I walked out of the stall, washed my hands, and soldiered outside to take the photo that had been requested of me. I was hanging on by a thread.
The greeter informed me that I would be traveling on one of the new airbuses that had two stories. This information excited me. I was also excited to try a new sleeping pill my doctor had given me called Sonata.
Once on board and sitting on the upper level of the airbus, I checked my e-mail and read the first three messages.
The first e-mail was from my sister Shoshanna:
If you know any celebrity moms who would be interested in an endorsement deal and probable infomercial like Leah remini or similar person for all natural chemical free lice products to both treat and prevent lice (which is becoming a bigger and bigger problem) let me know—everything in the drugstore is filled with very strong scary chemicals and this is organic and extremely effective—this lady is trying to go national and needs a face to help get things moving—sorry I promised someone very sweet I would pass this on but ignore it if your annoyed—don’t mean to bother you with it :) SHOSH.
My reply: “Consider this igonored.”
A text popped up from a number I didn’t recognize:
Hello! My name is Mike Arancini. I just moved to West Hollywood by way of NJ 3 days ago… and got your number from your brother Roy he said if I moved here you might be able to help me with a possible job… I have a bachelors in marketing and can do pretty much anything asked of me… I’d even be willing to work for FREE for a month or more just so you can see that I’m not a deaf, dumb, retard… Do you have ANYTHING available or maybe someone I can call? I’m sorry to even bother you but I’m desperate and don’t wanna have to move back to jersey… Thank You so much!!! Mike.
P.S. Also, I’m starting a new charity for Cancer, and I know you’re mother died from that. Let me know if you want to MC an event.
My response: “I’m opposed to doing charities for Cancer, mostly because I’m a Pisces.”
I loathe bad grammar. I know this is an oxymoron, since I’m not the most terribly gifted writer or any sort of grammatical genius, but at least I double-check my work.
My day was getting worse by the minute.
The difference between a regular alcoholic and myself is that when I receive disappointing news or alerts, I withdraw from alcohol. I had a therapist once tell me to “sit with my shit,” and I believe that to be a necessary evil of being constantly disappointed. I would rather be bummed out for a day than to party like nothing happened and be bummed out for a week. I sat back in my seat and reiterated what my therapist once told me. “Welcome the pain,” I said out loud, gripping both armrests. “OK, motherfucker. I will.”
A gentleman sat down next to me, so I very perceptibly craned my head around in an attempt to guide him to the knowledge that the entire first-class cabin was empty, and the obvious move for any normal person would be to take one of the other seats rather than have the only two people in first class sitting next to each other.
“I think the plane is empty,” I told the man in what I thought was a very pleasant tone. “I think we have the entire cabin to ourselves, so you don’t have to sit here if you don’t want to.”
“This is my seat,” the man responded firmly. “1A.”
I would be the one changing my seat after takeoff.
I continued reading my e-mails, and I opened up the next one from my sister.
Attached was a letter from the assisted living residence that my father was calling home these days. The letter pointed out that he had made “blatant sexual remarks” to and “improperly fondled” some members of the staff. Further, since it was clear he was not seeing the error of his ways, he would have to leave.
I scrolled down to the bottom of the e-mail to my father’s response to learn of his thirty-day eviction: “I guess being an independent man is some kind of joke around here,” he told the staff and my sister after they gave him the news. “None of this will hold up in court,” he added.
“You need to shut your phone off,” the man next to me said, repeating the announcement.
“Excuse me?” I asked him, more than slightly irritated.
“You heard the announcement. All electronics need to be shut down.”
“Sir, I’m not sure how frequently you fly, but the notion that anything electronic is actually interfering with the radio frequency of the FAA tower is a fallacy.”
He looked right through me as he rang the call button.
“Are you going to tell on me?” I asked him, to which he didn’t reply. “I asked you a question, sir. Are you going to tattletale on me? Is that what’s happening right now?”
The flight attendant came over and looked sympathetically in my direction as the man informed her that I refused to turn off my electronics.
“Are you a Scientologist?” I asked him pointedly.
“There are rules for everyone,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Who do you think you are, Alec Baldwin?”
“Please stop speaking to me or at least stop breathing when you talk,” I said, shutting down my phone. “Your breath is hot.”
The flight attendant reassured me she’d be switching my seat as soon as we took off. Until that moment came—which was about twenty minutes later—I stared at the man next to me. He never once looked at me but kept his eyes set on the bulkhead in front of us. He was definitely a Scientologist. I looked in my bag for my sleeping pills and couldn’t find them anywhere; someone had forgotten to pack my new prescription.
Three hours later I was wide awake in 5C watching Blades of Glory and found myself pissed at Will Ferrell. I bet Will didn’t have a family like mine. Will probably sits around with his family eating cereal, playing soccer, and going for bike rides. Everyone gets along fine. No one gets caught sexually harassing others; no one asks him to ask his famous friends if they want to do ads for dandruff. But you are not Will Ferrell, I had to remind myself. You’re not even Alec Baldwin.
I had about eight more hours to fly, and I had to decide how I was going to accomplish that. Alcohol would be pointless, because my body is so inured to it that unless I am on a completely empty stomach, it is impossible for me to get drunk. I had already had two meals.
If one is to pull off falling asleep in broad daylight, one must shut of any and all electronics, pull one’s eyeshades over one’s eyes, and imagine only undulating waves and dolphins sliding up and down one’s body. I tried this three separate times.
I slouched in my seat, punishing myself even further by depriving myself of any entertainment or reading material. I just sat there fulminating about my family, my flight, and my forgetfulness in bringing sleeping pills.
I tried to figure out why I couldn’t just let little things slide. Why did I have to let the minutiae in life affect me so? It wasn’t the man at the ticket counter, or the passport episode, or the girl who wanted a photo in the bathroom, or the shambolic stall, or the three annoying e-mails from my family, or even the man ordering me to shut off my phone. It was his breath.
His breath was what sent me over the edge. Bad breath has always been my Achilles’ heel, and being able to smell someone’s breath is a pretty good indicator that it’s bad. For some reason I seem to come up against it more often than the regular Tom, Dick, or Harriet.