Airborne

In 8th grade science class, I learned that we humans constantly shed dead skin cells. And, really, it is notable that I was able to learn anything in my 8th grade science class because I was so completely stoned every day.

I was thoroughly horrified by the idea that dead, shriveled, flaked-off microscopic skin cells were swarming and swirling madly in the air I was sucking down my throat. My best friend Jennifer Palazola used to make me scream like a girl by chasing me around frantically rubbing her arms with her hands. I was sure she was exciting huge clouds of invisible sloughed-off skin cells that would clog my airways, my pores, my eyes….

I hate to fly for this very reason, and others of a similar vein. Being shut up in that small space, breathing that same air, with those, those…VECTORS. Yes, my fellow airline passengers are reduced to nothing more than vectors in my estimation.

Today on a flight to Austin, I was seated in the center seat between two men. During the approach, the one by the window began to rub his hairy, beefy arm. I began to steal furtive glances at his arm while trying to concentrate on my book.

But he started to worry this one spot. He was no longer just rubbing; he was picking and scraping and straining his fat face around to peer at the backside of his meat-slab arm. I was horrified. By now, I was most assuredly inside a maelstrom of cells hurtling through MY airspace, frenetic and shimmering all around my head like so many noxious fish scales and fumes.

I was distraught. I could not prevent myself from stealing increasingly frequent sidelong glances at Mr. MeatHooks and his eczema escapades. I wanted to shout at him, to put a stop to it. But even I was incapable of such boldness.

In desperation, I began my silent (and ineffective) attempts to engage the guy on the other side of me – to somehow foment in him the same indignation I felt at this obvious personal affront to our common airspace. He was not swayed by the energy I directed his way. He didn’t see my imploring glances at him, then towards MeatHooks. He couldn’t feel my fervent need for his support, for us to unite against our common enemy.

He was dumbly flipping through the dirty, dog-earned (and clearly infectious) Skymall Magazine, and was oblivious that we were choking on Mr. MeatHooks’ airborne effluent.

I was unwittingly recoiling in horror, and by the time I realized that I was visibly shrinking away from MeatHooks, I was pressed up against SkyMall Man, nearly crowding him to the far side of his own seat…

I was left with no choice but to stare with open hostility at Mr. MeatHooks long and hard until he realized how offensive he was. But, just as I firmed my resolve, we pulled into the gate and he started to gather his things to deplane.