Chapter 2: Nightmare over Elm Street
Apparently I've slept through take-off. Last thing I remember I felt very uncomfortable. Physically and mentally. I had walked down the aisle to my seat, the middle seat, next to the girl who was already asleep with her legs draped over MY armrest. Who DOES that? We had just boarded. I get it, girl. You want what you want when you want it. You can have my armrest, just don't LAP OVER into my seat. Reluctantly, and slowly I might add, she rearranged so that her feet were now propped against the window. Whatever. As long as you don't BUST THE WINDOW or invade my personal space, I don't care what makes you happy in your own seat. All I was thinking, "Please, Lord. Don't let anyone sit on the other side of me. That way I can move over and let Paris Hilton lounge on my armrest."
As quickly as I said "Amen," a 6'6" behemoth stepped on the plane. And hunched over, made his way closer and closer to my row. He made eye contact with row 37. Not good. Sure enough. His seat was the one my heart claimed with all its might. The one it longed for. Craved after. Prayed over. I named him Dr. Robitussin. What for his coughing-sniffling-sneezing-so-that-I-can't-rest-at-all medicine. He coughs into his shoulders, mostly the right one, the one next to me. And afterwards he sniffles twice. Like he does coke. Nice guy though. I just didn't want to talk to him. Not then. Not now. Not ever. I'm still grumpy my prayer wasn't answered like I wanted. I feel like Paris Hilton to my right. We're both pouting. We didn't want him.
But the lady in the row in front of us, she's very bizarre. I remember she was talking to herself, trying to make conversation with the two empty seats next to her. I could endure that vs. Dr. Robitussin and Paris Hilton I reasoned. I used to work with people with Schizophrenia. And they never invaded my personal space. Or coughed on me. "Lord, please don't let anyone sit next to her so I can go up there and sleep." Then I saw it. The smooth-talking 40-something sitting across the aisle from her. WITH the college freshman.
And I was out like a light.
That was my last recollection. And now I find myself sometime after passing out and blast-off, and this is what I've woken up to. THE TWILIGHT ZONE. Dr. Robitussin is still doing his coughing, sniffling, sneezing bit all over me, Paris Hilton has her feet WEDGED under MY legs, the self-conversationalist lady in front of me is sprawled out like a three year old in the fetal position across her ENTIRE ROW, and the smooth-talking 40-something and college freshman are asleep, awkwardly cuddling each other. I think a little throw-up just came up.
How long was I alseep? Where am I? Are you freaking kidding me?! I can't take this! I need air! I need to SCREAM!! Surely I can finish jostling open the window Paris Hilton put all her weight into. I think I'm passing out...