Flight 23, Seat 14B

Episode 8:
Chicago to Seattle, Cattle Class, Middle Seat.

The woman on my left is using a seat belt extender. She is also blocking out all daylight from the tiny window. The man on my right is also obese and his massive love handle is flowing into my space. There is nothing he or I can do so we pretend he is not fat and everything is fine.

I can’t open a paperback. There is no room. I don't own an iPod. All I can do is lean forward and rest my head into the seatback in front of me. The space that I evacuated, behind my upper body, fills up suddenly by the chubbies on my left and right. Nature abhors a vacuum.

It feels like a crypt and I have been sealed up alive.

Hamsini has to work all weekend.

I try to breathe smoothly and meditate. The air is filled with germs.

Suddenly, the man in front of me drops his seat violently and buckles my neck. I squeeze back into the space that was my seat.

The booze cart comes by and with a buck from Charlie, and four of my own, I buy gin which I drink straight from the miniature bottle.

I miss my Hamsini.

The Losing Ticket

Episode 7:
At O’Hare International Airport, the people that line up to buy MegaMillions tickets at the state’s kiosk wear uniforms. They are not traveling to Vail or Burbank or Miami. They are buying tickets at the end of their shifts, or they are buying tickets during mandatory breaks from jobs that may involve removing gum from the airport’s many urinals.

Their uniforms divulge their first names because it is their employer's policy, while I possess my anonymity from them. Their names include Hector, Celeste, Svetlana, and Manny. They wear navy blue and brown uniforms as not to show grime so easily. I am wearing French cuffs and cuff links. The cracker convention went very well for me.

If you are 59 years old and limping around the airport in steel-toed boots, you cannot afford to miss your chance at the mega millions. This week’s pot is worth $95 million.

On the other hand, I can afford not to play MegaMillions because I am young and beautiful and supremely cocky. I am certain that when I am 90 years old, my piss will flow freely through my donut-shaped prostate and I will be making love to women half my age at a resort on the Big Island.

I have never played lotto. Lotto is for the hopeless. Blackjack and Craps in Vegas, yes. And I have always walked away richer because I have options.

There is plenty of money to be made in the cracker business. Everyone eats crackers. The poor eat saltines and I sell those, too. The rich appear to eat a lot of Waterford wafers. On the Waterford box, the makers depict wafers with lox and a frilly herb that could be dill. On the saltine box, they depict no such accoutrements. I suspect the poor eat their saltines with butter, or they crumble them into condensed soup.

Charlie Ray plays lotto. I know this because he carries a losing ticket in his wallet. Charlie’s (un)lucky numbers are 3-9-12-18-and 23.

Today, I am going to play MegaMillions in honor of Charlie Ray Dalton. I use one of Charlie’s dollars and four of my own. I use Charlie’s lucky numbers and four random sets. I am arrogant today, but not so egotistical to portend to understand that which is arbitrary in the universe.



Speaking of a Losing Ticket, how about McCain and Palin?

Eddie Vedder

Episode 6:

I watched the convention last night on the bar TV in the Congress Plaza Hotel. I didn't know it, but Eddie Vedder was on the stool next to me. I bought him ($#4) a drink.

After he left, the bartender asked me if I knew who that was. I said, no. The bartender said, that was Eddie Vedder. I asked, who is Eddie Vedder. The bartenders said, have you heard of Pearl Jam?

When Barack Obama kissed Jill Biden (on the lips!), Mr. Vedder said, we've come a long way. I said, I'll drink to that. I was drinking a rum and coke. Mr. Vedder was drinking wine. We clinked our glasses.