Some people travel well. They deplane looking fresh and energetic. Some people; I am not one of those people. I don’t travel well. I never travelled well. I thought the reason was all the necessities I brought with me (yes, that is a kitchen sink in my carry-on, what’s it to ya?) Now that I’ve discovered the joys of germophobia, traveling with anything less than a gallon of hand sanitizer has me chastising myself for leaving the disposable gloves at home. I thought these might be the reasons, but alas, they are not. The reason I don’t travel well is because there are other people on the plane. It’s the people that are the problem. In short, I am the Garbo of the friendly skies. I want to be alone.
The trip in question was an international flight from JFK to Heathrow…
Let’s call my seatmate…Larry. I suspect Larry boarded the plan loaded, but just in case he wasn’t sloshed enough, he got right to work once we were airborne. Liquor loosened Larry’s tongue, making him loquacious and friendly, causing him to cozy up to me and slobber his pearls of wisdom along with his halitosis and bacterium. I noticed Larry continued to babble whether I answered him or not. Being trapped like a lab rat restricted me to recoiling and responding with either unintelligible guttural grunts or gnashing of teeth. I began to notice people in the surrounding seats craning their necks, giving us the condemning half-turn. Don’t judge me, I thought. I’m not with Larry the loathsome lush. I’m stuck waiting for my peanuts like it’s the last supper like everybody else. Keep your dirty looks to yourself, please.
Finally, dinner arrived. Ah, the ambiance of the compartmentalized plastic tray; a dry wedge of processed chicken, lukewarm reconstituted potato flakes and shriveled peas. And in Larry’s case: more alcohol. He ate his chicken and drank. He ate his shriveled peas and drank. He ate his brownie cube and drank. I shoveled my food in, reveling in the brief respite while Larry’s mouth was full.
I was stuffing in my brownie cube when I glanced up at the TV screen to find a video camera hanging over my tray. I didn’t realize Scorsese flew coach. Who knew?
“Well Margaret, you can see I’m having a lovely dinner here on my flight and I’m on my way back to you now.”
I stared at him and then at my fork. I decided I couldn’t do enough damage with that puny piece of plastic. Silently, I admitted defeat.
“Can you help me here?” Larry mumbled, thrusting the camera in my general direction.
Of course Larry, I would love to be your aero video slave. I must say I shot some lovely footage of Larry attempting to butter his bread, spilling his vino onto his lap and alternately cursing and mopping up, although I think the lighting could have been better. After a few takes, it was a wrap. Well not quite.
“Are you going to eat your veggies?” he slurred.
No, I plan on stuffing them into my ears to drown out the sound of your voice.
“When the stewardeth passes, tell her you’re still hungry. They got extra in the back.”
Do they also have pepper spray? And where the hell is the Air Marshal when you really need him?
The stewardess walked by. “Everything okay here?” she asked with a smirk.
That was not nice.
“Do you have any more?” Larry said, “She’s thtill hungry.”
She is? I gave the stewardess a plaintive look, trying to communicate telepathically using my Vulcan mind meld. I don’t want anymore, what I want is to open the emergency door and jump, using my seat cushion as a flotation device. Can you help a girl out here?
The stewardess paid me no mind. But she did bring more food. Larry, clever man that he is, waited until she strolled away to lean in and scoop the food from my plate.
“I love to fly, don’t you?” he asked, belching into my personal space. “I’ve made some wonnerful friends that I’ve had for years.”
Only in the Magical Mystery Tour of your mind, boy-o.
It was then the captain turned the lights down low to induce that comfy, intimate, bedtime atmosphere. Sleeping on a plane is a joy to begin with, the back ache, the neck crick, waking up wondering if your mouth was hanging open, not to mention the accompanying drool; good times. But I didn’t have to worry about sleeping, I had Larry. Larry was up every thirty minutes, climbing over me to stumble to the lavatory. I lamented not having a blow-up doll to put in Larry’s place. Perhaps in his alcoholic haze, he would spend the night searching the plane for his seat. Alas, Larry found his way back.
During a bout of fitful sleep, I had a dream that Larry melted into a vapor puddle leaving only the piquant redolence of BO and Johnny Walker, but it proved only a hopeless, desperate fantasy. He remained faithfully at my side until the wheels touched down at Heathrow.
The bell chimed, the fasten-your-seat-belt sign turned off, and my buddy Larry lunged from his seat. Throwing his arm out like a Dick Butkis charging fullback, he shoved me out of the way to rush up the aisle for the opponent’s end zone.
“Can you believe that man?” I heard from the seat behind me.
Turning, I found a sweet faced, middle-aged woman standing next to her husband, a sweet faced middle-aged man. Sure, now everyone is ready to give me tea and sympathy. Save it sister, you’re a day late and a plastic dinner tray short.
I deplaned, hair matted and lifeless, skin pale and parched, clothes rumpled. I don’t travel well and I realized that now my miserable traveling experiences were no longer limited to the United States, I was going intercontinental.
But it was not over. I was taking something else with me, a gift from Larry. At that moment, relieved to be free, I couldn’t know that I was an unwilling incubator full of Larry’s foul microbes. Approximately eight hours after arriving, the lasting effects of Larry would be upon me. I would have my first experience getting sick as a dog in a foreign country.
As I said, I don’t travel well.
Larry, let it be on your head.
To Be Continued…
The Writer's Room 