Do you ever look back and recall improbable events years later and question whether your memory is playing tricks? The older I get, the more frequently these doubts pop up.
I’ve been flying for 50 years, and many of these dubious incidents seem to have happened on planes, and have involved people sitting next to me. (Seatmates, as they’re called, although sometimes there’s nothing matey about them.)
Why on planes? Makes sense. When we travel we are disoriented and often under stress. Doesn’t help when we are crammed together with a bunch of strangers sitting cheek to cheek — literally, in some cases (read on).
One of the strangest behaviors we all display is to sit inches from fellow passengers, to other human beings, for six or 10 or more hours and pretend they aren’t there. Not a word is spoken. No eye contact made. No smiles or pleasantries exchanged. People are so afraid of getting trapped in a long conversation that they’ll do anything to avoid one. Pretending to sleep, earphones at full volume, nose buried in a book or laptop. Some would rather die than engage.
Early in my flying career, I did once get caught in a nonstop monologue, on a nonstop flight between Boston and San Francisco. “I hate flying,” Marsha began, and then she unspooled her tale: unhappy childhood, messy divorces, children who turned out very bad, and illnesses that the doctors had no clue how to fix — the kind of life story that makes you glad yours isn’t worse. It was before the days of on-demand seat back video and I had forgotten to bring a book, so I listened. Upon landing, we even hugged and she apologized “for talking your ear off.” But the next day, while waiting in an ATM line in the Castro district, I heard an all-too-familiar voice and turned around. She had no idea who I was. Had we met? Yesterday, on a plane?
At least she was pleasant, unlike the passenger sitting next to me in the first-class cabin on an American Airlines flight to Chicago. This is the memory I’m least sure about because the whole thing seemed so bizarre. Did he really bellow to a passing flight attendant “More ice!” while waving his nearly-empty highball glass in the air? Did she really whirl around and ask him what the “magic word” was? Did he really tell her not to teach him manners, just to get him some damned ice? Did she really reply, the ice is in the galley, get your own damned ice? I seem to recall that he didn’t move a muscle for the rest of the flight.
Bad as “more ice” was, at least he didn’t spill his drink on me as he brandished his glass.
Arriving at my assigned row on an 8 a.m. nonstop from New York to London, I stowed my bag and wished the guy by the window a good morning. Had he been a turtle he’d have tucked his head well inside his shell. All over his ashen face was written, “Oh no, it’s one of those people. I will put an end to this right now.” Without looking up from his paper, he let out a low grunt, barely audible but clearly intended to shut this, meaning me, down. “Sir,” I huffed, “don’t worry, I won’t say another word.” And I didn’t. And he didn’t. Until, that is, two hours and two cocktails (his) later, when he knocked a full and very hot mug of coffee on my lap and seat. I don’t remember exactly what I said; it's probably not publishable in this news outlet. Finally he spoke. And spoke. He who so recently had been silent was suddenly voluble. First to apologize and then just to talk and talk and talk, obviously embarrassed and overcompensating for his earlier frostiness. His name was Robert, I learned. He was a theater critic for one of the New York papers. What was my name? Had I been to London before? Going to see any shows? I got up and requested from the first-class flight attendants a pair of Virgin Atlantic-branded pajamas I knew they kept, changed in the lav, and put my sodden trousers and underpants in a plastic duty free bag. When I got back he continued to ply me with questions. I put on my Bose noise-canceling headphones. Still he continued to talk. After a few moments of this, I turned to him. “Stop talking to me. Please.” (Maybe I forgot the “please” part.) The remaining four hours of the flight were most awkward.
But not as awkward as this: me in the window seat, kid about 18 in middle seat. I arrived after the row was seated and apologized for making everyone get up. My seatmates chirped “No worries!” and “make yourself right at home” (kidding, they were as silent as mummies). After takeoff, things got more intimate. The kid fell asleep and plopped his head on my shoulder. A minute ago I barely existed and now he was snuggling into a comfortable position, cheek to cheek. I took a selfie and posted it. I don’t know why, but I let him sleep for a bit, thinking this would be over soon. After five minutes, I gently tried to wake him but he had passed out, dead to the world. After 20 minutes I’d had enough and jiggled his shoulders. Then I poked him in the ribs. Then I shook him gently and finally I pushed his head away. At last a reaction. He sprang awake and glared at me like I was John Wayne Gacy and shouted “Don’t touch me!” loud enough for them to hear at the back of the plane. And then, saving us both further embarrassment, he went back to sleep.
But it could have been even worse.
Years ago, Barbara Fitzgerald, then a woman in her late 50s, was on a flight to Florida. She used to work for me on a website I once ran, and while not exactly a chatterbox she was friendly and extroverted. As she told it at the time, before takeoff she greeted the man in the window seat next to her, and (surprise!) he said nothing. But an hour into the flight, he rested his head on her shoulder, his silvery hair touching her left cheek. “I pushed him away but he didn’t budge,” she said, “and I waited a few minutes and then rang the call button.” This was to be, the cabin crew quickly determined, his final flight.
I fly now mostly out of necessity: funerals, graduations, weddings, work. It’s always been a hassle, and I’m happy not to fly so frequently. But I think the thing I miss the most are these wacky, improbable encounters. They’re great conversation fodder at dinner parties and drinks with friends. On the very rare occasions when I’m encouraged to engage, I’ll even retell them to people sitting next to me on planes. Always makes the flight go faster.
———
