Middle Seats, Monkey Eyes, and Mile High Clubs

According to Men's Health, there's less than a one percent chance of sitting next to a hot girl while on a commercial airliner. And as much traveling as I do, I'll have to add that you're more likely to get struck by lightening on your birthday as you're climbing into the limo while your dethroned ex-televanagalist/limo driver sits behind the wheel waiting to get a hold of some of your new found lotto money you just scored, than you are to sit next to not only a hot girl, but anyone--ANYONE who is remotely conversational and/or interesting.

So last Friday night I caught a Southwest flight from San Antonio to Nashville. I'd never flown Southwest before, but the flight was non-stop and the ticket was only $153. My brother has flown several times with them, so he gave me a few pointers on flying Southwest.

First, don't wait in line. It turns out that no seats are assigned, so those who go on first get their choice of seats while those who go on last get their choice of seat mates. So caring more about who I'm going to sit next to rather than the location of the seat, I waited until the last minute.

The plane held two columns of seats, each three to a row. Not surprisingly it seemed that the middle seats were the only ones left, leaving me with a addendum to the Mens Health theory. If you go on last, your chances of sitting next to a hot girl automatically double.

So with no one behind me, I slowly strolled down the aisle scanning for women. Immediately I spotted a beautiful blonde wearing a little white tank top sitting next to an open seat. But when she spotted me spotting her, she gave me the Monkey Eye and I knew it was a lost cause. Hell, it had been a long week for me too, so I didn't want to sit next anyone who gives handsome strangers the Monkey Eye. So I kept moving slowly.

But as I moved, it became apparent that the Monkey Eye was contagious. Everyone I passed seemed to have a raging case of it. As I passed a few more rows, I began to aquire a case of it myself. One guy in a blue tie gave it to me through his designer glasses as he placed his briefcase in the seat as a signal. A woman in high hair and higher heels shot me the Monkey Eye with both barrels, and a drugged up hippy gave a half-ass attempt to get me through barely opened, Visine-needin' Monkey Eyes.

So much for my brother's theory, unless you're willing to sit next to the infected. And I walked myself to the back of the plane still looking for a warm welcome. But there was none. Everyone became so territorial about their middle seat it began to get funny. I started to consider the absurtity of it all--just like in school where no one wants the new kid sitting at the cool kids table. I walked to the end of the aisle and was about to sit in the last seat right next to the head when it suddenly occurred to me that I could sit anywhere I wanted and no one was going to throw their applesauce at me (again.) So I turned and was headed up the aisle to seek my revenge.

Until, "Ladies and gentlemen, the cabin door has been shut and we'll taxiing, so I need everyone in their seats."

I took one small step forward.

"Even you, new guy," she said, looking right at me.

So I took the first available seat. It was right in front of the head and wouldn't lean back. So I sat there wedged in between a heavier couple traveling together who apparently didn't want to sit next to each other. I was bummed. I wanted to exact my revenge, but instead I was stuck by the john. And while I sat there I imagined what I might say if the same thing occured on a future flight.

I sat lost in my own thoughts for a few minutes. And then a slow rumble of discontent brought me out into the present. The rumble of discontent was followed by an announcement that the flight had been delayed for a little while.

Ding Ding Ding...

So up I jumped and dashed up the aisle looking for a seat away from the unhappy heavy couple. I was almost up to the front when I saw the woman with the high hair and the high heels. She must've felt me coming because just as I was about to sit down she stuck her purse in the middle seat.

But I sat down anyway. And when I did, she gave me the Monkey Eye. so I moved my ass back and forth on the purse as if to nest.

She tried pulling on the handles, and I offered no assistance whatsoever. I just sat atop the purse deciding on whether or not I should let one rip. Finally, just before I was going to let one go, she managed to get the purse out. She was pissed. She was so pissed, she grit her teeth, leaned into my ear and spoke to me in a way an abusive mother would use on a kid--hushed tones, violent whispers.

When she was finished, I stood up and declared for all the plane to hear, "No ma'am. I will not join the Mile High Club with you." And I slid from my row and began looking for another.

I found the Designer Glasses Guy a few rows back. He tried to put his paper on the seat just as I got there, but it was too late. I'd sat on a purse, so a newspaper was nothing. When I did land on the middle seat, he just gave me the Monkey Eye and said, "You're really going to sit here?"

I thought for a minute on how to best handle this...

"How could I resist," I said, and he looked at me oddly. So I continued, "Ever heard of the Mile High Club?" I asked.

He thought for a minute and his Monkey Eye dissappeared. "I'm Todd," he said and offered his delicate hand.

I was in the aisle in less than a second making my way toward the hippy, and as I approached him, he was already passed out. I was planning on having a little fun with the guy, but as I sat down, all I could smell was the overwhelming stench of Petuli Oil. "WTF?" There was no way I was sitting next to him. That shit wreaks.

So I'd given up on pissing off the Monkey Eye'd people and headed back to my seat between the unhappy heavy couple when I suddenly recalled the blond in the little white tank top who I had apparently angered. She was behind me and to the right, so I turned and looked over my shoulder, and I caught her turn away from staring at me.

Slowly I turned, step by step making my way up the aisle. I caught her glaring at me several times as I made my way up. She would stand halfway, look over her seat, see me and quickly turn away. She did this several times as I approached. I wasn't quite sure what I had done to her, but she had it out for me. This was going to be fun.

As I sat down, she just kept staring at me, curiously appraising me as if deciding where she might punch me for maximum impact. I wasn't sure how to start out the torment. I thought about farting, or reaching for the barf bag for a pretend hurl, or just rambling on in Klingon. But before I could decide, she shrieked, "You're the Oriskany Divemaster, aren't you? You are! You are!"

I was caught totally off guard. "Uh....yes I am."

"Oh my God!," she continued. "I've been staring at you the whole time you've been moving around. I've read everything on your website. Including both your novels," she said. "They were brilliant."

"Thanks," I said. Inside my intestines were churning, and I was straining to hold it in.

"I loved that character 'Coop'," she said. "He's probably a lot like you." And then for the next hour, she continued talking about subplots, characters, and how wonderful I was. And to be honest, I didn't mind that a bit.

But just like all conversations, this one ended. She sat adrift, looking out the window out on the clouds. A small smile blessed her face and her eyes seemed like she was hiding a secret. I was not at ease not talking about me, so I was about to extend the conversation to discuss my latest work, but before I could, she turned from the window, her smile had grown exponentially and she leaned over and whispered, "Ever heard of the Mile High Club?"

And as we walked down the aisle passing all people who wouldn't let me sit with them, I let that fart quietly rip, cropdusting all those Monkey Eyed Bastards as I went to join the Mile High Club with the hottest girl on the plane.

At least that's the way I remember it.

Oriskany Divemaster
Mile High Member since 2007