Here’s the problem with flying when I have a deep suspicion of everyone I meet: I assume anyone could be a terrorist or an evil villain who plans on overtaking the plane.
Finally my suspicions paid off, because I’m pretty sure that I thwarted a villainous takeover of American Airlines flight 622.
I was at the airport for a trip to Chicago, casually waiting for the announcement I love so much: “It appears our plane is full and we will be asking for volunteers to check their baggage.”
Translation: free baggage check for anyone too cheap to pay for it, AKA moi.
My ears perked up in delight when the announcement was made, and I hastily hopped in line to be one of the selfless volunteers who sacrificed the comfort of having their luggage nearby for the greater good of her fellow passengers.
Then I noticed him.
He looked like a young Jeff Goldblum, dressed in black pants and a black turtleneck – classic villain gear. I don’t know much about being a villain but, were I to decide to become one, I know that my first order of business would be to hightail it down to the Gap so I can stock up on black turtlenecks. That’s standard issue villain gear, right?!
Then he spoke to the man behind the counter, “Excuse me, have you got a seat for me yet? I’ve been waiting for 40 minutes.”
And I shit you not, wiseass readers, this guy had an accent straight out of Transylvania. I half expected him to follow it up with “38, 39, FOURTY! FOURTY minutes I’ve been waiting! AHAHAHAAAAA!”
But to recap: he was dressed in all black, had a Transylvanian accent, and was not assigned a seat on this flight. Oh and was growing impatient that boarding had begun and he didn’t yet have a seat; clearly nervous that his plane takeover plans may be thwarted by a run of tourists, eager to see the Windy City and catch a glimpse of Oprah.
After I gleefully, I mean selflessly, handed over my luggage to be checked for free, I boarded the plane and sat down. I was in the window seat with no one yet sitting next to me. As the stream of people dwindled down, I excitedly began to suspect that I would get the row to myself, which was a relief because I had forgotten to use deodorant that morning and so had to buy some at an airport store. Unfortunately, when I sat down at the gate, I couldn’t quickly put it on because some British guy was sitting right across from me and I somehow felt a patriotic duty to represent America by refraining from calling his attention to my armpits. You’re welcome, America.
As I happily began to root around in my bag for deodorant, it happened. Mr. Transylvania took the aisle seat next to me. There was only one seat between me, and certain death.
As we began take off, I realized he was just sitting there, staring straight ahead. Not reading a magazine or anything, just sitting all calm. Like a total fucking villain.
I decided to do a little investigation to figure this guy out. So I slid my People magazine across the seat and casually said, “You’re welcome to read my People magazine. I know it’s not a very manly magazine, but if you’re at all interested in reading about how Mischa Barton came back from a nervous breakdown, it’s all yours.”
He looked at the magazine and then back up at me, clearly pondering how he should react in this situation. He must have decided it better to appear normal and not raise suspicions, so he gave a quick thanks and grabbed the magazine.
And then flipped right past the fucking article about Mischa Barton. That’s it, I was on to him.
“Light traveler?”, I asked, non-chalantly flipping through Elle.
“I forgot to bring a magazine,” he answered, “I was waiting for a seat assignment.”
“Ah,” I replied, “Last minute flight?”
“No,” he continued, “when I bought the ticket, it didn’t assign me a seat.”
I eyed him suspiciously and continued, “That’s too bad, I was able to choose my own seat. Were you not given that option?”
“No.”, he replied confidently, intently studying a picture of Giselle Bundchen and Tom Brady at the park with their kids. This guy was good.
Not long after take off, he went straight to the bathroom. I braced myself; clearly airplane-overtaking heists begin in the bathroom, where you can hide your heist accoutrement more readily. Not long after he got up, a man who looked like a stockier Bruce Jenner stood up, dressed all in black. Shit. Clearly he’s working with Mr. Transylvania. He’s wearing the uniform, and we all know Bruce Jenner is one black turtleneck and a white fluffy cat away from looking exactly like a villain.
It wasn’t long before Mr. Transylvania came back and took out a laptop from the overhead compartment. So he DID have in-flight entertainment, dirty liar. As he opened up some bogus PowerPoint presentation about glass production, complete with glass-strength testing videos, and pretended to be immersed in the world of glass, he casually turned and asked what the weird tray/box-like thing in the seat between us was. I had just been wondering the same thing and realized that it was the perfect hiding place for plane-overtaking tools. He was on to me being on to him.
I grabbed the side of it and yanked up with all my might saying, “Let’s just SEE what it is!”. It didn’t budge. It was some weird tray thing for drinks and it was bolted down. He gave me a puzzled look as I slumped back into my chair, muttering something about a tray for extra drinks.
He went back to making his fake charts and graphs about glass, as if he was fooling anyone. I mean really, glass has to have been around for like, a thousand years; what groundbreaking stuff is he coming up with?
The problem is, I then had to pee terribly, but did not want to go back to the bathroom he had been in. Any woman will tell you that life is a constant effort to keep unwanted people and things out of your lady parts. Anyone who knows me knows that I live in constant fear that a snake, rat, or other unwanted thing will come up out of the toilet while I’m going. I constantly have to peak down while I’m peeing in order to thwart any possible animal attacks, and keep my hoo-ha bite-free.
What if Mr. Transylvania planted something from his heist tool collection in the toilet? Like an electronic snake programmed to shoot out of the toilet the minute it detects someone is going?!? It’s probably called something all villain-y like the “Vag Badger 3000” or, the “Lady Part Prod.”
Note to any sex toy designers reading this: if I see the “Vag Badger 3000” or the “Lady Part Prod” now show up in adult stores, I will straight up sue your asses for stealing my idea. You’ll come to know me as the “Wise-ass-blaster.” (Don’t use that one either)
I finally lost the argument with my bladder, as my bladder can be surprisingly persuasive.
All went fine in the bathroom, no electronic snakes bursting out of the toilet. I probably should address my fear of toilet violence with a trained professional at some point. Maybe then I can also address my fear of an airport toilet pulling out my insides after I flush it, although in my defense, I totally remember reading about that happening when I was a little girl.
Why did my childhood serve to make me develop such an intense fear of toilets?
When I got back to my seat, I looked over at Mr. Transylvania’s laptop and saw that he was now watching a movie. As I zeroed in on the actors, I realized he was watching “Taken”. Great. I could now picture him calmly looking over at me and telling me in his creepy Dracula accent that he has a very specific set of skills, before pulling me, screaming, from my seat.
When the flight attendants arrived with their drink trays and asked me if I’d like a drink, I calmly ordered a glass of wine, but made a point to open my eyes really wide, and look from the flight attendant, to Mr. Transylvania, and back at her again; silently signaling that he was suspicious. She smiled and nodded. She totally got me.
After she gave me a glass of wine, she placed one down on the tray next to Mr. T. He looked up to say he didn’t order it, but she enthusiastically pointed at me and said, “She bought you a drink.”
What?! NO! I was trying to tell her that he is planning to overthrow the plane! Mr. Transylvania looked over at me and smiled a “thank you.” Great. Now he thinks I’m hitting on him. He’ll probably take me with him to wherever he’s hijacking this plane and I’ll have no choice but to fall in love with him like Patty Hearst did with her attackers. As I was silently imagining poor Calm-ass Husband reading the news that his beloved wife had been kidnapped to Transylvania and was probably not ever coming home, my lack of sleep the night before made my body betray me, and I promptly fell asleep.
What seemed like 15 minutes later, I felt a soft touch on my arm and opened my eyes to see Mr. Transylvania peering down at me. “We landed,” he said, in his villain-y accent. I bolted up and realized we were on the ground, unharmed. I looked over at Mr. T for signs of anger that his plane heist plans had been overthrown by wine and trashy tabloids, but he was already hightailing it down the aisle with his carry-on. Probably to try and overtake another plane after failing to overtake this one.
Nice try, pal, but you’re never going to overtake a plane on my watch.