WARNING: This story contains moderate levels of immaturity
"This frickin' guy." John said to me.
He nodded his head towards the dude slumped over in the window seat. John was in the middle, and I was on the aisle. The airplane had just reached cruising altitude. It was 7:30 a.m.
The rest of the band was in the next row back. Luke was behind me, Eric in the middle, and our tour manager Doug was at the window, directly behind the frickin' guy.
We were in the last two rows of the plane. Most people think the worst thing about the last row is merely that the seats don't recline. But in actuality, the worst thing is that your face is directly at the waist level of all the people lined up for the bathroom. I've tampered with a few lavatories in my day, and I know that people's bowels are not in top form at 35,000 feet.
The best thing about the back row is that to a certain extent you are isolated from the rest of the cabin. There's no one on two sides of you, and you’ve got the added benefit that most people are generally uncomfortable turning around to look behind themselves on a plane. It's kind of like having your own party room. In the back row, you can be a little louder and little looser, without really disturbing anyone.
This morning, we were pretty loud and pretty loose.
We had started the day with Bloodies at the airport bar, our order placed the second the clock on the wall showed 6:00 a.m. We were on our fifth consecutive fly day. It was radio festival season, so we were bouncing around the country. We had left the tour bus in Jacksonville on Thursday morning and flown to Houston. We played the show on rented equipment, then got a 7 a.m. flight on Friday to Providence. The next day we popped over to Chicago, then a quick drop back down to Dallas on Sunday.
Now it was Monday morning, and we were flying back to meet the bus in D.C. It had been another late night in a very long string of late nights. The Bloody Marys were made to lessen the early morning trauma, to replace hours not spent in our hotel beds, hours that were instead used to suck down a bottomless bus tub of ice-cold longnecks, fuel for an endless backstage bullshit session.
But as rowdy and shampoo affected as we were on this flight, the stranger in the window seat next to John was worse.
He had been the last person to board, weaving down the aisle before boldly barreling into our row. He bee lined to this last open chair, oblivious to any barriers in his way. Those barriers mainly being our legs and feet. With a sigh he collapsed, pulling the shade down as he went, and fell immediately asleep.
He smelled. Even from 2 seats away, I was getting a strong whiff, and it seemed that he must have been the test subject for some sort of new scotch-and-salami scented body spray.
The thing I liked about this guy was that he was keeping it simple: No carry on, no magazine, no jacket. Not even a ticket in his hand, unless he had dropped it en route to his seat. Just another brown-haired white dude, flying solo in jeans and a button-down.
So he was a mess, but had passed out, and so long as he didn't die, we weren't too concerned.
Unfortunately, his calm only lasted about an hour into the flight, and then his hangover started to kick in. We had played it smart, and kept the pain at bay with a steady stream of screwdrivers and Amstels, but he had gone with the no water / no booze / cold turkey plan.
At first it seemed to be just minor discomfort. He started shifting in his seat, trying to find the sweet spot. Then he dropped his tray drown, and laid his head upon it. All the time, he was still basically asleep, constantly twisting, tossing, and turning.
Then the pain must have really set in. His agitation, coupled with his remarkable state of inebriation, made him lose control of all motor functions. Legs started kicking and arms started flying, right into John's chest. He did a maneuver where he reached backwards over his head, grabbed the back of his seat, and shook. This caused our tour manager Doug's cocktail to nearly tip over onto his laptop.
He then flopped forward and pitched to his left, his hair brushing up against John's mouth. Weekend-long-bender-greasy hair into his mouth.
In a panic, John pushed him back over. The dude slumped to his right, dragging his arm across John's tray, and sent the fresh, cold can of beer onto the airplane carpet.
We were not unsympathetic to this guy's situation. We have all been there. And if you've never been there, you should go, at least once in your life. The pain means that somehow, someway, an excellent time was had at the expense of comfort.
But even for us, a drunken touring rock band, this complete disregard for personal space was starting to become a problem. And spilling a drink? Well, that was unconscionable.
There was no need to hit the call button, no need to alert the in-flight authorities. We would deal with this in our own way. The most juvenile way.
At this point in our career, we maintained a middling amount of fame. We had a video on MTV, a song at the top of the charts, and a gold record. As a result, people would often ask us to autograph things. Therefore we ALWAYS had Sharpies on us. One in each pocket, 3 more in the backpack, locked and loaded.
Our out-of-control row-mate was in a moment of rest between fits, and was leaning up against the seat in front of him. Doug uncapped a Sharpie, stretched between the wall of the plane and the seat back, and gingerly touched the inky black felt to the back of the drunk's ear.
Like a Three Stooges skit, he reached up and brushed it away. When his hand dropped back down, Doug leaned forward and did it again. And again the dude tried to swat away the non-existent fly.
It was beautiful. It was the funniest thing we had ever seen. Every time Doug lunged forward with his indelible sword, we roared with laughter. We toasted the dude. We high-fived over the seats.
Eventually, our new friend's fits became more infrequent. During the calmer moments, Doug continued to quietly work on the dude's neck, out of our sight on the side facing the window.
When the flight ended, John and I gathered our stuff, and headed back to the galley. The dude shook himself awake, and began his groggy retreat up the aisle in front of us. We rushed to get behind him, and witness Doug's handiwork.
Written in angular slashes, from mid-neck on around to the soft white skin behind the ear, was a deep, dark, and well-deserved "DICK."
It was amazing. We needed the oxygen masks to drop so we could catch our breath from laughing so hard.
This was a world before camera phones, so we had a finite amount of time to bask in this gloriously childish prank. As we followed him up the gangway, we wondered when, and indeed if, he would see it. Honestly, how often do you look at the back of your neck? I always refuse the mirror at the barber shop. I would honestly be surprised, and a little disappointed, if you told me I've never had Sharpie drawn on my neck.
Even if a kind friend did tell the dude, based on the condition in which he boarded the plane, he would have no idea at what point in his wild weekend the neck-graffiti occurred. For all he knew, it could have even been the friends he had been partying with.
When we made it to the concourse, the dude vanished into the crowd. We'll never know if he ever found out. If he did, he seemed like the kind of guy who would shrug it off. The price of doing business.
The crazy thing is, if a movie were made about what happened to him that weekend, we wouldn't make a single appearance. We are not even uncredited extras. This scene isn't in the script, and the word "dick" just shows up on his neck.
But in our movie, he is the main character. He's Bruce Willis. Without him, the story doesn't happen.
He will never know how much he means to us. He will never know that I talk about him every time I get on a plane. If I had to give him royalties every time I told the story, I would owe a million dollars.
I don’t know what led him to that flight, or what the rest of his life was like. But I know that he is one of the most significant characters in mine. Were it not for this random, chance collision of a handful of idiots, one my most cherished and hilarious memories wouldn’t exist.
Here's to you, my dear crazy drunk dick dude.
