A masterclass in flying coach

I found myself in some sort of 4th of July miracle on a flight home from a long weekend in Michigan: empty row, window seat. I was in the last boarding zone, so as I scooched into my seat, I fixed my eyes ahead for signs of a straggler looking to claim their spot in my my newly founded isle nation of Solitude, little did I know the invasion would come from the rear.

As soon as the attendants announced the doors were closed, I suddenly found myself next to a man who looked like he rushed from 4 rows aft to claim the aisle seat, because that’s exactly what he was.

The first order of business in this invasion of my young nation was to plop a huge bag in the middle seat along with a sack of pretzels, a water bottle, and a blue Asics pullover. I put my phone on my half of the neutral zone to prevent a total loss of territory—he seemed to understand and respect my assertion.

I stole a glance at my new companion: a man of perhaps 65, slim of build—a build of someone who gets up at 5am to get the best of the Central Park morning air on his 5 mile run before his English muffin and the Times on his iPad—weathered boat shoes and white tube socks, pastel red shorts that stopped halfway down his thigh to reveal lightly furred quads, a gray heather tee shirt with a drop cap stylized palm tree on the chest pocket and the emblem of some yacht association on the back, slightly ruffled but tightly cropped hair.

His scent told tales of a strict regimen of absolutely no bathing for the last 36 hours with alternating shifts in some sort of lake house and a wooden sailboat no less and no more than 20 feet: body odour, fire smoke, fart, boat varnish, and that indescribable smell that sings a verse in a song of a man who cares not.

And indeed, on his jaw was a long weekend’s worth of salt and pepper stubble.

As soon as the plane detached from the tunnel, he removed his shoes which sang a second verse: of the the 4th of July 5k he ran during his annual ritual of Roughing It Up North.

Taking his cue from the attendants trundling by with the drink cart en route to first class, he unpacked his bag to reveal some sort of wrap with a giant side of pungently warm ranch dressing, 3 napkin packs, a couple packets of yellow mustard, and a travel-sized dose of Beano.

The first napkin was instantly dispatched to blow his nose (jolting the woman across the aisle from her sleep); the second napkin to his shorts, neatly tucked under his deployed seat tray; the third was held in reserve to the left.

As if by a schedule he himself designed, exactly halfway through his wrap the drinks arrived. Before the attendant could initiate the formality of asking what he would like, he asked for ice water and a ginger ale. As the attendant opened the can and made to pour it into another cup, he simply requested she leave the can in his care with the authority of a man who drinks his Seagrams without the frivolity of ice. She complied without a word and asked if he would like pretzels. He graciously accepted them, then asked for an extra packet.

As the attendant moved on, he stowed the packets in his bag and returned his attention to his wrap.

Again, right on schedule, he finished his wrap and drinks in perfect time to re-pack it in the wrapping and drop the bundle in the passing attendants bag without so much as glancing over.

With a final crumb sweep, he donned his soft-shell—the sudden movement unfurling a fresh wave of the Lakehouse—and leaned back for a quick nap to finish the flight.

A new smell informed me the Beano did not have its intended effect.

Upon landing, everything was quickly repacked, and just as we stopped, he was up, efficiently clacking open the overhead compartment to retrieve the largest carry-on the good folks at Delta would abide. With a well-practiced flick of his wrist, he pulled out this luggage like so any handkerchiefs from a tophat.

Before I was even unbuckled, he somehow advanced 4 rows until the aisle was congested, and when the doors did open, he disappeared around the bend of the receiving tunnel as if he were never there at all.