The State Of My Pants

           I stepped into the plane, and shit, it was nice. Each seat was off by itself, with plenty of leg room. The seats looked like things you'd buy from IKEA, round and curvy and futuristic. So the rumors I'd heard were true- international planes really were much better than domestic. Then, a flight attendant in front of me said, “Champagne or mimosas?” to one of the passengers, and it started to sink in. First class. Right. I walked past them, and I saw seats with not quite as much leg room, but they were still an improvement over any flight I'd been on. Not happening- my seat was even further back. I passed through a doorway, and the cabin opened up into what looked like one of those chicken coops you'd see in a documentary on vegetarianism, where a thousand chickens are crammed into tiny metal cages. Yeah, this was the place for me.

           I found my seat in the back corner of the plane. A few minutes later, a charming German(?) woman sat down beside me. She showed me her ticket. “Right?” she asked. I nodded my head. “Fanks, fanks,” she said. It was her favorite word, and she was always smiling and saying it in response to anything. That, or, “I don't speak English.” But after she figured out that this was her spot, she dragged in a suitcase that took up about 2/3 of our combined leg room. It was almost as big as my checked bag. I said something like, “So where do your legs go?” She just crossed one over the other, angling them out into the aisle. If she wanted to spend eight hours sitting like that, I guess I wasn't gonna complain.

           Eventually, a flight attendant came by and told her the obvious- the bag needed to be moved. So I helped her dislodge it (it was jammed in between the two rows) and hoisted it into the storage bins above. “Fanks, fanks,” she said, smiling. I'll definitely have to learn the word for “thanks” in Czech- I think you can make friends just by saying it over and over.

          After that, I sat back down and leaned forward to get a book from my backpack. The lady in front of me plopped down in her seat, smashing the tray table into my head. Before I could even lift my head up, she was reclining her seat further into me. That's pretty much how the rest of the flight went. I got my meal, and was somehow able to maneuver ten items, plus a can of coke, in very little space. I didn't spill or drop anything, which was kind of miraculous. Once I finished and handed the flight attendant my dishes, though, she asked me if I wanted anything else to drink. Of course I said yes. I got greedy. Big mistake. She brought me back a glass of orange juice. Two minutes later, the juice was dripping down my pants and onto my belongings. Just great. Naturally, nobody came around for about fifteen more minutes, so I just let it soak in.

          Then, I realized that there were probably paper towels in the bathroom. I also hadn't gone in a long time. Two for one. So I got up, slid around my German friend, and walked towards the bathroom, my pants still wet with juice. I went into the bathroom, and first things first, started peeing. At which point, there was turbulence. A lot of turbulence. I looked down at my jeans. Oh well. More orange juice stains.

          I sopped up as much liquid as I could with the paper towels, and headed back to my seat. I'm sure I was quite...fragrant. That's the way it goes, I guess. I settled in and watched the Social Network (Incredible, can't believe I didn't see it sooner) and read the Tender Bar (very good, especially for a memoir). Sleep? Uh, fanks but no fanks.