Flight

No Escape

Sep 10, 2022

Look, I am not a misanthrope. I don’t hate all human beings; not really. In fact, I am quite adept at tolerating the company of strangers: as long as they keep an arm’s-length distance and I have the option to remove myself from their presence.

The trouble with aircrafts, however, is that they rob you of both of these crucial survival needs. The minute you buy a flight ticket you resign yourself to being trapped within a metal cylinder with hundreds of random people for numerous hours. There is, quite literally, no escape.

Sure, they have life jackets and parachutes stowed away onboard but if you ask for one, you are politely informed that they are made available only in the event of emergencies. Now you would expect your neighbour snoring thunderously, his nose mere inches from your ear and his rather large head lolling onto your shoulder, to qualify as an emergency, wouldn’t you? Apparently not.

Dejected, you return to your seat to discover your neighbour has risen from his slumber and is now chewing potato chips with gusto, as if committed to ensuring his decibel output, whether nasal or oral, remains consistent. You curse yourself for telling people you are an atheist. This is why God rejects your prayers to keep the seat next to you empty.

You put on some music to drown out the sound of potato chips being obliterated. You close your eyes and try to relax. You have almost succeeded in imagining you are lounging in an alpine meadow, when a sharp jab in the ribs brings you back up to the clouds.

Your arm, which had been resting on the slender strip of plastic separating your seats, has been unceremoniously shoved aside and rendered homeless. You are shocked. Armrests, after all, are the DMZ regions of aircraft seats. The rules of etiquette dictate that no single passenger can lay claim to an armrest. Its occupation is a matter of tense, unspoken negotiation. Parties on either side have the right to place their arms upon it in a variety of uncomfortable angles till they settle upon a position that is equally disagreeable to both of them.

But the norms of civilization seem to matter little to your neighbour. With an adroit elbow and a shocking disregard for propriety, he has casually colonized the entirety of the armrest, occupying every inch of the middle seat with regal arrogance.

You glare at him. He is oblivious. He has now switched on his iPad and is watching a movie at full volume. Without headphones.

You look across the middle seat and try to catch the eye of your neighbour’s neighbour. Maybe he is also perturbed by this public nuisance. Maybe you can join forces and get this middle-seat-miscreant to toe the line. Maybe, your heart quickens at the thought, you can even claim back your rightful portion of the armrest!

But alas, there is no ally to be found there. Your neighbour’s neighbour, it turns out, is engrossed in the movie. The two strangers silently stare at the screen in rapt attention, the loud dialogues occasionally interrupted by the crunching of chips.

You morosely sink back into your seat tucking your rest-less arms into your side. You try to fall asleep. A sudden juddering makes you sit up in alarm. Was it turbulence? Is the aircraft about to crash?

No, everyone else seems unperturbed.

You suffer another violent bout of rattling. You stand up to look around and realise the child seated behind you has his feet resting on the back of your seat. As you frown wondering how a toddler could have generated such prodigious force, he pulls his knees back almost up to his chin, and then in one fluid spring-release motion thrusts his feet forward, slamming them against your seat. Your jaw, which had been open while admiring this engineering feat, is now slammed shut when the top of the seat rushes up to meet your chin.

You whimper in pain. The child appears to take perverse joy at this and kicks out a few more times between peals of laughter. You request the child’s parent to intervene. The parent shrugs and washes his hands off the matter, seemingly unrepentant at having birthed a human kangaroo.

You coax the child to stop kicking1 and sit back down again. Your head is throbbing in pain and all you want is for this nightmare to end.

Eventually, the aircraft begins its descent and its wheels make contact with the ground. As the aircraft gently rolls towards the parking bay, all hell breaks loose. Hundreds of mobile phones chirp back into life and dozens of telephonic conversations begin because of course one needs to update their friends and family the exact second one has landed.

And then you are treated to the most glorious of displays of herd mentality. The doors are shut tight and there is nowhere to go, but everyone stands up and starts jostling in the aisle. They gather their bags, lumber around the cramped seats and then wait; preferring to stand at an awkward angle for many minutes, rather than sitting in their respective places.

Why do they do it? What do they hope to achieve? Do those sitting in the 25th row believe standing up first will magically transport them to the front of the aircraft? Perhaps they think the overhead compartments will swallow their luggage if its left unattended for an additional ten minutes. I don’t suppose we shall ever find an answer to these questions.

The aircraft door finally springs open and the queue shuffles forward. You spot a gap and slip into the queue, falling into step with the rest of the passengers. By the time you reach the luggage belt, you are in much better spirits.

You collect your suitcase and turn towards the exit. Out of nowhere, a child appears next to you - oh, its the same kid who was sitting behind you on the flight. You smile at him, ready to forget the past and let bygones be bygones. By the time you notice his leg swinging back in an all-too-familiar fashion, it is too late.