Strange-ers On A Plane

It is late at night. I am on my second consecutive flight after a long day of work. Exhaustion seeps into every fiber of my frame. All I want to do is close my eyes and let the 2 hour flight take me home.

Having done this a thousand times I know that at this hour 90% – 100% of the other inhabitants of this flying metal tube want the same peace that I seek. Unfortunately on this night it is only 90% and I sit within 5 feet of the other 10%… with no possibility of escape.

My frequent flier status allows me to be one of the first on the plane. I settled in, put on my noise reducing headphones and waited for the plane to fill. Everything was great for the first 10 minutes. Then he boarded and sat in the same row just across the aisle. He was wired. From drugs? Adrenaline? Who knows.

He started telling the story of his day and then his life to the guy in the next seat (I think his name was Job). He started before he even sat down and seemingly did not inhale for an hour. No, it was not that it seemed like an hour. I timed it. An hour. It seemed like days. The constancy and length of the monologue were painful enough, but that VOICE.  His loud, deep, gravely voice is seared into my synapses.

I think he was in sales. I think he had some great opportunity that was as of yet unclosed. I got the impression that this man lives in a world of the “almost got it, will get the next one”. Each new opportunity brings excitement. He is not deterred by past experience.  I know this much because it was impossible not to catch some of what he said. I was in the window seat and therefore as far across the aisle as could be. My seatmates in the row started whispering about him but no one, myself included had the guts to ask him to tone it down or better yet to end our misery. But finally it did end, though like one of those car alarms on the street that makes an awful sound and then stops for a minute or two only to start anew, I remained on edge fearing that he would restart. But no, it was over. For him.

Shortly after he concluded the only other person who was not asleep on this flight began telling her story. At least this one had modest entertainment value. Entertainment value in the sense of one of those odd movies that you watch late at night filled with oddball “characters” from the sticks.

This woman was a grandmother from a small town in North Carolina. How small?   As she put it, “…most excitement in town see the dead bodies pile up at funeral home next door “.  She was traveling to the big city of Chicago for the first time to bring her granddaughter to meet the girl’s mother for the first time since she was born. The girl was one of nine grandkids. She had no credit cards, just cash so someone from the 20th century (not even the 21st) had to buy her granddaughter a snack. (No you cannot make this kind of stuff up). She spoke in a drawl that could only be described as small town NC hick. No insult intended [don’t you hate when people say things like no ___intended when that is exactly what they intended].

She went on and on until after the flight had landed. There went my last hope of rest. I staggered to the parking lot, found my car and an hour later crawled into bed. Now I know why rich people like their private planes.