Social Interactions and Flying

I am not the most approachable person in the world. I do this intentionally. I place headphones in my ears most everywhere I go. Even if there is no music coming from my ipod or even if I have no ipod at all. I wear black shirts to further make myself appear darker, more evil. Not to mention the slimming advantages that come with black clothing. I am a master at giving a good scowl. When a person appears to have a desire to sit near me or, heaven help them, strike up a conversation, the look I will shoot them would bare a striking resemblance to that of a death row inmate. This is never more evident than on an airplane.
The airplane itself does not bother me. My earliest memories as a child were of flying alone across the country to see my father one week a year or visiting distant relatives in order to give my mom a break from me. I am an experienced flyer and I know all of the tricks. I know that if you wedge the Sky Mall Catalog just right in the hinges of the seat in front of you, that it will be incapable of reclining and allow you greater personal space. I know that the seat cushion below me can be used as a flotation device and a pretty wicked pillow if there are very few people on board. I know that if you ask for anything with a smile from the flight attendants, they will go out of their way to help you just to break the monotony of doing the pre-flight safety announcements and serving peanuts. All of these things are right up my alley when it comes to flying on a plane. What I lament is the interactions with others.
If I am going to be stuck in a cylindrical tube for hours, hurtling through the sky, I want to be left alone. I always board the plane early. Usually, I will take the seat I want to sit in whether I am assigned to sit there or not. I then proceed to shoot dirty looks at every person who enters the plane. I want that seat and if someone has the balls to call me on it, they will get it.
No one ever has the balls.
I once sat in a seat that a couple of newlyweds had assigned to them. The wife sat next to me and the husband, realizing that I, the evil looking guy with his headphones, had stolen his seat. He proceeded to find somewhere else to sit about ten rows further back. He didn’t even say a word. I thought I should warn the newly married woman to my right that she had just wed a complete pussy. I had a feeling that she knew without me saying anything. Now that is my type of communication.
The worst people to sit next to on a plane are elderly women. I don’t know what it is but the mind games just don’t work with old women. I could be handcuffed with federal marshals guarding me and a mask which protects me from eating others. Like Hannibal Lector or something. It doesn’t phase them. They will want to use the time to tell their story. They will plop right down next to you and, God forbid, you make eye contact. That is their opening. The next three hours will be spent hearing about their granddaughters piano recital, how she used to buy her groceries with a wooden nickel, or any assortment of useless tedium she can spew. I can’t stand it. Socializing must be important for them. I can’t blame them. It has to be better than wandering around the "home" from room to room comparing bedsores.
My worst experience on a flight happened recently. It started out perfectly. I found a good seat. One right next to the window. I like window seats because I have a wall to rest my head against and I can close the window and piss off everyone in my row.
That is a personal favorite.
I was also in an emergency exit row for this flight. The seats in front of you can’t recline so I wouldn’t need to use the old Sky Mall trick. The best part of the trip was that there was a teenage boy sitting next to me. Awesome. He had headphones in, as did I, and we would have an uneventful, no words allowed flight. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and proceeded to fall asleep. I wasn’t that tired but it always makes a flight go quicker.
We must have hit some turbulence somewhere during the flight. It wasn’t enough to wake me. It was however enough to upset the teenager’s delicate stomach. I was awakened by what felt like being sprayed with a hose. The boy, instead of reaching for the barf bag in the seat pocket, decided that if he was going to hurl, it was going to be in my general direction.
Karma.
The projectile vomit sprayed all over my face and neck, then proceeded to douse my jacket before I knew what was happening. The spray went seemingly everywhere, everywhere on me. Because I sleep with my mouth open, sure enough, I could taste his lunch. Chunks were stuck in my goatee. My entire right side of my body was covered in a chunky pink vomit. I did not say a word to the kid. He didn’t even try to apologize. And people wonder why I don’t like people.
Because of the turbulence, the fasten seat belt sign was on and we weren’t allowed to get out of our seats. I know because I tried. The flight attendant, presumably thinking that I had just puked all over myself, witnessed me trying to get into the plane’s bathroom. She told me to go back to my seat until we landed. It was another twenty minutes before we were safely on the ground.
Twenty minutes of sitting, covered in puke.
A multitude of questions go through your head when you are forced to sit in a confined space while lathered in a nice aromatic layer of vomit.
"Why couldn’t he have just used the barf bag?"
"Was the turbulence that bad that it would call for THIS?"
"Would it be justifiable homicide if I took my belt off and proceeded to strangle the life out of this little shit?"
After the grueling fight with myself on how I should deal with this situation, we landed and I proceeded to rush to the plane’s bathroom. I cleaned my face and hands, removed my jacket and shirt until I had nothing left but my thin white undershirt. Fortunately, the flight attendants did have a plastic bag for my clothes that had been ruined. As if I wanted them back, ever.
Anything to break the monotony, right?
I then used the poor excuse for running water to douse my pants and rinse the chunks from my jeans. I could not clean it all off and my body reeked of bile, stomach acid and remnants of a lunch forever lost. I still had another two hour flight to take and all of my clothes were in the belly of the plane. I took a different seat on that same plane and flew the remaining hour to my final destination. Needless to say, I had no problems keeping people from talking to me after that.