Neighbor On a Plane

“Make me a blessing to someone.”

I prayed the words more out of routine than expectation. Believing that every person who crosses my path provides me an opportunity either to do good or harm, I’ve developed the habit of praying for the former each time I step on a plane. Lately it seems, though, that few people are open to blessing or to any other kind of human interaction. We avoid eye contact with one another, shielding our faces behind a magazine, a Kindle, or a book. We stop our ears with ear buds and gaze out the window at nothing in particular. Invisibility cloaks, it seems, come in many forms.

I slid next to the window and started thinking I’d be enjoying the luxury of two empty seats next to me while missing the opportunity to be a blessing to anyone on my flight. Just before the cabin door closed, however, I saw her walking down the aisle toward me.

She was short and pudgy. I hesitate to use the word pudgy because it sounds sort of judgmental and mean, but pudgy is the only word which seems to fit. A young man behind her lifted her suitcase into the overhead bin, and she plunked a large tote bag down on the seat next to me.  I kept waiting for her to stow it under the seat in front of her like she was supposed to. After several announcements instructing passengers to secure their belongings, and after several flight attendants passed by without addressing her, I began to get annoyed. I argued with myself about whether or not it was my responsibility to tell her to take care of her bag.

She didn’t stow it. Instead she began pulling items out of the bag, Mary Poppins-style. She retrieved a battery operated fan, flicked it on, and pointed it toward her face, down the front of her blouse, and at the back of her neck. She pulled out a pair of pillows and placed one behind her back and the other under her legs. Her feet were clad in slippers, and she pulled out of her tote a pink sneaker which contained a plastic bag filled with almonds. I couldn’t allow myself to think what they might taste like.

Using her opposite hand, my seatmate began pulling lengthwise along each of her fingers. She rubbed her palms, and then began pulsing and flicking her fingers forward. I began to suspect she had a fear of flying, and all her props and gestures were aids to help her manage her fears. Her finger movements escalated to arm movements. With the precision of a drill team member or hip-hop dancer she began pumping her arms, punching and slicing the air. Dancing in her seat, she began shaking the entire row. Her movements built to a crescendo then faded until she was, once again, pulling against her fingers.

People around her looked in my direction. Some shook their heads.

Phrases like, “degree of functionality,” and “quality of life” started running through my mind.

The flight attendant began her safety spiel, and my seatmate pulled out the instruction card from the seatback in front of her. She asked me what several of the symbols meant. I explained, and she told me it was her first time flying. She was on her way to visit her sister, she said, who had thyroid cancer. Several members of her family had cancer, she told me, and she’d gotten so she didn’t even want to go to the doctor for fear of what she might find out. She told me how much money she received every month and, out of that amount, how much was taken out for Medicare. She told me she was going to tell “them” to stop taking money out because she couldn’t find a doctor who would take a new Medicare patient anyway. She had four children; she had grandchildren.

I suggested she might want to place her bag under the seat in front of her so that nothing might fly out and hit her as the plane was taking off. She thanked me. As the plane increased speed for takeoff, she threw her arms in front of her and squealed about flying like Superman.  She quickly shushed herself as, I assume, someone had taught her to do.

Several times throughout the flight, my seatmate repeated her dance routine. She asked if I could reach the button to signal a flight attendant for her. When the attendant arrived, my seatmate asked if she could order a ginger ale. She was told, politely, that the beverage cart would be brought down the aisle shortly, and she could ask for something then.

During beverage service, my neighbor requested Crown Royal bourbon. The flight attendant showed her the kinds of bourbon the airline carried. At first, she turned down the selections offered, regaling the flight attendant with a lengthy explanation about why it was important that her bourbon be of a certain proof. Later she changed her mind, purchased a bottle of airline bourbon, and poured its contents into her water bottle.

As she performed her dance routine one final time and the crowd of observers grew, I overheard the flight attendant re-tell the bourbon story to several behind me. She told the story with a nervous smirk, and it made me sad.

After the plane landed and we were told it was safe to use our phones, my friend began checking her messages. With each push of a button, she flung out her hand with a flourish. She giggled and smiled and swung her slipper-clad feet which barely reached the floor. She had completed her first flight, and she was happy.

I excused myself and walked past her off the plane, carrying blessing with me.

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