13 A, 14 A, 15 A.
Oscar Pershing plodded down the aisle.
16 A, 17A, 18 A, 19 A.
There was something annoying about walking through the airplane cabin. It wasnıt his fault that he was late; after all, he did arrive at the airport at the suggested time. Who wouldıve thought the flight would be grossly overbooked?
20 A, 21 A, 22 A, 23 A, 24 A.
It just didnıt seem likely that so many people could be departing for Hicksville (that name!) International Airport at two in the morning. He didnıt even know that it was possible to be bumped down a class, from First to Coach. It was, as the woman at the counter said in dripping sweetness, either take it or leave it. He took it.
25 A, 26 A, 27 A, 28 A, do you know what the problem is? Theyıre making these airplanes too freaking big. 29 A, 30 A, 31 A, 32 A, 32 B, 33 C. Finally.
Oscar slammed his carry-on into an overhead compartment, and collapsed past two fat men (Excuse me, excuse me. Were they gay? No way.) into a window seat. He squished (squirmed wasnıt even the right word anymore) until he was barely uncomfortable, and heard the metallic click of his seatbelt.
"Excuse me, Mr. Pershing?" An airplane attendant, smiling cheerfully in her blue uniform, was calling his name amidst the people squishing in their chairs and calling for peanuts. It annoyed him that she felt obligated to emphasize the sh sound.
"Iım terribly sorry, Mr. Pershing, for what happened today in terms of your seating. We really thank you for your patience, and if thereıs anything that we can do, Mr. Pershing" Oscar stopped listening, and only heard the popping shing of Pershing. He wished that he could tell her that it was all right, really, just leave me alone. He didnıt mind sitting in the back of the plane. Here, it seemed, the cabin air was just as alive.
The plane had just taken off when Oscar began to feel very engineered. The smiling stewardesses, the generic safety video, the drinks and the smiles that were forced down his throat. The chair cushion that also doubled as a floatation device in case the plane crashes. The small bags that you could barf in. Even the barf was part of the equation for the plane, factored in, multiplied, and integrated by Oscar and everyone else on the plane.
He stuck the barf bag back into the front pocket, and flipped through the magazines. They were all airline magazines, filled with luxurious vacation spots that were more desirable than his current destination. Ads spawned the pages, ads for advanced technology and jewelry, all of which could be purchased while in flight. You could never be happy, really. Freud was right, discontent was only spurred on by society. You couldnıt possibly be happy if the world continually reminded you that you werenıt. There were always better places to go, better things to do. No, you couldnıt be happy until you bought a miracle onion peeler, as featured on page thirty-six of the inflight magazine. The miracle onion peeler promises to make you a better person, help you lead a better life, cure cancer, and save your marriage.