LAX to SEA

My flight to Seattle was Thursday, which happens to be the only day my hairdresser Katy gives discount haircuts, and God forbid I get on a flight with maybe a few split ends or a couple hairs slightly longer than a couple others. I got out of work with plenty of time for a cut, which is rare. I’m usually the last person to board a plane. I headed over to Kurl Up & Dye Salon, as much as I hate a misspelled business name of any kind. I told Katy I wanted to leave early for the airport, so I didn’t get caught in rush hour. She was excited that I’d get to the airport early because she said, “You’ll get to relax and have a Bloody Mary.”

I said, “I’ve never had a Bloody Mary in my life.”

She said, “That’s one of the funnest parts of going on a trip. My dad always drives my mom and me to the airport, and we get there early and drink Bloody Marys. We don’t drink them any other time – just when we’re at the airport.” She made it sound as natural as Chianti at an Italian restaurant or a pitcher of beer with steamed crab, and I decided I was going to have my first Bloody Mary at the airport. I had never had one because I’m not a fan of vodka and hate tomato juice. I don’t even eat celery sticks, used as the famous garnish, unless they’re full of peanut butter and trail mix or on the side of a plate of chicken wings.

Luckily there was only a short line at security, and I found a healthy food bar with the usual à la carte, cafeteria-style counter, except all the food was local, organic, and health conscious. There was grass-fed beef in the carne asada, and all the meat could be ordered on your choice of fresh bread or on a salad. There were zucchini muffins and other treats. Next to the food counter was a full bar. I sidled up to the bar, because that’s how people in stories sit at bars, and I told the bartender, “I’d like my first ever Bloody Mary.” She didn’t speak English well enough to understand the significance of the occasion, but she did understand “Bloody Mary,” and for lack of other customers she took her time making a real beauty. I hated it. But it cost me $16.50 so I was going to drink it and try to learn to like it. I really had to choke it down while thinking I’m never having another one.

When I found my assigned window seat on the plane, of course the center and aisle seats were already occupied. The woman in the middle was asleep. I don’t think I’d ever seen someone fall asleep during boarding. The man next to her nudged her awake, and after I got situated I realized the reason she was falling asleep so easily was because she was sick as hell. Her hoarse cough sounded like she was at death’s door, and I imagined a visible cloud of germs floating around my head. I tried to do the shallowest breathing I could muster without passing out. I didn’t want to pick up something that would ruin my week.

The drink service went as usual and the woman in the middle got up once and went to the restroom. First, she handed me her pillow and asked me to hold it for her while she got up, then she handed me her dirty tissue. I don’t know why I took the awful thing from her. Sometimes when someone hands you something you take it, plus she was elderly, sick, and needed me. I know what it feels like to be trapped in a plane seat needing a tissue. She probably realized having me hold her tissue was disgusting because she gave the excuse, “That’s my last Kleenex so I don’t want to throw it away.” She asked the man on the aisle to help pull her up out of her seat so I figured they were together. When she returned, I was taken aback at how beautiful she was. I hoped wherever she was going, she could get rid of this awful sickness and get back to being herself.

I messaged Katy and told her about my Bloody Mary experience, and she was proud about instigating this life experience for me. I told her I hated it and she said it could have been because of the brand of mix, too much pepper, not the right mixture, missing the pickle, etc. She said I should try another Bloody Mary somewhere else and compare them or, sort of like eating Brussels sprouts, just keep drinking them until I learned to like them and make them part of my regular travel repertoire.

About halfway through the five-hour flight, I started smelling something bad. I’ll be straight with you, it was urine and it really freaked me out because of course I thought it was me. I was wracking my brain trying to figure out what the heck could have happened. I had showered, I was wearing clean clothes, and you’d think if I developed a urinary tract infection or something I would be feeling it-- those things cannot go unnoticed. I’d rather break my arm than get a urinary tract infection. You feel like you could gnaw your hand off waiting in urgent care for an antibiotic. I don’t know how someone would survive it on an airplane, you’d lose your mind. I decided the best solution for the time being was to sit stiff as a board, so I wasn’t stirring up the air around me. Luckily the old lady was congested. I had a book I wasn’t far into, so I held it in my lap and read, moving as few muscles as possible. It was a hell of a long flight.

We finally landed and the man on the aisle stood up and bolted the first chance he got. He turned back and gave me a look of pity. I realized they weren’t together. When the old woman stood, I was relieved that the smell was definitely not me. Now I hoped she was going somewhere comfortable, where someone would take care of her.

I made my return flight, as much as I tried to miss it by stopping at an auction house and waiting to bid on a fishing boat watercolor (didn’t win it), freely partaking in the wine and chicken salad croissants for bidders, refueling the Dodge Ram 1500 rental’s two huge gas tanks after maneuvering the thing through parking lots like a moving van and, finally, having a juice that turned into a couple of beers with some new acquaintances at an airport pub. A weather delay guaranteed most everyone was ready to board on time. I got the last center seat with a man of God at the window. No idea what denomination. He wore a clerical collar, but he mentioned an ex, so apparently not a priest. He was looking forward to the peanuts and said he’d had two packs on his first connection. I never met someone looking forward to the worst food that can be handed out in airline packaging. Taking the seat on the aisle was the pink lady. She had pink cheeks, a pink backpack, a pink duffel, and a pink polka dot polo shirt with a matching pink polka dot cell phone cover. I imagined she had several cell phone covers to coordinate with different shirts. All of that was, I’m certain, planned. The odd coincidence was that the cover of her paperback romance novel, and I’m only guessing it was a romance, was also pink. I was curious to know who authored this pink fiction but was wearing the worst prescribed contact lenses of my life, and every time I got my eyes squinted and squished to where I was about to be able to read the author’s name in the top corner, the pink lady turned the page and I’d have to start over.

While we waited on the tarmac to take off, since now all weather-delayed planes were lined up at the same time, I had a lighthearted conversation with the man of God, whom I’ll call the pastor. I told him I hoped we’d get in the air so they’d turn off the seatbelt light so I could get to the restroom, and he started talking about deep-sea sports fishing. He had been very successful at fishing, of course, with the Man on his side, and I had never done it, not having the Man on my side. We finally took off into a thunderstorm and the pastor started praying somewhat loudly, which had me on edge, thinking our situation was dire.

There were two flight attendants working in the cabin. One was an average-size male whose uniform looked as though neither of them had left the plane the night before. The other was impossible not to notice, tall and broad-shouldered, with a commanding presence, perfect hair and makeup, a beautiful set of gold necklaces, and an impeccable uniform. Her shoes were polished to where, if we crash-landed on a deserted island, we could use them to signal a rescue plane. I’m sure both were very friendly and personable on a normal weather day. Today was not. I never caught either flight attendant’s name, but before long I was thinking of the second one as the commander. The commander quickly ushered me to my seat and did not allow me to relieve myself of any of the aforementioned wine and beer consumed prior to the flight. The commander recognized the pastor from the first leg of the flight and told him they were giving out free drinks due to the departure delay, so I happily placed my order. “I wasn’t talking to you,” they said. I figured they were joking because Pink Lady laughed, but I never got my drink. On one of the commander’s trips racing past our seats, I said, “I’ll use my free drink voucher,” and I guess they could tell by the weakness of my statement that I didn’t really have one. They did give me a package of peanuts, but I handed them to the pastor. It doesn’t hurt to be extra kind to a pastor and get some brownie points from the Man.

Pink Lady was wearing headphones with a cord that wasn’t plugged into anything. I can take a hint. She was enjoying the view out the window across the pastor and me, occasionally closing her book right as I was bringing the text into focus. The commander leaned over the passengers in front of us and handed the man in the window seat his drink. “I noticed your bag tag. You were stationed at Travis?”

The passenger asked, surprised, “Yeah, I was. How’d you know?”

They gave a quick, knowing look. “I was a four-N-oh at Balad back in ’08.” Then they turned and handed me a cup of water from the tray, which I was grateful for but afraid to drink in my current situation. A dark cloud loomed outside, and the plane banked left into it, blocking out our temporary sunshine. Just as my bladder began to seriously protest my earlier imbibing, the commander came over the speaker and announced that, although the flight may seem to the ignorant layperson to be perfectly smooth, there was in fact imminent danger requiring everyone to stay securely buckled in, and the restrooms were strictly off-limits. The airplane’s temperature fell into the sub-zero zone as mysteriously happens on all flights now that they no longer distribute blankets. The pastor pulled out his red flannel, buttoned it up to the very top, and settled back with his eyes closed and his mouth moving in silent prayer, possibly directed at a safe landing. I added my own silent plea for the seat-belt light to turn off.

My own internal crisis, however, was quickly upstaged by a far more vocal incident one row up across the aisle. A flailing toddler, bundled in a puffy red sweater that made him look like a stranded starfish, began to scream. His mother was desperately trying to shush him, her face flushed with the universal panic of a parent trapped in a metal tube at thirty thousand feet. "I don’t want that!" the boy wailed, his tiny voice piercing right through the airplane’s sub-zero hum. I bet he was talking about the snacks; they were awful. "Mommy, I gotta pee right now!" Sheesh, join the club, kid. His mother responded with an equally persistent “Sh.” Why are a desperate mother’s shushes as loud as the screams of the little urchins? She shot a desperate glance down the aisle toward the galley, looking for the commander and afraid to unbuckle.

Twenty minutes later, the toddler was still going strong. He went from one complaint to another—the wrong toy, too hot, hungry, no juice left, on and on. We did finally hit the promised turbulence. I moved into legs-crossed and perspiring mode, noting that my prayer for the seat-belt light was going unanswered. My nose started running like a hose thanks to the meat-locker atmosphere, and my sleeves weren’t long enough to wipe it. I stared at Pink Lady’s drink napkin and wondered if I could snag it without her noticing, maybe in mid-page turn? Or maybe I could tear a corner off the bookmark she dropped on the floor. I suddenly rejoiced at the idea of finding a barf bag to use as a facial tissue substitute. I checked the seatback pocket in front of me, but it was empty except for the safety information card, which was too stiff to do more than hold to catch the drips.

I started daydreaming back to when, as a young child growing up in the city, I was sent out of the house to roam the streets to find my own entertainment as kids were expected to do. One day in particular, after tiring of Simon Sez and having Kick the Can quashed when Jacky got called in for his daily paddling and took the can with him, I hopped a couple of fences to watch Mr. Prune meticulously shaping his shrubbery. He had acquired his nickname by transforming his shrubbery from balls and cones like everyone else had, into a fabulous array of multileveled, intricately shaped works of art. He had giant bonsais, animals, stacked hearts, random words like “Peace” and “donut” all constructed out of bushes and plants he rescued from neighborhood curbs on trash day. No matter what he got his hands on, either at the clearance rack of dead plants at the nursery or from someone’s garbage, he always brought it back to life and turned it into something remarkable. And he used everything he could cart home, not just plants. He took Mrs. Quint’s broken vacuum and kinked hose out of her trash and reconstructed them into a fabulous water fountain that was a fun place to get a drink.

There I was this summer day, watching Mr. Prune take his clippers and go after this pine my dad had thrown out for dead, because it was. Mr. Prune was miraculously reshaping it into a bolt of lightning using the few branches that still had needles on them. Suddenly I noticed little Jimmy behind the butterfly-shaped evergreen. He opened his pants and relieved himself right there in Mr. Prune’s yard. I know they say when duty calls, or when you gotta go you gotta go, but what struck me as odd was that Jimmy lived right next door to Mr. Prune, so why didn’t he just go to his own home? You have to consider before passing judgment in any situation that there are unknown circumstances: the urgency of the situation; maybe Jimmy had already traveled what, to a small child, was a considerable distance; or, most likely, when our mothers sent us out of the house, the punishment for coming back before the streetlights came on was much worse than anything a neighbor could do to you for vandalizing his property.

As I came out of the daydream with my eyes tearing from fond memories, or maybe because by this time my eyeballs were floating in my skull, we were finally descending into a sunshine-filled blue sky and the pastor stopped praying. The pilot finally came on the speaker and said we’d soon be preparing to land, but he would turn off the seatbelt sign, leaving us briefly free to wander about the cabin. As I joyously unbuckled my seatbelt, the limber pastor hopped up on his seat and leaped over not only me, which is fathomable, but Pink Lady, who was a good three times my width, into the aisle. He headed straight into the restroom behind us and snapped the door locked. I should have kept those peanuts for myself.