As I boarded the plane for the long flight to Seattle the ticket agent pulled me aside. “A window seat just opened up in First Class,” she said, “and you’re the next one on the upgrade list. Do you want it?” Of course I wanted it and even though I prefer the aisle I was so delighted to get the upgrade that I didn’t care about a window seat: I love First Class.
There was a severe looking middle-aged woman sitting on the aisle. Her tray-table was down and she had stuff spread out everywhere, including my seat. “Excuse me,” I said politely. I pointed at the empty seat. “That’s mine.”
The women sighed as though her worst expectations had just been realized and began to make a big show out of cleaning up her mess. “The trouble with some people,” she remarked loudly to no one in particular, “is they expect you to rearrange your whole life because they can’t be on time.”
This was clearly directed at me but, showing uncommon restraint, I said nothing.
After take-off the woman resumed her project. I heard her tell the flight attendant, who took our drink orders, that she was heading to a scrapbooking competition in Tacoma and that her entry was still not done. “I need to finish this before we land,” she said.
About 90 minutes into the flight I had to use the restroom so I asked the lady if I could pass. She glared at me with pure hatred and, sighing loudly, started to organize her stuff so I could get by.
By the time I returned to my seat ninety seconds later the lady had her stuff spread out again; her deadline clearly could not be delayed. I glanced down at her work in progress and was immediately creeped out. She was organizing pictures of people laid out in their coffins with assorted memorabilia: prayer cards, dried flowers, newspaper obituaries and, I’m not making this up, locks of their hair.
A moment later the flight attendant came by and brought me another Diet Coke. The flight attendant glanced down at the scrapbook and the lady noticed. “It’s a ‘Requiem Scrapbook’,” she said, flipping through the pages and showing a fast succession of dead friends and relatives. “Here’s my best friend Lola,” said the lady; “she didn’t look this good when she was alive.” The flight attendant shuddered, then fled.
About two and a half hours and several Diet Cokes later I needed to use the restroom again and asked my neighbor if I could step over her. Truly, I did not think that using the restroom twice in a 6-hour flight was extreme but my neighbor thought otherwise.
“If you would stop drinking Diet Coke,” she said severely, “you would not be bouncing out of your seat every minute.”
I opened my mouth to defend myself, thought better of it, and used the restroom. When I came back the flight attendant was in the aisle. I was not even thirsty but I decided to poke the bear. “Do I have time for another Diet Coke?” I asked loudly.
A moment later as the flight attendant was handing me my drink the plane unexpectedly hit an air pocket and, losing her balance, she dumped most of my drink on my neighbor’s scrapbook. My neighbor screamed; it sounded like when the Wicked Witch was melting; I looked down. Even to my untrained eye I could see the scrapbook was ruined.
In the resulting tumult I settled happily into my seat. “I love First Class,” I thought with satisfaction.