Can you tell me why the fuck it’s always me?
Is it just me?
I can’t be the only one who thinks I’m Nuts.
You’d tell me to my face if I was off my rocker — wouldn’t you?
Have you ever questioned your sanity? I rarely get through a day without asking myself if I’m being paranoid. I’m not paranoid in the sense of believing that somebody’s out to get me. No, no way. My conviction stems from a belief that life itself is playing tricks on me, cruel tricks that will sooner or later send me round the bend — If it hasn’t already.
My partner smiles and reassures me I’m as sane as anyone can be — just very unlucky. I want to believe it. If only I could. The problem is that being left to myself for too long and deprived of his reassurances, it’s not long before I doubt myself again.
Last night, for instance. It was a typical example of how everything I touch turns to shit. Unfortunately, my job involves a lot of travel, but it’s a necessary evil, and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I’d booked myself on the red-eye because the earlier flight was full. I’d reserved an aisle seat online because I hate clambering over two people every time I need to get to the washroom. I can’t help being a nervous flier. But it was not to be.
They informed me that there’d been a change of plane on the service at check-in. As a result, reseating me in the middle of a row of three, I was pissed off. My protests were noted and duly dismissed.
Boarding early, I reluctantly took my new seat and sat with my eyes closed, grinding my teeth. Then sensing someone, I opened my eyes, and there was this guy, putting his bag in the overhead locker. That done, he smiled at me and sat down in the aisle seat. Aka, My seat. He would have to be at least six feet five without exaggeration, and his body matched the height. He wasn’t large in an obese sense, but simply in a Jack Reacher big.
When he squeezed into the airline seat, it was evident that I’d be conceding the armrest to him. These days coach and economy are a tight fit even for average guys like me. When boarding was down to a trickle, the window seat remained vacant, and I wondered if for once my luck had changed. No sooner had the thought occurred to me than my hint of a smile disappeared as the final passenger squeezed his way down the aisle.
I’ve got nothing against oversized people per se, and I’ll be the first to admit that both my parents have weight problems, but who am I to judge? In this case, as soon as he was seated, I knew that our overnight flight was going to be a fucking nightmare.
It started badly. Believe it or not, the prick raised the armrest and didn’t ask if I minded him doing it. It was the only way he could get into the seat. He was apparently happy by occupying a good third of my space and his own, but I wasn’t. The cabin attendant appeared, and it was as though I’d become invisible to her as she leaned over and handed the guy a seatbelt extender. I wanted to say fuck the extender. I wanted the armrest down and the rest of my seat space that I’d paid for returned to me.
The trio ahead of us were regulars. They’d requested special meals, which meant that they got served ahead of everyone else. By the time our food arrived, and I used the term food loosely, the guy in front of me was ready to call it a night and get some shut-eye. The moment he reclined his seat, my personal space became even smaller than it had been, to begin with. I’ve seen scary movies, ones where the roofs and walls start closing in on the unlucky victim, and you somehow know that it is going to happen to you.
As I expected, the meal was inedible. I hate airline food. Just as I hate selfish bastards who recline their seat and don’t give a fuck about little me sitting behind them. I hate airlines more than ever, and I hate people that claim a third of my seat. Most of all, I hate the window seat guy for having BO and farting all the time.
Once safely on the ground, I waited for my bag to arrive on the carousel. I waited and waited, and when I was the only one left from our flight, I shrugged and headed for the lost baggage counter, already knowing that my bag was gone for good.
Eventually, reaching home, I entered the lobby and pressed the call button on the lifts, and I stood waiting for one to arrive. Five minutes later, I checked each one. There was the first, which had an out-of-order sign taped to its door. The second appeared to be stuck on level thirty-four. I breathed a sigh of relief that the third one was working. When the indicator showed it stopping at every level on its way down to the ground floor, I groaned.
When the doors opened, I stepped to one side, expecting a rush of passengers to pour out of it. Instead, there was just a woman and her precious little boy. Though it was rubbing salt into the wound, she apologized. “Sorry about that, but you know how kids love to press buttons.” She’d smiled, and my venomous look followed her through the lobby and out to the street. Shaking my head, I turned back to the lift just as the doors shut and the lift began crawling its way to the top.
A couple of hours later, my luck didn’t improve at the shopping mall. Have you tried competing with supposedly feeble pensioners for a parking spot? Behind the wheel, they’re as aggressive as Hell’s Angels. I guess that at their age, they have nothing to lose.
After circling the lower parking levels, I thought that I’d found one. Flooring it, I burnt rubber until I reached the vacant bay. Can anyone tell me how the drivers of a couple of compacts each need one and third car spaces to park? I’ll put it bluntly. I was thoroughly pissed off at the fucking selfishness of some people.
Now, I’m not one to give up easily, but in all, it took me ten more minutes to park. By the time I entered the packed mall, I felt like the experience was putting me through the wringer. Not only that, but I also had a bad feeling about the curry I ate on the plane.
Have you ever been to the shopping mall and needed a washroom in a hurry? If you haven’t, you’ll need to use your imagination because sooner or later, it’s going to be your turn.
Following the signs, I headed for the closest facilities. Trust me when I say it was a fast walk as last night’s airline meal had been hanging around too long in my gut, and it wanted out.
Now, I’ve never been what you would call a believer, but if there is a God, the deity was playing some mean tricks on me. At the far end of the passage, ahead was the sign announcing, MENS WASHROOM. Below it, someone had taped another smaller sign. When I got close enough to read it, it said CLOSED FOR REPAIRS.
Most of us know what it’s like when you need to go and you’re in a hurry. The level of urgency increases the further you are from the washroom. By the time I’d walked and found a sign to another one, I was just about pushing other people out of my way. Thinking on my feet, I dealt with whichever deity wanted my business. Let me get there in time, and we’ll talk through the possibility of conversion. Okay, it sounds like I’m hedging my bets, but you can’t blame a guy for trying.
Seeing the sign directing me into another side passage, I was in danger of discharging last night’s curry down the inside of my trouser leg. But, turning right, I saw my goal ahead, and I could hear a choir of angels singing. Then, just as I was getting close to the door, I realized that an elderly gentleman was ahead. He moved slowly, depending on his cane to help him. So close, yet so far. I think I emitted a pitiful whimper. Why the fuck did my conscience come into play and have me let the old guy go in first?
Once inside, it was as though my momentary display of decency was about to be repaid. The washroom contained two cubicles, and both were free. Smiling, I gestured for the elderly man to go ahead, and I entered the second cubicle. I guess that no matter the hurry you’re in, it’s normal to check out the place where you’re about to rest your bottom. So, I lifted the lid on the toilet and peered into its murky depths. Trust me when I say that my use of murky depths wasn’t being poetic. Somebody had been there before me and hadn’t flushed. Perhaps they’d gone a step up from me and consumed a Vindaloo Curry.
Realizing what would be beneath my bottom, my potential contribution kind of sucked back inside my body. I’m extremely sensitive. Pressing the flush button, I watched the rising water level because whatever was in that bowl wasn’t going anywhere. The flush stopped, and so did the contents. They kind of floated around. I don’t know if anybody else does, but I subscribe to the theory that every person is entitled to a moment of madness. I mean a situation when their brain ceases to function, and they do the irrational.
I pressed flush again and watched as the level rose further. It suddenly struck me that I shouldn’t have done it because it wasn’t only the water rising but the massive slick of poop covering it as well. You know how sometimes you have a compulsion to watch something terrible unfold, something that keeps you glued to the spot? The brown slick lapped the rim of the lavatory. I stared, fascinated as it was about to spill over the edge. The flushing stopped.
Sanity returned, coinciding with the sweet sound of the other toilet flushing. I left the cubicle, pulling the door shut behind me, hoping that the adage, out of sight, out of mind, would work in this case. I stood a couple of feet from the door, poised to move, as I waited for it to open. Time crawled. “What the fuck was he doing in there?” I wondered. And then, I heard the metallic sound of a belt buckle, and I knew I’d be off with the speed of a greyhound on steroids.
As though synchronized, the cubicle door swung open, I pounced, and a guy came through the other exit from the mall. The smart ass thought he’d sneak into my cubicle, but I had news for him. I had a ferocious beast hidden inside me and shouldering him aside. “I was first,” I growled, slamming the door closed and turning the lock.
I somehow doubt that there are any words to describe how I felt as I lowered myself to the prewarmed seat. In the background, there was the unmistakable sound of someone gagging. I guess the other guy had tried the second toilet, and I might have smiled had I not been smiling already.
Closing my eyes as the result of last night’s curry going to a better place, I sighed. Preferring not to linger too long, the stench from next door having already reached my sensitive nose, I reached for the toilet paper. There was a single sheet left in the dispenser, and no matter how frugal I was, I wasn’t going to get very far with it.
Arriving home, my partner looked at me and must have seen my expression. “Was it a shitty trip?”
No joking. Those were the exact words. I shook my head but couldn’t manage a smile. “You’ve no idea, sweetheart. No idea at all,” I added a loud sigh to emphasize just how bad I was feeling.
A half-hour later, stepping out of the shower, having exhausted the hot water supply, common sense told me that I ought to feel better — cleaner at least. But I didn’t. Without trying to sound dramatic, today had been a typical day in my life. If there’s a flight of ducks flying overhead, you can bet money that at least two of them will poop on me. If a dog’s left a souvenir on the footpath, I’ll be the lucky bastard who’s going to stand in it. Fate picks its victim carefully, and the victim is usually me.
I’m resigned to picking the short straw, and I reckon I’d be shocked if I didn’t. Life is like that, I guess. There are winners, and there are losers. Maybe the past twenty-four hours had been a virtual nightmare, but I’m not giving up. Something tells me that I’m better off counting the good things in my life.
