Love at 36000 feet

Note: This has nothing whatsoever to do with scrap metal -- just my life dramas...scrap metal has been distant in my mind lately. I'm a victim of my compulsions, and I'm afraid I've developed the peculiar desire to make a fool of myself by posting this experience from yesterday. Moderators: I won't be offended if deleted. You'll probably save me from myself.

That said....

Shall I sing the middle-seat blues?

Eyes closed and make the best of it. Dream of palm trees and sea breezes. My ears can’t distinguish the middle from the window.

“The overhead compartments are now full. Please check your bags at the front of the aircraft.”

From the aisle: emphatic sighs and the awkward shuffling of oversized carry-ons.
“Sir, I said those bins are full.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Grumble grumble.

Front, back, and side-to-side: USA Today crinkles, zippers do their thing, and the pleasing pings and ping-pongs of iPhones. Final missives before….

“Please turn off all electronic devices. If it has an on/off switch…..”

“The god-****ed plane is overbooked and 20 minutes late”



“I luv u. Can’t wait to see u”

“Thank you for the ride to the airport, Pop-pop”

The seat on my right, the aisle seat, is empty. Fate has dealt me no partner for this journey. I’m happy and sad at the same time. After all, elbow-room is great, but what if the plane splits in two? An oxygen mask is not enough. In case of fiery descent from 36000 feet, I’ll need a hand to hold and a final declaration of eternal love.

My sweaty and bulging seat partner to the left is already fast asleep, a phlegmy cough -- the only sign of life. No, he won’t do. I guess I’ll die alone, if it comes to that. Didn’t Dr. Goldstein discuss the perils of worst-case-scenario thinking? Am I getting anything from these $250 hourly sessions?

That’s right, now I remember: Lower my expectations and deepen them. See the world in a grain of sand. Perhaps a meaty and clammy hand will do the trick. One can’t be too picky in matters such as these.

Then, a bump to the elbow.

“Sorry, excuse me. So sorry for running late. I hope I didn’t hold-up the plane.”
The cushion hisses as fate delivers a fanny to the aisle seat. The air swirls with movement – the scent is subtle yet unmistakably feminine.

Eyes open.

An exchange of smiles and eye contact. Soft gentle brown eyes and a kind face.

Hair pulled back in a pony tail. A green sweatshirt and well worn blue jeans. Majesty. Our elbows gently touch and part. Such a small thing, the grazing of elbows and shoulders with a stranger. The ever-so-brief exchange of warmth and connection.

The lighting director in my mind dims the house lights. The worries and dramas of everyday living melt away. The spotlight shifts to outer surface of my right shoulder and forearm. As if on cue, the nerve endings perform exquisitely – perceiving with nearly infinite depth every embrace of our fleeces and each transfer of heat from one shoulder to the other.

We never speak. No exchange of “So where are you heading” or “So what do you do for a living?” Just the gentle resting of elbows and forearms and shoulders against one-another. Shifting position now and then, and then returning. It’s nothing and everything at the same time.

Fate has been kind after all. Perhaps I’ll choose the middle seat next time.

Boom-chicka-wow-wow! I sense a letter being written to a men's magazine... :-)

Hey, did it just get warm in here?

Yes, I agree. I've seen too many melodramas lately, and I guess life starts to imitate art. That, and I was flying home from a visit with a relative who has terminal cancer. It's a dizzying and disorienting experience.

Well I just got off the phone with the radiologist. We found four lesions (metastases) on the CT scan: 2 on your ribs, one on your spine and one on your left pelvis. They're quite small at this time. Our job is to make you comfortable and to arrest the progression as best we can.

His face flushing an ever deepening red. WTF? I thought it was just muscle soreness. I thought I had another 15 years.

Observing this as a powerless son, it drives home the fact that we're here for only a short time. What parts matter? What parts linger in memory?

The clip from Shame lingers. Yes, it skirts dangerously close to the creepy. But having ridden the A express and the C local for years, I can't help but remember similar fleeting dramas. And the actress' amazing facial transition from 40sec - 58 sec captures the essence of my life. The transition from daydream to WTF am I doing here. It's that awful return to reality -- the pile of stainless steel and sheet metal (the rattling, creeking subway car), and it doesn't sort itself. But we can still dream, can't we?

I have to say in the 20-25 commercial flights I'v taken none were as good as the one you described, none. I hated flying commercial long before the TSA. I would enjoy a memory like that, unspoiled by reality. Thanks for sharing, Mike.