Airsick

Yesterday, I was back at the airport again. Waiting in line for security, I spot a new machine at the checkpoint. There are four lines, but only the one I've been assigned to has this new contraption. The machine is a booth that people enter wherein jets of air are shot at the victim. As I watched people enter the booth in turn, I couldn't help but laugh aloud. I tried to make eye contact with other passengers, but no one else seemed to think this machine was nearly as absurd as I did. It was like a wind tunnel! When it spat air at people, they all flinched, their neatly arranged hair flailed about, and their clothing lifted to sometimes reveal their underwear or back fat. I genuinely thought I was going to be on an episode of Candid Camera, which frankly excited me.

Toward the front of the line, I heard a security officer gruffly explain that the machine tested for explosives. When the diminutive elderly woman in front of me entered the booth, she was the first person to encounter any kind of negative reaction. A red light flashed and she was not permitted to exit. In fact, she had to undergo four hair-fluffing/shirt-lifting blow tests before she was finally given the go. The machine must not be entirely dumb: if there was anyone in that airport that was smuggling explosives, it was definitely this woman. I think it's like that startling statistic that states that 80% of bills contain trace amounts of cocaine: 80% of senior citizens contain trace amounts of explosives. It has something to do with natural decay.

During my turn, I performed some sort of weird dance move meant to mimic pop stars who sing next to wind machines in their music videos. Since my back was turned to my audience (the queue), I wasn't able to gauge their reactions. Still, having heard no audible laughter, I can only assume my talents and wit were wasted on this unappreciative group.

For the record, I still think this machine is bullshit. One day some classified document will be leaked that details how the wind machine accomplishes absolutely nothing besides making people think that they're safer and providing a lot of hilarious security footage for the people who work behind the scenes at the airport.

Once on the plane, my seat is next to a man of about thirty-years-old; making a snap judgment, I decided he was simple. Then he took out a book of crossword puzzles, so I figured I was too quick to judge. Shortly after takeoff, however, I took a peek at his puzzles - the cover advertised, "Just relax! There's no need for a dictionary!" Moreover, he was succeeding at filling in about four words per puzzle. Maybe a dictionary would have helped. After not too long, he took out his GameBoy instead, inconsiderately playing with the sound on. Trying to nap, I put my own headphones on to drown out the noise of video game thugs being slaughtered. It wasn't long before he had to go to the bathroom. Fine. I get up. He comes back and I get back to sleep. I'd estimate it was about half an hour later when he asked me to allow him up again. I gave my best "I'm smiling to conceal that I hate you" face and obliged. This time, he came back reeking of poop. The other passengers around me were turning and looking for the source of the stench. Even though I knew exactly where it was coming from, I pretended to search for the odor, too, not wanting them to think it was me.

After the flight's movie started, my stinky passenger friend started manhandling the screen above us. I tried to ignore it, but it appeared that he was actually attacking it at this point, so I asked what the trouble seemed to be. "I can't make the sound go on." I explained that you had to buy headphones from the flight attendants, as was described just ten minutes earlier. At this point, he told me it was his first flight.

When the flight attendant came around with drinks, my dear pal asked whether he could get whiskey. After being showed the two options, he took both, plus a Sprite to chase. Over the course of the next two hours, he would go on to have six containers of whiskey. Handing him his sixth bottle, he flight attendant asked if he was going to be driving, to which he responded, "No, ma'am, I'm flying." That was pretty awesome.

As you might guess, this guy with an already weak bladder had to use the restroom two more times before we landed. Four times on a three hour flight? Was he five? Well, I should hope not, anyway, because he was certainly drunk. He reopened his puzzle book, filled in a couple of simple answers, as his head bobbed back and forth in blissful intoxication.

And that's where things got good: our plane experienced some heavy turbulence. Personally, I enjoy turbulence, as it adds some adventure to a flight. Since I like roller coasters and other amusement park rides, I just consider a bumpy trip an extension of one of these rides. The guy next to me asked, "Does this normally happen?" For once, I felt bad for him, because he' s never flown before, so I told him, "Sure, don't worry about it." Then the guy said, "I think I'm going to be sick." There was an audible groan from the row behind me, showing that people were paying attention, which came as no surprise since people certainly were staring and whispering by the fifth bottle of whiskey. I had to stifle laughter because the situation had gotten so absurd. Mr. Whiskey moaned, holding his face and stomach for the forty minutes of turbulence that ensued.

Part of me was frustrated to be stuck in such close quarters, but part of me was excited to finally see one of those air sickness bags put to use. In spite of some close calls, he managed not to spew with the help of occasional sips of Sprite - this time not used as a chaser.

Once the plane finally landed, he told me had to get out immediately, so I stood up and got in the aisle. He followed suit, but quickly found that when you're at the back of the plane, you have to wait for nearly fifteen minutes before the people in front of you have exited. At first he was antsy, then he rested his head against the overhead storage bin, and then while standing up, no joke, he passed out. Once we were finally moving, the annoyed person behind him had to finally shake him awake; he stumbled off the plane a few paces behind me, only to disappear into the restroom yet again for what I am guessing was quite a long time.

Welcome to Utah!