Nutjobs at 20,000 Feet

I don't consider myself exactly anti-social, but when I'm flying I'm not there to make friends. Unless I'm in first class, all I want to do is let some easy-read fiction book absorb me into another world. A world where people aren't snacking on chips in your ear and kids aren't kicking your seat from behind.

But apparently, I've never told my face this. My face insists on being one of those approachable, inviting ones that says, "Sure, crazy plane lady, please talk to me. I desperately need to hear your life story."

Nearly every flight I get one: a plane crazy. I am invariably the first one to sit down in my section and I always sit there patiently praying for some cute, young professional to sit by me. A guy who will sit there quietly, look pretty and occasionally flirting with me. But no. I always get the plane crazies. I can spot them easily as they come down the aisle, and by now I've learned to just expect them to sit right next to me. They remind me of that gremlin in the old Twilight Zone episode....only my gremlins aren't on the wing of the plane...they're inside.

What gets me is how they never notice (or choose to completely ignore) any sign that you do not want to listen to their endless chatter. I can quite literally stick my nose in my book and I swear to god they'll actually wave their hand in front of my face to grab my attention. Headphones are no use either. They simply tap you and motion for you to take them off so they can keep on talking.

Here are a few of my all-time favorites:

Plane Crazy #1: Elvira, Mistress of the Nutjobs
When I use the name Elvira here it is no joke. Goth dress, nightmare nails, pale skin (powder-caked to be even paler still), jet black hair and thick eye liner arched over bloodshot eyes. I was uncertain whether or not she was drunk when she got on the plane, but by the time we were through our second service, she'd certainly worked her way through two mini bottles of chardonnay easily enough. And the more she drank, the looser her lips became. She told me of her son who was in jail for selling heroine and how she felt she'd failed as a mother. "If only he had turned out more like you," she exclaimed, splashes of wine spilling onto the pages of my open book. But I was thinking how amazing it was that he had turned out so well, considering his mother...

Plane Crazy #2: C'mon'iwanalaya
Ahh, the entrepreneur from Hawai'i. Now he was just a mess. Slightly overweight, mid-40s, clothes far too young for him, gold watch neslted in dark arm hair. Think your dad during his mid-life crisis. He owned an auto parts store on Oahu and had spent the last few years building a house for his family. That is, until his wife left him, their teenage sons following soon afterward. The house was left rainswept and in mid-construction, but that didn't stop him from living there. He was a determined sort. Determined to rub his crotch in my face every time he went to the bathroom. Once he figured out I was gay, he asked me all sorts of inappropriate questions. What positions did I like? Was I into older guys? If I was ever in Hawai'i, I was welcome anytime to stay with him in his "house." I lost his business card somewhere between rows 23 and 14.

Plane Crazy #3: The Brasilian Cougar
She came sauntering down the aisle all in leopard print. Nails one-inch long, red and curling as if beckoning anyone who would take up her plea for affection. I knew I was in trouble when she crossed her legs as she sat and her skirt rode high enough that, had I dropped a peanut, it would have been lost forever. Utterly relentless and inconceivably tactless, the fact that I was gay made no different to her. She considered her breasts powerful enough to capture any man. But I'd already had milk with my cereal that morning. After I breathlessly thwarted several advances, she finally settled on the age game: demanding that I tell her how old I thought she was. I had no choice but to grossly underestimate for fear those red claws would find purchase in my eye sockets. "You'd nevr knoooow iit," she said in her haughty, strained accent, "boot I've had zree plaztyk zurjeries and botox injections evry few monts...don't you liyik my teeets?" I'm certain her teeets were at some point, before the ziplock bag buoys and scissored battle scars, very nice.

I've considered taking my book into one of those pocket-sized bathrooms for some peace and quiet. But of course then I wouldn't have as many interesting stories to tell. So I'll soldier through future flights, always anticipating that positively melodic phrase, "Ladies and gentlemen, please place your tray tables up and bring your seat backs to their forward and upright locked position."

I hope you've enjoyed your flight.