So how is it that I got stuck next to the only drunk, belligerent, loud mouth on the plane?
He was like the bull in a china closet that’s 15,000 feet off the ground. Elbows flying, up down, laptop out, laptop in, up, down, repeat. In a three foot by two foot, $250 space, everything is amplified. Including a passenger behind me, who was taking this one hour of down time to clip either fingernails or toenails. I have to assume it was fingernails, but by the sharp, thick clipping noise (the one we all remember as toenail clipping), I couldn’t help but picture a fellow passenger, shoes and socks off, bent over painfully in the seat behind me, toenail shards flying.
By about ten minutes in, I was hoping, praying, to hear toenail cutting instead of the middle-aged, bachelor banter next to me. “Those shoes give her like four inches. Just wait, just wait ‘til you hear me. You won’t believe it. Just listen. You wait.” Mr. Come On clearly had a plan to show off to his buddy seated across the aisle from him.
I knew we were in trouble when the stewardess (her name was Kathy. And I know because Mr. Come One next to me couldn’t stop talking about the poor fifty-something lady who had made the unfortunate announcement of her name during the safety briefing involving a mini seat belt and oxygen mask.) I grimaced at the thought of what come on lines I would hear as she got to our aisle with the drink service. I thought this sort of thing really only happened in the movies.
As the stewardess approached down the center aisle, drink cart ahead of her, I wanted to warn her. To prepare Kathy for what I was quite sure would be an awful come on line performed by Mr. Come On next to me.
It happened before I could warn her. “Kathy, did you know that 80% of sexiness is because of this,” (he continued, using a gesture instead of a word and tapped his noggin.) I started shaking uncontrollably with suppressed giggles — I hoped they weren’t amplified. This was the highly anticipated come on line I’d been hearing about for the previous 15 minutes? Kathy clearly didn’t hear Mr. Come On next to me. I cringed knowing I was going to have to be treated to the same line again.
Even worse was the fact that I had found myself assigned to a window seat with no window. Those unfortunate instances where the inproportionality of the windows and seat dimensions leaves one aisle sadly situated in the dark area between two windows. The window ahead just out of visual distance and the one behind tucked just beyond the back of my head. There was no escaping, not even to the world far below.
So he repeated, “Did you know that 90% of sexiness is in the brain?” This time no hand gesture, but the percentage had clearly gone up. Then he proceeded to compliment poor Kathy on her sexy boots. But the worst was yet to come, when Mr. Come On then asked for four beers. For a one hour flight. This was a bad sign that Mr. Come On was about to wring a few more bad come on lines out of his drunken sleeve.
Apparently, according to Mr. Come On, another way to flirt with in-flight stewardesses is to provide correct change. “Did you see that? Did you see how she was so excited about exact change? They like that. That gets ’em every time.” I was thinking to myself, sure it does. Nothing “gets ‘em” like correct change on a four beer order at 15,000 feet.
Between two Becks and two Bud Lights, the loud, belligerence had amplified and now Mr. Come On had moved from harassing Kathy to harassing every willing participant in a four row radius. I felt stuck in the middle of his beyond-middle-aged, mile high bachelor party. I was wishing I had ordered four beers to counteract his.
By the end of the flight, Mr. Come On was giving horrible tips for flirting to the poor 18 year old that he had attempted to give one of his 4 beers to earlier in the flight. This included conversing about how “stage names” were a necessity when attempting to talk with ladies in bars. An alter ego of sorts, to give you the kind of confidence needed to compliment stewardesses on their boots, or give them the correct change. Mr. Come On’s “stage name” was Nick. Pretty crazy. I guess I was expecting something more like “Six Pack Stefano” (in reference, not to six pack abs, but to the near six pack he consumed while in flight.) When the 18 year old suggested that he might claim the stage name of “Fernando,” Mr. Come On quickly corrected him, saying he thought he looked like more of a “Luke.” Really, Luke? We’re talking crazy alter egos, and this guy picks Nick and Luke.
Now I prayed that this innocent, 18 year old child would not heed any of this man’s dating advice. And if he did, I knew I’d have to say a prayer for any ladies that ever crossed his path. Now come on, Mr Come On!