They say if you really want to know someone, you should travel with them. If you really want to observe human nature at it's best/worse/weirdest--take a plane trip with a group of strangers. In booking a flight, you are in essence signing up for Jet Plane Camp. The pilot is the Camp Director, your attendants are the counselors and your fellow passengers are your camp mates. Just like camp, your "bunk mate" is most likely someone you would actively avoid if you met them in Walmart, but because of proximity, you very well could be privileged to learn their entire life story in 4 hours.
Ken and I were returning from California, blissed out on Grandbaby love, as we boarded the plane. The attendants were announcing that the flight was full, that every seat would be taken before we left the run way. So what does that mean? Every freakin' person on the plane is sitting in the window seat and the aisle seat. The dreaded middle seat might was well be the electric chair when it comes to seating on a plane.
Ken and I part ways---every man for himself. At this point you stop looking at the middle "death" seat and you begin to study the people sitting around it and weighing your options: Do I sit between a mother with her new born and an overweight man? Or two men--one in a suit and tie and one in overalls? Then there is Grunge Kid with headphones and another suited up business guy still talking on his cell? I'm about to go with the headphones when I spy two women, nice polyester pants and floral tops, small in size --when the flight attendent begins to threaten to get out the cattle prod, so I take a leap of faith and go for the polyester. What should have stopped me cold was when I said the fatal words "Is that seat taken?" (Like duh, of course not) and Younger Polyester by the window says to Older Polyester--"Momma, let this lady in." Now I'm thinking, well if she IS your Momma and not "Yo Momma" why the hell aren't you two sitting by each other? And assumed Momma Polyester would scoot over--oh no--she grabs my arm (Warning #2! Invading my personal space!) and lifts herself out of her seat, so as to make room for me to scootch through.
As I sit and greet Polyester the Younger by the window, I look down and staring at me from under the seat in front of her are two big brown eyes--and I was introduced to Pierre--a Papillon puppy who, I was told, was Poly's service dog. Now of course, I immediately start checking her out for her disability--discreetly, of course--she had glasses on, so eyesight is good, she was chatting away to me (and Pierre) so communication is not the issue. I didn't have to wonder for long--Pierre was her service dog because she was Bi-Polar. So now I'm wondering if Pierre will start to bark frantically if she begins to enter an manic phase and starts singing show tunes, or perhaps he's like the St. Bernard, but instead of a keg of water around his neck, he has a tiny bottle of Prozac. I was hoping for the latter, as it appeared I might need some before the flight was over.
To the left of me, Momma is not to be outdone. I soon learn that she is not Momma, she is Pierre's Nana. I learn this because she keeps talking across me to Pierre--who, once we were in flight was brought out of his carry-on and held in Poly Daughter's arms like an infant. Apparently Pierre was given a good dose of Doggie Valium before the flight, so he was pretty pliable.
As soon as we receive our complementary beverage--Pierre's Nana spills hers' all over herself. So while the real daughter is talking baby-talk to the damn dog, I'm wiping up Nana with those teeny-tiny airplane napkins. Then Nana declares to Poly that she is going to change clothes. My fear now is that I'm going to have to help her--in an airplane bathroom--me and Granny Pants. I'm saved because this declaration leads to an all-out Mother-Daughter argument about the reality of Nana even having any other pants with her.
Finally, we all settle down, Pierre is placed back in his carry-on, Poly reads, while I listen to Nana quote a few Bible verses to me about how people need to stay in their own "tribe" and not get that gene pool all mixed up. This from a woman who has a dog for a grandson!
We are almost there when Poly screeches out, "Pierre! Pierre! He's gone! Where is he?" The damn doggy carry-on is empty. I'm really not too concern and I don't know why she is, because it's not like the dog could parachute out or stray into someone else's airspace. Being the rocket scientist that I am, I unbuckle and look over the seat and there are three very confused looking people holding a stoned dog. Pierre is passed over the seat to me, and I put him back in the loving arms of his bi-polar Momma. Soon Jet Camp came to an end, I bid farewell to Pierre and the Polyesters--and you know what? If I saw them at Walmart--I just might go over and say hello.
