Pig Disease on my Plane
So last night I am returning from Ohio on a work trip, almost home to Orlando via Atlanta. On the Atlanta leg, a gentleman nicely dressed with way too much product in his hair and his wife (?) who has been happily enhanced in her abundant assets sit across the aisle from me. I am mildly amused for some reason, probably a snarky one, but amused none the less.
Suddenly product-hair man is visibly upset and flailing to attract the flight attendant. It turns out the lovely young Latina women in front of him are wearing masks. He insists on moving. The young ladies say they’ve never been to Mexico, but thought they’d be safe. He says, “I heard you speaking Spanish,” as if that were an evidential indictment of them carrying the virus.
Finally, a young flight attendant arrives and product head and his enhanced wife demand to be moved. As it so happens, we have begun taxiing to the runway and it not safe to move at this point. Young flight attendant says she would have to ask the pilot to stop the plane, “Is that what he wants?” He huffs and puffs, “No, I’ll wait.” His face is in his hands, deeply annoyed.
Then young attendant brings senior attendant (the one who serves the first-class flyers) back to attend to hairy fire-hazard man. She repeats what young attendant says about asking the pilot to stop everything. Mean man has now made a scene and visibly upset the young Latina women. (And me. I’m mad now. Bigot, I’m thinking.)
Mean man then asks senior attendant fully dressed in her AirTran outfit: Are YOU a doctor? She keeps her calm and says nothing, but is angry through her pretty white teeth. (I am thinking dastardly thoughts about him and his question/humiliation of her). He then declares that he IS a doctor and wants to move as soon as possible. She confirms that he can move once we have taken off.
So, we sit on the runway for a long time, like 20 minutes, and every minute I can see his blood pulsing out in big, red veins. I’m absolutely loving it. Every tick tock of the clock is making him more mad. And I’m relishing it. (I know, I know, I’m sick and mean.) I’m secretly hoping little piggly wigglies climb over the seat in front of him and up into his nostrils.
I tell my friend, “I’m going to ask him what kind of doctor he is just so I can expose his greasy head.” She shakes her head, “Don’t do it.”
I try not to. I mean I really try. I even try to think of some Scripture to turn my angry mind to compassion. Nothing comes. All I want to do is expose him for being a bigot and a liar. “So,” I say, “ toward him, “ what kind of doctor are you?” A podiatrist? A proctologist? , I’m thinking. (In the back of my mind I already have a planned response if, miracle upon miracle, he really is a doctor: “Oh, I just wondered if you knew something we didn’t.”)
No answer. He acts as if he hasn’t heard me. My friend frowns at me. I’m gaining speed. “Sir,” I say a little bit louder, “what kind of doctor are you?” Again, no answer.
I’m diffused and deterred. My friend is relieved. Finally, we take off.
He and his wife move to the back. I wink at the Latina.
(Promise to write about the wedding soon. Gathering photos!)