I’m In The Red, Jules

Jules: “Oh, you're gettin' ready to blow?
Vincent: “I could blow.”
Jules: “Well I'm a mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker, motherfucker! Every time my fingers touch brain I'm Superfly T.N.T. …. I'm the Guns of the Navarone. In fact, what the fuck am I doin' in the back? You're the motherfucker should be on brain detail. We're fuckin' switchin' right now. I'm washin' the windows and you're pickin' up this n******’s skull.”


As I catch my breath, I ponder what other curveball will fate throw me as I prepare to board the plane. Whatever it is, my stress is behind me and I can count on sleeping on the plane and forgetting about my worries. Or so I thought.

As I prepare to board the plane, the bitter agent at the gate informs me that I won’t be able to carry on my bag and tags it for checking.

Now yesterday, I described the harrowing nightmare I experienced in trying to fly from St. Louis to Denver. I am really trying to block it out, so if you haven’t read it yet please scroll down and read the entire thing. But it’s helpful to understand what happened and to understand my mental state is right now as I prepare to fly.

So at this point in time, I’m a “mushroom-cloud-layin' motherfucker” and in no mood for any further shit. Trying not to take it out on her, however, I try to explain the situation.

“I need to carry on my bag because my connecting flight is 45 minutes after we land and it won’t make it if I check it,” I say calmly.

“You need to check your bag, we have a full plane and it won’t fit” she responds sternly.

“My bag is not going to make it. I really need to carry it on,” I plead.

“You need to check your bag,” she replies robotically.

God, it’s like negotiating with a terrorist.

“Fuck it, I’ll let you figure out how to get it there then,” I reply and then I turn and walk away. I am really at my wit’s end at this point.

Before I can get ten feet down the walkway, she immediately calls me back.

Oh shit. I am immediately regretting my decision to drop the F bomb. What happens if they don’t let me board the plane? I start to prepare my explanation and wonder how serious an offense it is to curse out an airline employee.

“You forgot your ticket stub,” she says curtly.

Whew, thank god.

I make it to my “plane” and am surprised to find that evidently American has chosen to reduce costs by replacing its jet fleet with gliders. The flying machine (I’m not sure it can rightfully be called a plane) sat three people per row (single seat and two seats), for about 18 rows or so. I check my bag (it turns out that they immediately produce it for you at the end of the flight when you get off the plane, so it turned out not to be an issue) and proceed to my seat.

Good news! I have the aisle seat, which I can fit into relatively comfortably so long as lean in towards the aisle. The seats are tiny and I am pretty good sized (it’s all muscle ladies), but it shouldn’t be too bad so long as person is normal sized. Who knows, perhaps Jessica Alba will sit next to me and I’ll be able share an armrest with her and tell her how fond I was of her work in “The Fantastic Four.”

Fate, however, is still fucking with me today. After settling in, I look up and standing there is one of the biggest men I have ever seen. At least I presume it was a man. It could have been a Sasquatch that was captured, shaved down and released back into civilization for all I know.

The only think I do know is that he dwarfed me. I weigh about 200 pounds and this guy had at least 150 pounds on me. He wasn’t obese, but instead would be described as “solid,” having the look of a former football lineman that replaced working out with entering eating contests. His head his huge, easily the size of an oversized pumpkin.

He lifts the arm rest and sort of settles down. I really can’t tell if he came to a complete seated position or if he merely wedged himself in as best he could before coming to a stop. He then pulls the armrest down as far as it could go before it came to a rest on his thigh at about 30 degree angle.

In order to avoid too much physical contact, I contort my body so that my torso overhangs into the aisle. My spine looks like a question mark. But because his legs are so big, they spill into my seat and we end up squishing thigh-to-thigh the entire trip. The heat his left thigh generates could slow roast a chicken. As a result, my right leg is cooking inside my jeans. I’m guessing the temperature is that of a piping hot McDonald’s apple pie.

The good news (if there is any) is that if our glider we struck by another plane, my seatmate would fully absorb the impact of the blow. So I need to be grateful for small things.

Halfway through the flight, I notice him talking to the guy sitting behind him and then passing a magazine to the guy sitting in front of him. I wanted to say to those two guys, “hey motherfuckers, do you know this guy? If so, how about we swap seats so you can spoon with Bigfoot here while I try to properly realign my spine?”

As I contemplate strangling my fellow passengers who should be on “brain detail” instead of me, Sasquatch let out a silent belch. It was one of those awful burps where you can smell and literally taste food they just eat. In this case, it was an Italian sub sandwich he must have just inhaled prior to getting on the plane. Fantastic.

That’s the last straw. I can’t take it any more, so I decide to take a quick trip to the bathroom to give each of us a well-deserved break. Sad to say, but I'm starting to think that the time spent in the bathroom will probably be the most relaxing part of my flight. I can’t believe I actually typed that.

In addition to the miniature seats, the aisle way appears to be built for 8-year olds and the Lollipop Guild. In order to avoid bumping folks endlessly, I need to walk at an angle down the aisle. There’s no room for one, let alone two. Just as I get there, someone emerges from the bathroom and starts to head back to her seat. Oh great.

I quickly assess the situation and come up with the following options:

(1) Return to my seat next to Shrek.
(2) Say fuck it, and keep going.

I opt for number 2. Given the certain collision with the oncoming passenger, I then ask the famous Tyler Durden question from Fight Club, “Now, a question of etiquette - as I pass, do I give you the ass or the crotch?” Since it was a woman, I opt for the latter and blurt out “hey, it’s good getting to know you” as I squeeze past. I recall dry humping episode as a teen that involved less physical contact.

After finishing in the loo (number one, if you must know), I go to wash my hands at which point I discover that the bathroom sink does not have any running water. What the fuck?! Instead, they’ve put two containers of baby wipe towels, figuring that that would do the job. How unsanitary is that? Can you imagine the collection of germs which reside on that door handle? Ewwww.

The rest of the flight was relatively uneventful, with the exception of the continued scorching of my leg. We land safely and early at Denver International Airport and it actually looks like I will make my connecting flight. Given that it’s in first class (hello free booze), I optimistically depart the plane for what I have to believe will be the enjoyable part of the trip.

Tomorrow - “What A Difference A Leg Makes” (or “Uhh, Do You Have Any More Vodka Left?”)