I was on the first flight and it was going all right. The movie on the screen was Unaccompanied Minors, so it really could have been worse. The trouble started when the stewardess came through with the drinks service and spilled Diet Pepsi all over my jacket sleeve. I didn't mind too much. We are on a plane after all, and items shift in the server's hands like they do in those overhead compartments.

I wiped off the Pepsi (don't ask me why I knew it was diet; it's just a strong inclination) and continued watching the movie. I was actually curious what was going to happen next!

Next came the meal service. We chewed and watched. The plot failed to thicken.

The stewardess came through again to take away our lunch. I'm pretty sure it was the same one, because this time, she managed to fumble with someone's lunch box and spill it directly on my head. The tabouleh salad scattered on my shoulder and arm and the remnants of someone's rice and meat ended up on my airplane blanket.

I couldn't stop laughing.

The lady next to me, whose husband was having a whiskey, suggested that I have one too.

After that, whenever any of the stewardesses passed me, I would lean towards the lady on my right, and way the hell away from the isle.

The flight finished without further incident, and I hung around at the intermediary airport for hours reading magazines and sampling chocholate covered guava. I boarded the next flight - it was a long one - and found my seat, except some sleeping nine year old kid's sneakers were occupying it. He was sprawled across almost all three seats.

"Excuse me, this is my seat," I said to his mother. She looked at me and said, "this isn't 22".

"Yes, it's not 22, it's 23, and 23 H is my seat".

This was going nowhere fast. She asked me, "can you sit somewhere else?"

I was a little surprised but I said no, I couldn't find another seat now, but maybe there would be a free one after take off.

Then, angrily, the lady attempted to compress her son and get his legs out of my seat. She was grunting with effort, and I'm not sure why as he wasn't that big really, and then she gave up. I sat down to find his stinking shoes practically next to my face. Whatever, no big deal. At this point I just wanted to sleep. The only problem was that once or twice, while I was sleeping, the kid unfolded his foot and almost kicked me in the head. I had to grab it and push it down.

It was mostly peaceful after that. "Are you new?"

A bike messenger who looked a little out of it asked me that the other day, when I stopped by a patisserie on W4th street.

I was pretty sure I knew what he meant, but I couldn't possibly understand his logic, so said, "new?"

Then there was the whole "are you a messenger?" "no I am not" exchange. The guy kept moving away and then towards me when he thought of something else to converse about. The whole exchange was approximately a minute long.

I didn't realise that the bike messenger community in New York had gotten so small that people can just ask you if you are "new". That sounds more like what you say to a kid you've never seen before in your homeroom. I'm not really certain about the homeroom thing, though, because in my school, homeroom was our first period class.

Necessity.
Idiocy and other virtues.

ennui without order

• bike snob NYC
• ultraclay
• a tam in australia
• new york hack
• mikebot
• eurotrash
• this fish needs a bicycle
• on the face
• spicy children
• myasorubka
• massive red-eye
• jewschool
• malapoesia
• patently silly
• waiter rant

RSS-y

• feed

use.plan.b@gmail.com