I Kan't Spell

 
The Airport
I wrote this a while ago and for shits and giggles thought I would finish it off....


At the airport a couple of years ago I noticed some things.

I was sitting reading a Herman Hesse book trying to find the “inner-me” when this fat pimple of a human being started to blather on to his fellow cohorts about his job, his wife, his money, his kids, his ass hair and other various items that he could not possibly keep to himself. He was sitting next to me in the crowded waiting pool of seats that were all occupied with people waiting to get onto the plane. This man talked to the two people next it him, to the air, and to himself so much that it became appallingly evident that he was everything I feared about my life.

Herman Hesse once said, and I’m paraphrasing, “The things we hate about other people are the things that we hate about ourselves.” I somehow saw myself in this man. I saw myself blathering away time after time making people around me feel uncomfortable and agitated. I saw myself acting as though I had something to say but instead simply mouthing the words that no one wanted to hear.

This wretched waste of a human being and his fat equally obnoxious wife had gotten to me. I wanted to punch him in his throat. I wanted to take a potato pancake and shove it up his nose until it took the place of his fucking eyes. I hated this human being more than anything in my entire life. But, the sad truth still remained that what I hated about him was actually in my life. The phoniness was there. The on stage mentality that this man so eagerly let drip from his fat hairy chest was also, at times, evident in me.

I became so enraged that I went to the bathroom to wash my face. Upon entering the bathroom I noticed that my shirt was on inside out. I laughed at myself and thought about keeping it like that all day. I thought about the things people must have thought this morning as they watched me walk through security. I laughed and turned my shirt right side in.

As I walked back out, the plane was boarding for San Antonio. The fat cow assed people and the beauty queens that live in the south never cease to amaze me. They waddle or they strut. Their breed is odd as it allows for total racism yet country charm to boot. It’s a strange lot. On the plane however a new and somewhat disturbing trend had superseded anyone’s cultural make-up. The plane culture immediately takes into effect. The culture that is deemed appropriate in the epic battle of, what I like to call, “Don’t sit next to me Motherfucker!”

First off, people begin lining up for the plane an hour (that’s right an hour) before the boarding begins. It’s usually the business men who fly all the time and would have their entire lives ruined if they didn’t get the first row aisle seat. They stand at the front of the line looking more and more agitated every second. The next thing you will notice are the cell phone yellers that always have to make one last call to the office about a conference call or package to be delivered. It must be imperative that they make this call because they speak loud enough and repeat everything so many times that everyone in the terminal could do the job of the lackey they are calling on the other end. This call also usually ends with their new customized voicemail being set –
“Hi, this is Helen Hoolihan, I won’t be in the office for the next three days so you can reach my lackey at extension 1234gofuckyourself. Have a great week!”

As the loading of the plane starts the real scariness of the plane culture takes over. You see the plane culture overwrites anyone culture. You could be a goat herder from Bangladesh or a Wall Street executive, it makes no difference because if you board the plane before everyone else your job is to immediately stake your territory. You must hurry and place your bag on the seat next to you just in case all 100 people in back of you decide to nicely fill in the remaining seats in back of you like water into a glass. And be careful not to make eye contact for this is the first step to an invitation for someone else to possibly sit down in the magic row. You must have something culturally appropriate and possibly even envying like a Kundera or Rushdie book, or a copy of Fortune or Harvard Business Review. You want people to look at you and go “Wow what a smart guy.” But at the same time know that you need your space and not talk to you.

When walking onto a plane you will notice the eye levels of those already seated. There are two types of eyes looking at you as you shuffle through the swinging door into the oxygenated room. The first sets of eyes are down and into whatever they are reading. They don’t want to know you, and they don’t want to be known. These are the same kind of people that would never talk to a cab driver and find it weird if you say “hello” to them in an elevator. The second kind of person is the glancer. The glancer profiles every person that comes through the door and the returns immediately to the tray diagram, barf bag, or sports magazine they were reading. He wants to get a good beat on who will be sitting next to him. A woman with a kid immediately brings out the head phones. A fat guy will cause the seated to adjust himself for maximum distance and comfort from the possible row mate. The possible hottie will make him reach for his “conversation piece” of media in order to look more interesting than he actually is. What do I do? Well I’m the 3rd set of eyes. I’m already asleep by the time other people get on the plane…or I’m last.

I guess the point of this was to try to explain that within us all we change in certain atmospheres. We become shadows, ghosts, representatives, and enigmas. We can become whoever we want when in an airport or getting on a plane and most of us become the worst part of ourselves. We become very self-aware about missing a flight, or stolen luggage or even something strange like terrorism. Most become guarded and some, like the fat fuck at the beginning, become outwardly motivated to explain to you who they are. They feel compelled, or perhaps they are nervous, and they need to expel their life to you. They need to brag and drop hints about themselves so as to add importance to who they are. It is quite wonderful to watch if you ever get the chance. So the next time you are in the airport, look to see how people change in the air taxi barn as opposed to who they might be in the outside world, or possibly see who they are in the outside world because of the way they are in the airport. I think you’ll find that there are a bunch of clues.
Link posted by JVMM : 1:48 PM