I get mushy on airplanes.
I’m not sure if it’s the altitude, the closeness to sudden death, the leaving of people behind, or just being crammed in a small space with so many souls.
And it feels good. This big-heartedness, this overly emotional way of being.
Here’s an example:
On my way to Massachussetts, everything was going wrong. Delays right away, and the flight attendants telling us to hurry or we’d miss our connections.
“Full flight folks. Take the first seat you see.”
The first seat I saw was in the first row — bulkhead — which was surprising since I was at the way back of the line of people boarding. Yeah it was a middle seat, but shit, first row, so I took it.
It wasn’t until I wedged my butt in there that I realized why it was vacant.
“Sorry,” the woman to my right said, her arms folded over herself. “I hate planes.”
I looked to my left: the other woman, of similar size with a day-old bandage on her nose, sat in the same way, holding onto her own elbows like she was trying to squeeze herself into the tiniest little package she could.
At first, I tensed up my body to try to pull in my legs in, cower in my shoulders, get small like them, but it just felt worse, like a quiet insult.
So I loosened up, let our bodies touch fully: hips, elbows, shoulders, upper arms, thighs. And it was alright.
Perhaps it was the touching that started it all up.
“You have a connection?”
“Yup.”
“How close?”
“20 minutes.”
“30 for me.”
“Welcome to fuckville.”
“Population: three.”
Somehow we all stayed light in our moods, even though we were looking at a night of sleeping in the airport, missing hours with loved ones.
We joked about the fake hopefulness of the pilot over the loudspeaker, at the timid flight attendant taking a barrage of questions she couldn’t answer. Everyone was pissed and we got to witness it in rapid fire one after the other. It was anger on repeat. You had to laugh at it.
“I get 1 free drink with my flight,” the woman on my right said. “Do either of you want it?”
“I’m good,” said the woman to my left. If I drink I might start something up.”
I never said yes. She just handed me the menu.
I got something called a Voodoo Lager. We laughed at the name.
The maintenance on the plane took 90 minutes, we kept looking at the clock, Gave up hope after the first half hour, then regained it because our connecting flights got delayed, then lost it again after an hour, then regained it when the pilot said they were going to make up time in the air, then lost again when the pilot deboarded the plane.
“Looks like we’ll be getting a hotel,” the bandaged woman said.
“Anyone know anybody in Denver?”
I entertained the thought of us storming the rental car place, cramming into the last compact sedan, stopping at the supermarket for pretzel sticks and wine, and laying on double beds binging on hours of home improvement shows.
Could our laughter carry us that far?
I took them by surprise with my sincerity.
“I’m really glad it was the two of you I sat between. You’ve made this whole thing bearable. Seriously, you both are awesome.”
“Agreed.”
The other stayed silent, the one who apologized when I sat down.
And I thought I saw something in her eyes that pleaded with me, asked for something and then regretted it, and I wanted to find everyone that passed her up from the aisle and beat the living shit out of them. I swear to god.
I told you I get emotional on planes.
But instead of seeking justice, I put my head on the headrest, closed my eyes, and went back to the vision of us on hotel beds in Denver.
Marlene pouring 3 glasses of Chardonnay, apologizing for spilling a bit on the nightstand.
Joyce Ann slapping one of the glasses over, the wine spilling down the wall, all three of us laughing.
The plane started moving.
“Finally!”
Applause behind us.
“Think we’ll make it?”
Windows shutting, seat belts clicking.
“No way in hell.”
More laughter.