free to move about the country

I travel much more for this job than I thought I would. And while I don’t really love all the nonsense that comes with air travel these days, I have to confess it has some advantages. No, I’m not talking about frequent flier miles. Although those don’t suck either. I’m talking about observing the human condition.

I’m a people-watcher from way back. I like to make up back stories for the people I see at restaurants, the grocery store, sporting events, concerts, and especially the airport. The airport is the winning Powerball ticket of people-watching. Maybe not the billion-dollar jackpot, but it’s up there. Especially Southwest.

I fly Southwest a lot because they often have nonstop options to the places I usually go. And because I like the idea that there’s no first class section. Southwest sullied that last part a bit by offering earlier access if you pay extra, but it’s still fun for me.

I enjoy checking out the people who get on the plane first. I imagine making them feel guilty for their excess. Not the ones who need special assistance, of course. I’m good with them. In fact, I’d help them myself if the airline would let me. It’s the self-important business-preferred crowd I like to stare down. The ones whose nose-assaulting cologne bath reminds me of my brother’s high school bedroom. The ones who drone on loudly—really loudly—on their phones in what I interpret as an attempt to show everyone else how important they are. They usually block the aisle so no one can get by while they get themselves situated. They organize their bags, remove and fold their jackets just so, and deposit them in the overhead bin. Sometimes they loosen their ties—if they’re wearing ties. Talking the whole time. Never looking up—not once—to acknowledge the flight attendants or the line of regular travelers waiting to board. Okay, that isn’t completely fair, is it? But sometimes... sometimes, that particular shoe fits perfectly.

Now I’m getting ahead of myself. The people-watching begins much sooner than this. Usually at the gate while we’re all waiting to begin boarding. I sit quietly and judge people’s choice of airplane snacks. Do you really think those loaded nachos are a good idea right before a 3-hour flight? Sometimes I tune into a conversation that’s a little too loud to be private. I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but it’s hard not to.

I was waiting for a flight a few months back and listened to one young man announce to his traveling partner what his favorite George Carlin bit was. He then proceeded to recite the entire bit word-for-word while everyone around him—including his companion—tried to occupy themselves in other ways. Everyone except me. I was fascinated by the whole spectacle.

The monologue came to an end just as the gate agent called us to the boarding corrals. And everyone knows that’s where the fun really begins.

It never ceases to amuse me the extent to which some travelers need to be in the precise boarding order within a group of five. Five.

I used to wonder if they really feel like their lives will change if they board at number 34 with the number 33 boarding pass, but then I realized it isn’t so much about when they board. It’s about righting the universe. Following the rules.

So, they ask everyone—all four of us—their numbers, and then they make it their mission to arrange our little cohort into its proper sequence. I confess that sometimes I lie and make up a number just to confuse them. They don’t usually appreciate it, but on the bright side, it’s one fewer person who’ll want to sit next to me on the plane.

Unless I have a connection, I make my way to a window seat toward the middle of the plane. I used to pull out the vomit bag and sit with it clenched in my hand with the best pitiful sick look I could muster. It proved a pretty effective deterrent for a while, but now just about every flight is full, so that particular pro tip has lost most of its value.

I find the middle of the plane is a great vantage point for people watching. I’m close enough to see the people struggle into middle seats in the front rows. And there’s always at least one person who tries to cram their carryon bag into a space more appropriate for a small handbag or a murse. They turn it all different ways. Wheels in. Wheels out. On edge. They even move other people’s bags like the person organizing us in our boarding corrals. They try to close the bin to cover their crimes, but it rarely works. Often they don’t give up until one of the flight attendants compels them to move on. They reluctantly acquiesce, clutching their bag as if to console it. “It’s okay bag. It’s not your fault.”

Being in the middle of the plane also gives me the chance to guess who might end up sitting next to me. I’m not a big person, so the seat next to me offers extra room for its eventual occupant. Plus—and they don’t know this yet—I don’t eat or drink anything for several hours before my flight. That way, I don’t have to leave my seat unless it’s absolutely necessary. Another bonus for them.

I’ve also noticed a bizarre phenomenon in the last few months. In every flight I’ve been on, there’s been one passenger who mistakenly believes their boarding number is their seat number. I watch them walk up and down the aisle, looking for seat 57A, for example. They usually don’t ask for help, because not being able to find the number of your seat would be embarrassing, right?

I was sitting toward the back on a recent flight when I watched this unfold. This poor person wedged their way back up the aisle like a salmon swimming upstream at least twice before the flight attendant stepped in.

“Can I help you?”

“Oh, uh. I’m sorry. I’m trying to find seat 57A but the numbers don’t go that high.”

“Oh, that’s your boarding number, not your seat number.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s your boarding number. We don’t have assigned seats on Southwest.”

“But it says so right here. There just isn’t a seat with that number on it.”

“That isn’t your seat number.”

“Then what does it mean?”

“It’s your boarding number. It’s just the order people get onto the plane in, but you don’t need it now.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay. You can sit wherever you’d like. We’ll make it work.”

“Oh, thank you so much.”

“It’s my pleasure. Thank you for choosing Southwest.”

In full disclosure, I wasn’t close enough to hear the entire conversation, so I filled in the blanks a bit.

Once we’re all nestled in, I pause the people-watching and focus my attention on the insides of my eyelids. I’m a plane sleeper and I’m often out before the wheels are up. I’ve actually fallen asleep on flights from Nashville to Atlanta. Which amounts to little more than a 30-minute power nap.

Eventually, we have to land, which means the end of my nap. And that’s when the bum rush begins. As soon as the tone sounds to unfasten our seat belts, a few people from the back dart up the aisle as though they’re being chased by a swarm of bees. Sometimes, they have tight connections. But other times they just need to be first. I imagine it’s only a matter of time before Southwest finds a way to offer business-select deplaning for another added fee. Fuckers.

The last time I flew, I went against my normal routine and took a seat near the front. It was a bit late and I just wanted to get home. I fell asleep, as usual, and woke up just as we were landing. Trouble was, I had crossed my right leg over my left knee for the entire flight, and my leg fell asleep. I couldn’t move, so I just sat there and waited to regain feeling while everyone else got off the plane. Turns out it isn’t nearly as much fun watching people exit the plane as it is to watch them board.

Cheers.