Get me off this plane (an L.A. story)
Throw in some concrete and barbwire fencing and you’ve got an inner city school.
On my way back from L.A., I’m surprised the flight isn’t that bad up to this point. Even though I don’t get the window or aisle seat (as per my request and reservation), the seat is comfortable, I don’t need the loo, I don’t eat a thing since it’s a short flight, and the children remain quiet (even the babies).
Unfortunately, I’m sitting beside someone who is making it very uncomfortable for me and the other passengers on the plane.
If the doors could open mid-flight, this bitch would be thrown out. It’s not that she does anything in particular to irritate me, but she does everything to irritate me.
Let’s call her Mirrita.
During the flight, Mirrita fidgets in her seat, leans forward and back to get things that slide off her lap, gets up several times and removes her bag from the overhead bin to get some things (a strong sedative isn’t one of them), eats messy snacks which leave crumbs all over her and me, fidgets some more, talks to every person who walks down the aisle (creating a pissed off group of people who have to use the can), fidgets again, and wraps herself in several support appendages to keep her fuckin’ immobile (talk about irony) for the rest of the flight.
That's not all.
The worst part comes when she pays for her $5 in-flight snack with change – nickels and dimes. She pulls out a small bag that makes a ka-chunk sound when she places on her folding tray (which makes the front seat recline backwards another three inches) and begins to count. "Twenty cents, thirty cents, thirty-five cents…" she says while placing each coin in her palm.
By the time she gets to $4.10, the steward snaps, takes the money and gives her the damn snack.
Mirrita falls asleep soon after. Thankfully, she's lucky I don't smother her with the dinky airline pillow.
The plane arrives in Toronto and everyone is happy to be back on terra firma. The passengers who are sitting behind Mirrita, wait for her to take her bag out of the overhead bin. She pulls and pulls and can’t seem to get it out. Instead of letting everyone pass, she crates the same line-up of pissed off people (only they didn’t have to use the loo this time).
When we get to the connecting tunnel, I run past her and nudge her to the side with my bag, making her hobble a little.
Fuck, I hope customs finds that eight ball of coke I planted in her purse and gives her a full cavity search.
Note: These circa 2006 writings are personal observations of a wide-eyed Canadian, and are not reflective of the residents of L.A.