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I sidestepped
my way down the aisle, dragging my suitcase behind me to Row 21. The
plane smelled like wet wool and sweat. Outside, hail drummed on the 747.
As I shoved my case into an overhead bin, a fullback-sized man pushed
past, almost knocking me into the man seated in 21C. "Sorry,"
I said to the top of his shiny brown hair. He glanced up with an
expression that was half smile, half grimace. His teeth, too, were shiny
and very white. He immediately returned his attention to his laptop.
"This is my seat," I said.
He
glanced up again through long, almost feminine lashes, this time giving
me the full benefit of his smile. He was handsome and he knew it, with a
light golden tan that could not come from working in a San Francisco
office. He was wearing a suit of fine black worsted, a teal green shirt
and a big gold Rolex. The shirt matched his eyes exactly.
"Would you mind if I kept this seat?" he asked. "I’ve
got long legs and there’s not much space."
I looked
down at his legs and his tasseled Gucci loafers. "This is my
seat," I said again. I should explain I use this technique every
day with the children in the Rincon Middle School where I'm the
principal. Don’t argue, don’t waste words.
It was
bad enough I was going to New York to settle my mother’s estate, which
meant disposing of a co-op apartment filled with 40 years worth of old
clothes and memories. And it was bad enough we were crowded like
chickens in cages awaiting slaughter. I wasn’t about to relinquish the
chance to stretch my own legs into the aisle.
He
snapped his laptop shut and shifted to the window seat. I had just
reached for my novel when the seat in front dropped back, knocking
against my knees. A boy with blond dread locks and a headset that
emitted a persistent boom da boom was making himself more
comfortable. Then our third seatmate appeared, pink-faced and
breathless, clutching shopping bags in both hands.
"So
sorry," she said as her red Christmas bell earrings tinkled. She
had a sweet round face and exuded a cloying jasmine scent combined with
something else . . . cinnamon? "I have the window seat," she
said in a timid voice, as I stepped into the aisle. I could hear her
wheezing slightly.
Head
down, Mr. Cool tapped on his laptop. "She has the window
seat," I repeated more loudly. He looked up, a frown marring his
handsome face, then flashed his gleaming teeth at her. "Why don’t
you sit beside me? You can still see out the window."
At that
moment the flight attendant commanded: "Please clear the
aisles," as she slammed overhead bins shut.
"But I like the window," our prospective seatmate said softly,
shaking her head in dismay. Her bells tinkled again. He had returned to
his important work, ignoring us both. Technically, this wasn’t my
business, but his arrogance was insufferable. "Shall I ask the
flight attendant to resolve this?" I asked in my sternest voice.
Again he
snapped his laptop shut, flashed a teal green venomous look and slid
over and into the aisle. The seat back in front of me was still tilted
way back. Ms. Christmas Bells was quite plump, and I could see she would
have trouble fitting through the narrowed space. So I waved my hand in
front of the dread lock boy’s face till he pulled off his headset and
agreed to move his seat forward for a minute.
As she
plopped down into her seat and began arranging her shopping bags, I
promised myself not to interfere again. I was weary of being the
negotiator at school among bickering teachers, of being the referee in
New York, where my two brothers were fighting over various bits of my
mother’s tattered belongings. And now here on this jam-packed plane I
had taken charge once more.
I smiled at
the little boy in seat 22A who scowled back at me with his lower lip
stuck way out. Next to him his mother offered a sip of juice.
"No!" he yelled and kicked the seat back. "Brandon, we
have to use our inside voices," she said loudly and then smiled
with pride at her parenting skills.
We all
buckled ourselves into place. My handsome friend commandeered both
armrests. As I reached for my book, the pilot announced a short delay
due to the weather. Cell phones snapped open and half the passengers
spoke urgently to whoever might be interested in this fascinating
development.
"I
always bring some goodies for my trip," said our window seatmate.
"I picked these up at the Heavenly Bakery in the mall twenty
minutes ago," she said, offering us both warm cinnamon buns. Mr.
Cool barely shook his head "no." I heard my stomach rumble and
realized it could be a long time until we got whatever passed for
breakfast these days. She handed me a sticky bun on a paper napkin,
after saying, "excuse me" to our man in the middle. It was
delicious.
As I
licked my fingers clean of icing, Mr. Cool began talking to someone
named Sandy, presumably his wife. Since his cell phone was an inch from
my left ear, I could hear her clearly. She was getting a migraine, she
complained. "Remember that I want light starch in my
shirts," he said. "And we’re running out of scotch."
Now I
was able to place the unpleasant smell -- alcohol residue -- that his
lime/leather cologne didn’t quite mask. While he stared up at the
ceiling and muttered in exasperation at Sandy, I tilted my head toward
my novel. My eyes sort of drifted to the left. His laptop had shifted in
my direction. I just happened to notice what was on his computer screen.
He was instant-messaging someone named Amber, saying how much he loved
it when she greeted him at the door wearing "that wispy black
thing." Yes, I could picture Amber with lustrous tawny skin and
flowing honey-colored hair. How nice that he had such a lovely companion
awaiting him.
"Wa-ter,"
said the flight attendant, coming down the aisle with a tray. Her smile
flashed on and off like a neon sign as she handed out plastic glasses
with generous four-ounce servings. She was younger and prettier than
most flight attendants, with red hair that might have been natural and
clear ivory skin. I was thirsty after the cinnamon bun and nodded at her
as she approached, but she had already noticed him.
"Would you like some wa-ter?" she asked sweetly.
"Of
course I care about your migraine," he was snarling into his cell
phone. "Hold on a minute, Sandy," he said, switching his phone
to his left hand and pressing it against his left thigh.
The
flight attendant had eyes that were too green to be real. Maybe
they have a bond, the same brand of contacts, I thought, as she leaned
toward him, taking a deep breath so her ample breasts strained against
her white polyester blouse. I tried to press back against my headrest to
avoid coming into intimate contact with them. As she handed him the
glass, their fingers touched. "I couldn’t get a seat in business
class," he said.
"I’m sorry. You must be so uncomfortable," she said with
sincere concern.
"Do
you live in Manhattan?" he asked, moving right along.
"On
East 71st Street," she answered, checking to see if he
was wearing a wedding ring, though she was old enough to know that
wouldn’t mean anything.
"I’d like some wa-ter," I interrupted. I figured their
conversation would continue in private very soon.
As I
returned to my book, I heard indignant sounds from his cell phone.
"Of course I’m concerned, Amber darling," he said, and then
froze. His hand clenched around the plastic glass, shattering it. Some
of the water squirted in an arc onto the dread lock boy’s head. The
rest splashed onto his keyboard. It zapped out.
Outwardly I didn’t laugh, or even smile . . . but my delayed flight had
just become much more enjoyable.
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