Plane Plans

Hating airplane chit-chat, I always choose my seat discriminately. I take an aisle seat in a row with a kid wearing headphones, assuming he’s too disengaged to want to talk. Still, the middle seat remains, and I size up the boarding passengers deciding what types I’d most prefer to have next to me. Several quiet-looking elderly people pass by, much to my disappointment. Then I hear a guy walking down the aisle making instrument noises with his mouth. Please don’t sit here. Please don’t sit here. Please don’t… No, no one is sitting here.

Great.

“Where are you going?” he asks. “Home,” I say. That’s a one-word response, a good indication that I’m not interested in talking. “I’m going to get engaged!” he proudly announces. He’s a thirty-year-old wearing chains and a Tool t-shirt, so I pay him the proper respect by not responding. “I already asked her to marry me,” he explains, as if I had done anything to indicate I care. “But she asked for a ring.” I bite my bottom lip to avoid laughing; sounds like she’s superficial. Then again, she can’t be too superficial if she’s considering marrying him. Besides, is it really so much to ask for some jewelry from a guy with a face full of it? This moment is usually where the person would whip out the ring to elicit ohhs and ahhs, but he doesn’t, unless it’s the big one he’s wearing on his lip.

“Oh marriage,” he says aloud. “Marriage, marriage, marriage…” Though he’s clearly trying to maintain a conversation, I focus on my magazine. “Since she knows it’s coming, when do you think I should ask her?” Now, I can’t help but give him a quick puzzled glance. “Like should I just do it right after I get off the plane? I could get on one knee, I’ll get on one knee.” The best I can mutter is “I don’t know.” I don’t want to be even remotely associated with this ill begotten proposal. The kid wearing headphones finally pipes up, suggesting that he wait until the last minute before he gets back on the plane to leave again and make her sweat it out.

Drum roll please. (If Noisy were here, he could make the noise himself.) Noisy decides, “Dude, that is a great idea!” Together, they discuss how awesome it’ll be to mess with his fiancée-to-be’s head for the next week. When asked my opinion, I don’t even look up, instead giving a shrug and continuing to read my magazine. Does he not notice that I’m reading something political? Furthermore, does he not realize what a colossal mistake he’s about to make in toying with the only person in the world who might consider marrying him?

After the landing, as I grab my bags, Noisy stops me to shake my hand. “Thanks for your help; good luck with your life.” My help? If I wanted to help, I’d have advised him to propose in a nicer manner. While shaking, I realize I should exchange the same sentiment, wishing him good luck with the engagement, but it would be entirely insincere. Truthfully, I don’t wish him well: he’s as much a tool as the band on his t-shirt. “Thank you,” I say instead. As I disembark, I can hear the untalented sounds of beat-boxing behind me.