Excess Baggage

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 11^th attacks! And worse then all that he is rude.”

At that moment I felt a sharp stinging sensation in my forehead. My eyeballs were vibrating furiously and I was getting a massive erection. The last thing I saw before totally losing consciousness was the captain holding a Tazergun and a few acne ridden teenagers filming me with their iPhones. I woke up handcuffed to the armrest of 34 B, and my friend with the sweaty watch, well…she…was eating my kosher meal.