 "Photo: Caroline Stasiowski")
It has been painfully brought to my attention that public intoxication should be a capital offense. Off with their heads, I say.
Now, you may think this view is a tad extreme. Just a few weeks ago, I would have agreed with you. But bitter experiences have worn away my benevolent nature. I now cry for blood.
It all started with a simple three-hour plane flight (sounds like the opening to a really bad autobiography). I sat down in my seat and noticed the one next to me was vacant, which is my second biggest hope when I'm traveling (the first being that the seat is taken by the Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate Girl). The seat on my other side was occupied by a reserved-looking gentleman somewhere in his late 20s. We nodded to each other and engaged in the usual exchange of pleasantries.
Him: "Nice to have all this extra elbow room."
Me: "Yeah, although I would prefer the Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate Girl."
Him: "I haven't had this much elbow room since that time in junior high when I didn't bathe for three weeks."
It was around this point that I noticed the half-dozen empty airline-sized liquor bottles arranged haphazardly on his tray table.
"I'm afraid of flying," he explained.
Although I'm pretty sure what he meant to say, as I learned over the next three hours, was, "I've been drinking since 4 p.m. yesterday and am feeling very, very talkative, not to mention completely ethnically insensitive!"
As if on cue, the flight attendant walked by with the drinks cart.
Flight Attendant: "Can I get y'all anything to drink today?"
Him: "I'll take another Jack and Coke!"
Me: "Got any arsenic? Actually, make that a cup of Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate laced with arsenic - I'd like to die happy. Oh, and if you happen to see the Swiss Miss Hot Chocolate Girl on any of your later flights, tell her that I'm sorry, but it couldn't be helped."
Flight Attendant: "See about getting your medication adjusted, honey. I'll bring some peanuts."
I started hoping I was suddenly allergic to peanuts. Then I thought, maybe, he was allergic to peanuts. It wouldn't be hard. One in the bottom of his Jack and Coke.
"It was an accident," people would say. "He obviously accidentally dropped a peanut into his own drink and then, as he was dying, accidentally carved the words, 'SHUT THE HELL UP!' into his own forehead with a seatbelt buckle. Happens all the time."
Me: "Say, you aren't allergic to anything, like um...say, peanuts, are you?"
Him: "You know what I'm allergic to? Minorities!"
Me: "Well, I'm just going to hide behind my in-flight magazine for the next 2 1/2hours..."
This worked for about 2 1/2 seconds. He started tapping me on the shoulder repeatedly.
Him: "You smell that?"
Me: "Um...I don't smell anything..."
Him: "I bet you $5 it's those French people."
This got him into a gambling mood, and he started making loud wagers about everything from how many rows he could throw an empty bottle to the gender of the elderly person sitting behind us. I started to point out you can't bet on something when there's no way of knowing for certain, but stopped myself when I realized he was drunk enough to try.
Fortunately, the situation was interrupted by a flight attendant walking by.
"Excuse me!" shouted my slightly-less-than-racially-tolerant acquaintance. "I'd like another Jack Daniels!"
The flight attendant took a moment to explain this was impossible because he had drunk his way through their supply of Jack Daniels.
"Oh," he said, somewhat crestfallen, but immediately recovered with, "I'll have a rum and Coke then!"
They cut him off after eight or nine drinks, at which point he slumped over in the corner and started snoring. I started to breathe again when suddenly, someone shouted in my ear: "You know what I hate about French people? They're always being all French on me! I'm like, hey, if it wasn't for us... if it wasn't for us, they wouldn't be speaking English right now! Wait, no, not English...they wouldn't be speaking whatever the hell it is they speak over there!"
He started looking around the cabin, like he was scanning for possible Frenchmen in disguise. "Where the hell is Jean Claude Van Damme when you need him?" I thought, then quickly remembered that Mr. Van Damme is in fact Belgian and chided myself for my ethnic insensitivity.
The rest of the flight is a little bit of a blur, but highlights include my inebriated co-passenger stealing headphones and making passes at flight attendants old enough to be his mother (and in one case, his father).
You know what? Now I'M afraid to fly. I got on my connecting flight and immediately ordered a rum and Coke to steady my nerves.
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