There Ain’t Nothing Friendly in These Skies

Many on the ground are awestruck at the concept of flight. More so if you ever get into the mechanics of it. Me, well, I am more awestruck at the people I meet while in flight. Through many flights across the USA and to overseas destinations the experiences has left me thinking that when Orville and Wilbur Wright set out on to invent flying (well at least for human beings), they probably had no idea that a separate culture would develop in those friendly skies. Me, well, I am the quiet flier. I really don’t care for much conversation. Not that I am afraid to share, heck, I am writing a book, honestly I am fearful of the conversations that I may encounter. I can’t feel but a little helpless, sans parachute, that the lavatory is my only escape from such conversations. And really, how many times do I really have to take a dump before it gets suspicious? Not that anyone would be keeping track. Except the dude who’s seat is next to the shitter. Poor guy. So anyhow on one trip, a much older lady smelling of fresh doilies and possibly old cheese, has a seat next to me.

But, before she has a seat I get this look from her. It appears that the bag in her hand will not fly itself into the overhead bin. ~Ya take the good, ya take the bad, ya take it all and there you have…the facts of the life, the facts of life!~ Easy enough right? I should get up and help cause I am a pretty nice dude. But, before I can do such an act of kindness, she looks at me and mutters, “son, are you gonna get up and help me with my bag?” What the? You bitch! Are you kidding me? But, knowing this is a cross country flight, and she will be sitting next to me for the duration, I decide to swallow my words and help her out. Of course, her bag won’t fit, right? Indeed. So, I try to wedge the thing in, as if only on planes I am able to defy the law of physics.

She remarks to me, “there are some breakables in there sonny, be careful with it”. Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you wanted help with your bag lady, I figured that your collection of fine crystal inside of the bag was wrapped in bullet proof bubble wrap ahead of time. So the line in the aisle way, oh that line of the anticipatory and fidgety passengers, grows longer and people attempt to slither by me. Finally, I remark to her, “maybe it will fit under the seat?”. Yeah, that went over well. “son if I wanted to put it under the seat, I wouldn’t have asked for your help”. Asked for my help? Wow, I thought you basically ordered me to help you Ms. Little Old Crusty Bitch, you didn’t really ask. So I am looking around at the people buried in their laptops or books or who already settled in, ready for take-off. I could have been one of them. Oh how I envy them. None of them seem interested in what is going on or in possibly restructuring their bags to help me get this woman’s stuff to fit. So, I grab my bag from the bin, put her bag up there and figure to be done with things I will just put my bag under my seat. SCORE: Ed Rader 0, Old Lady 1.

So, I sit back down in my kick ass window seat. I think she said thank you, but I was to busy hoping death would pay her a visit, soon. As I get buckled in, I notice she is fumbling around her pockets in her seat. She comments, “I can’t find my glasses, I think I left them in the bag”. I try not to listen and play deaf. Cursing the Wright Brothers for the seed they planted. It comes. “Son, you mind grabbing my bag and…” What and slam it into your head causing your brains to leak out onto your un-stowed tray table? So, of course, I get up, get the damn devil woman’s bag. She unzips it looks around and cannot find her glasses. Then she notices that her glasses are indeed, in her pockets. What, did another magical fucking pocket sprout out of nowhere and your ninja glasses snuck in there? Sigh. I put the bag back for her and before I sit back down she opines, “maybe it would be better if I sat in your seat so you don’t have to reach over me to help”. What? Are you kidding me? Where’s my 40 acres and a mule? Is it Punk Ed Rader Day on the calendar? Apparently it is. I decide to put my foot down, “no thank you, I am fine in my seat”. I was fine, I wanted to look out the window and mind my own business, watch the birds and clouds or whatever. Anything that would let me relax. But ohhhhh nooooo, she wants to sit there. I sit back down, all proud of myself for not giving in. I wonder if she keeps a secret scorecard of how to pimp out the younger generation. Well missy, the window seat operation won’t be another tick mark you are adding. Now, I’ll pause to allow you to recount the events of the above story. What would you have done? Was there something I could have done better? Should I have acted like I was asleep or retarded or something? I’m asking because there is no handbook I know of that covers courses of action in the event of senior moments like this on an airplane. I think the cunning of the old has been underestimated for years. Maybe it is the ignorance of the youth that continues to be taken advantage of. Likely, it is a combination of both. So there I am, dreading my flight back to Alaska. Yes, the truth comes out. I was flying back to Alaska. I know, earth shattering information. Maybe she will get off at a connecting location or something. I was not fond of the thought of importing her into the Last Frontier State. Then again, maybe I could run her off the road up there, or at least slap a bag of groceries out of her hand. Cruel, I know.

So we are ready for take off, finally some progress. Now I have slipped on my head phones, my escape from the rest of the world. But, of course I can’t play my MP3 player during take off. Nevertheless, maybe the appearance of my headphones being on will save me from her talking to me or at least attempting to. No dice. It appears she thinks the bag fiasco has somehow bonded us. So she starts telling me why she is going to Alaska. Great, glad that question is answered. The anticipation was burning me up inside. She said she was heading up there to do some sightseeing before it gets too cold. A couple things about Alaska, you never really get used to the cold and you never really get used to the tourists. I am elated that she gets to behold the beauty of the state. Maybe a bear will eat her while she is snapping photos. So she asks me if I have ever been to Alaska, wait, WAIT A DAMN SECOND HERE, its takeoff time and she has not stowed her tray table. We takeoff, her tray table remains in the un-stowed position, I fear the plane will certainly crash because of it. So, I reply that yes I am going back to Alaska, to Fairbanks. At this point I tell her what I do up there (although I wanted to say that I worked at a morgue and had a vacancy for her) and she replied, “oh so you are a tourist too!”. Well technically, but crap, I had been up there almost two years, that does not count as tourism in my book. Heck, I changed my state residency to Alaska from Georgia (no state taxes, works for me) and I could see Russia from my house in Alaska. Ok not really. Additionally, I did not want to establish any commonalities with her. I just wanted to listen to music, look out the window, fart in my seat, and relax. So I reply, “well I am not there for the sight-seeing”. She then tells me her husband lost his eyesight a few years before he died. Great, now I am getting it from all angles. You ruthless bitch, now I am compelled to feel bad for you. Yes, what a tangled web you weave you old spinstress. I am thinking, “how the heck did she slip that in there?”. Who talks about stuff like this on planes rides with complete strangers? So she starts to tell me all about her late husband. Ahh yes, the odds and ends of him sleeping around on her and she knew it but did not confront him and of course the rants of him playing golf with his buddies and not showing her enough attention. All very qualified complaints I am sure, but I ain’t the sounding board today. She should have left that shit in her checked baggage. Get it? Checked baggage? Ahh cha cha cha. I smile and nod for what seems to be an eternity. She has the stamina of a warrior panther. So it occurs to me that I have no outs from the conversation. I frantically look for a parachute but my search is impeded by the fact that I am indeed the window seat and while I see hope 25,000 feet below I can neither escape the situation physically or mentally.

So what do I decide to do with this verbal ambush? Attack it head on. Seize the initiative. Time to pull out the big guns. I had to use my inside voice, because proclaiming that I was ready to “pull out the big guns” would not have only been awkward to the conversation (yes for some reason that concerned me) but simply pronouncing the word “gun” on a plane would likely have me assaulted by airline trolls as a threat to the plane. So I ask her in a very sincere soft calm voice, “ma’am I don’t know how to tell you this but I would rather have my balls bashed by an epileptic who was high on PCP and wielding a sledge hammer than listen to anything more you have to say”. Pause for effect. Now my friends, I have seen a few classic moments in my life, the fall of the Berlin Wall, Jesse Ventura sworn in as Minnesota’s governor, Mike Tyson taking a bite Evander Holyfield’s ear…but the horrified look on her face tops them all. I think she would have had a cheerier response to me biting a chunk of her ear off than saying what I said. As I coldly stared into her eyes, eyes now vacant of logical thought and filled with the burning fires of visible emotion, she could only muster an “oh my God”. Yes yes, enjoy your serving of fuck-you pie. Soooooo, the rest of the flight was relatively calm. Seriously. I had repelled the enemy forces into submission. Not another word from her. After we landed and began to file out I gave two glances. One to her bag o’ hell in the overhead bin….which was immediately followed with one glance at her. Ensuring eye contact with her I simply grinned. Wishing I had somebody to high-five as I walked away. I could have high-fived myself, but then it would just look like I was clapping. That would have looked dumb although I felt like clapping was appropriate at the time. Then again, I just high-fived myself while writing this. I think Tucker Max put it best, “I hope they serve beer in hell”. Thanks for the memories Orville and Wilbur Wright.