me. Our eyes met. I quickly grabbed the magazine from the pouch in
front of me and pretended to enjoy an article about Kim Kardasian’s wedding,
upside down.
“Uhhh Humph…” he grunted as he loomed over me. “What the
problem slim?” I said, dropping my magazine and noticing for the first time
that this person’s gender was not easily determined. “You’re in my seat”, it
said, burying its fists into the massive rolls of flesh escaping the confines
an overtaxed belt. “Oh, I don’t think so, I booked this seat special three
months ago, I need an aisle seat, see… fear issues.” I reached into the inner
pocket of my jacket to take a nip from my flask, this scene was going to get
tense and I needed to be limber. “Well, I ain’t gonna fit in there”, sweat
oozing from the face, foam gathering at the corners of the mouth. I glanced
casually at the seat and then back to the person, “Well that’s between you and the
McDonald Corporation, I’ve got my seat.”
Just then the stewardess, a lovely young lady just shy of
her sixty-second birthday, began barking at the two of us. “What’s the problem
here? We need to get everyone seated!” Being seated myself I felt no need to
acknowledge her. “Sir, would you please move over and let this man in”, she
said crinkling her face so that a light dusting of make-up began to fall like
snow on the seat in front of me. “Well, my stub here says 34 A…A…that is an
aisle seat, his stub says B, a window. I will gladly get up and let him in, but
34 A is mine”. “He is not going to fit there, Sir. Would you please move in and
let this man get seated?” “Absolutely not”, I said. “Why?”
“Why? Why? Because I booked this seat three months ago, I
paid for it, I fit in it, and when the shit comes down there is no way in
fucking hell I am going to be in 34 B sandwiched between the fuselage and 400
pounds of screaming, burning flesh! This asshole knows what a plane looks like,
you assholes sold him the ticket, so why do I have to move? Why am I the bad
guy? Sure I would love to fall asleep with my face in a chocolate cake, but I
control myself, and do you know why? Do you? So I can fit in a seat on a plane
without endangering the lives of others, I’m a hero! I’m Gandhi, I’m Jesus, I’m
Martin Luther King! And this, this amorphous gastropod, is Satan! Hitler! He
kills and eats children. He’s a Scientologist! He is responsible for the
September 11th attacks! And worse then all that he is rude.”
