I’d be annoyed, but the mother looks so frazzled. Poor woman. I’m sure this isn’t how she wanted to travel. I take a deep breath, willing myself to tune out the son of Satan and his blood-curdling screaming. It works—almost—until the toddler goes ramrod straight, extending his arms straight over his head, and dumping the contents of his sippy cup on my lap.
And my laptop.
I jump up, holding my computer, trying to shake the chocolate milk off it before it can seep in and fry the electrical components. The mother apologizes profusely, tears welling up in her eyes.
Certainly, I’m annoyed, but I can’t let her see. She’s taking this hard enough. This isn’t her fault. Kids are unpredictable. Or predictable in not doing what you want them to do. I give her a tight-lipped smile and assure her I’m fine. A flight attendant rushes over with some towels to help mop up the mess.
I’m drenched. Who knew those cups could hold so much? Why wasn’t the top secured in the first place? And because it’s milk, I can practically smell the rancid foul odor that will no doubt be wafting off me by the time we land in Denver.
No biggie. I can take this in stride. If I can just get to my carry on, I can change my clothes. I tell this to the attendant, as well as the harried mother.
“Let me just pull my bag down, and I can change. It’s fine.” Okay, maybe my tone is theteensiestbit on the clipped side, but I don’t let my irritation show. The flight attendant rewards my lack of negative response because she says, “Why don’t you come up front and use the bathroom up here? It’s a little more spacious in first class, so it’ll be easier for you to change in. I think we have a seat up there as well, and you can spend the remainder of the flight there.”
Sometimes it pays to stuff all your feelings way down deep.
I thank her for her thoughtfulness and proceed to yank my bag down from the overhead bin. Now I’m fit and flexible, with agility being a necessary part of my job, but changing my clothes in an airplane bathroom seems like it requires the skill of a circus contortionist. I have to leave my suitcase outside and pull out the first clothes I find, which are a pair of ratty sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that says, “Caution: This Physical Therapist is easily distracted by your awful gait pattern.” It’s a leftover from my college days and hasn’t seen the light of day as anything but pajamas in at least a decade.
It’s fine. Definitely worth going through to get the upgrade. Plus, Benj will think this is funny when I see him. He has a warped sense of humor. Much better than mine. I got muscles that work; he got all the personality.
The flight attendant takes my bag to stow in a closet and guides me a few rows back where there’s an open window seat. A window seat that’s next to an aisle seat that’s currently occupied by the Neanderthal that delayed our flight.
Now that I’m standing less than a foot away, I recognize the bleach-blond locks immediately.
His hair is even worse up close. Has he never heard of conditioner? I bet he’s one of those guys who uses a 3-in-1 shampoo, conditioner, and body wash. Yuck.
But no, it doesn’t stop there. His head is tipped down, his chin practically resting on his chest. I expect him to shift or move or something to let me pass, but he remains still. I clear my throat. Nothing. The flight attendant says, “Excuse me, sir.” Nothing. She shakes his shoulder slightly. Still nothing.
Then, a rumbling sound emanates from the man’s mouth, rising in a crescendo to one of the loudest snores I’ve ever heard. His head lifts, as if the vibrations emitted by his obstructed airway created their own forcefield strong enough to lift his head and all of that stupid Fabio hair.
As this happens, his stupid Fabio hair parts like a curtain, exposing his face. A face I recognize. A face I loathe.
A face that belongs to Brandon Nix.
I’d rather sit next to the demon child.
I turn to the flight attendant. “You know, on second thought, I’ll just go back to my seat. I’m sure it’s fine.” I brush past her and head through the curtains to where the common folk sit.
That was close.
Except when I get back to my row, the toddler is now stretched out across my seat, fast asleep. His mother’s eyes are wide with panic. I may not have kids of my own, but even I know not to wake a sleeping baby. Especially not one with the lung capacity that this one has.
“Is there anywhere else I can sit?” I look around. Surely there’s got to be another empty seat.
“I’m afraid the only other unoccupied seat is the one in first class.”
I look from my former seat to the front of the plane. I can’t disturb this kid. But I don’t know how I’m going to sit next to the man who may have cost me my career either.
I see tears again in the exhausted mother’s eyes. There’s no choice. Not really. Not without making a scene and becoming public enemy number one. I make my way back up to the front of the plane, clenching my molars together.
He’s still asleep. The beast is practically sprawled out now, one leg in the aisle and the other taking up all available space in front of his seat. He’s the poster child for manspreading. His head is back against the headrest now, tipped slightly to the side, with a small trickle of drool puddling at the corner of his open mouth.
Eww.
Also, this is a legit fear of mine with sleeping on a plane. I’ve trained myself to doze off with my fist pressed to my mouth to prevent the drool from escaping.
He’s still snoring.
The flight attendant looks at me sheepishly before turning to Sleeping Beauty. “Excuse me, sir.” She taps his shoulder. Brandon Nix doesn’t move. At this rate, I’m going to be here all day.
