I evaluated my potential subjects as they passed me by. Boring; Boring, please not the fat guy; you’re cute; no, dull; no, he looks like a talker; no, but I find your appearance hilarious; maybe you could be interesting; boring; boring. Then, the moment of truth arrived.
“Excuse me, I think we have seats A and B,” she said.
“Oh…ok…sure.”
As I stood up to let them in, I could already feel the animosity that I would undoubtedly harbor towards them during the rest of the flight. The baggage that comes with intellectual prowess is such a nuisance. I sheepishly smiled at the middle-aged couple as they sat down. While pretending to read the flight safety manual, I heard those words I feared so deeply.
“So are you from New York, or are you just visiting the city?”
Goddamn it.
“No, nope … just, ah, just seeing my sister for a couple of days.”
I smiled politely. Beneath my grin, I was analyzing the reasons why this woman’s harmless curiosity irritated me so much. The most compelling reason for my sour mood was my hangover. I faulted Raul, my companion last night, for my present nausea and headache. Secondly, I had made it perfectly clear that I was in no mood for chit-chat. Most people would have understood that I was using my reading material as a means of protection from friendly banter. Lastly, she had turned her body to a forty-five degree angle in her seat. To a normal person this mannerism has little meaning. But to someone who has been described as petty and void of compassion, this was a signed death warrant. This slight adjustment in her position signaled that she intended to carry on this unbearable nonsense for at least five minutes.
“And what’s your sister doing down here?”
She burns down orphanages.
“Well, she’s working for this finance business … something or other with accounts or investing, but you know, I could never really tell what she actually does. I just tune her out. She hates her job, so you can imagine how much I hate hearing about it!”
“Ha! I feel the same way.”
I didn’t want to make her laugh, a sign that showed her interest in and only prolonged the conversation. But my charisma is unstoppable. It rears its handsome head in every conversation, whether I want it to or not. Being so charming is really more of a curse than a gift. For example, I had cajoled Raul, an eating enthusiast, into buying me a few shots last night. We exchanged high-fives, jokes (or rather, I bestowed witticisms up on Raul), and discussed “maxing out” on the bench. Thus, my charm was responsible for both my miserable physical state and this woman’s onslaught of retarded questions.
“So was this your first time in the city?”
“Actually, I’ve been a couple of times; you know, school field trip, family trip, stuff like that. I think this is probably the fifth or sixth time. My sister’s been down here for two years, so I’ve visited her twice. Yeah, I mean I really like it a lot, lots to do … and stuff.”
Why are you still talking? Lie! One word answers! You should be out of this conversation by now. Come on, man. You can do this.
“Oh, I know, me and Craig met here while we were both going to school; well, I was going to school and he was going to bars. Ha! Just like you kids.”
Christ, she touched my arm.
“But we just fell in love with the city, and 20 years later we’re still here”
I’m here to look great, not listen to your protle.
I was nearing my breaking point. A gasp of exasperation escaped from my cordial fa?ade. This slight intake of breath caught the attention of her husband.
Oh no, he’s looking at me.
Now this guy had a little bit more potential than his counterpart. He had an awesome waxed mustache and his jean jacket was faded from the smoke of many Def Leppard concerts. He was clenching a rolled up Guns and Ammo magazine. Now that was a brain I would love to pick. Unfortunately, there was a wall of slobbery and dullness that separated us. He looked at me, looked at his wife and decided that his magazine was better entertainment.
“So where’s home for you?”
“D.C.”
She asked me a few follow-up questions, which seemed to fade to a garbling background to the frustration mounting inside me. A little f-ing weasel is kicking the back of my seat and this woman is smiling at me and touching my arm … The man in front of me has offensive ear-hair … Raul stole my lighter, it smells like shit in here and I’m nervous it might be me. Just then, Mr. Stupid saved me from my hell.
“Hey honey, look at the size of this here shooty gun!”
She turned away from me to feign interest in her husband’s gun fetish. As you can imagine, I was glad to have survived those painful three minutes of my life. I could spend the rest of the flight doing what I do best: criticizing people from afar and contemplating just how much ass I kick.
