arieltaylorpatterson

[arieltaylorpatterson]

A Scathing Review of: Seat 13A, JetBlue flight 646 JFK --> LAX

A Scathing Review of: row 13, JetBlue flight 646 JFK —- > LAX

It begins, like all classic tales do, with a woman. And what a woman she is.

We’ll call her Joan. 13A seems dreadfully impersonal (‘life ruiner’ does too).

I would like to pause here and say while this woman strikes me as a Joan, it is not because she has ANYTHING in common with the Joan I know, thank heavens. Love you Grandma!

’Joan’ in 13A has “had it”. In fairness, we’ve been sitting on the runway for 45 minutes. No progress made after the initial pullback, no status updates. No crackly loudspeaker mention of the obvious delay, followed by vague promises of time ‘being made up in the air’. Joan sighs with exasperation. Her lung capacity impresses me. She sighs again.

“I have HAD it. I am NOT HAPPY.”

I feel bad for Joan. Clearly she lacks The Gift.

(The Gift, for all of you living your lives in the dark, is the innate ability to fall asleep anywhere, at any time, with exceptional speed and commitment.)

I do not lack The Gift. I have The Gift in spades. I have The Gift so hard I fell asleep placing my stylish and slightly impractical ivory suitcase in the overhead compartment. Related - - I do not recommend white luggage. More later.

Back to Joan — I think I’ve mentioned she’s had it? I realize quickly I have slept through several of her proclamations. She turns to her husband.

“Hello. Do you hear me? I have HAD it.”

Don (he seems Don-esque) in 13C seems like a nice enough guy. He’s got a hearing aid and slicked back gray hair with a very high hairline. His eyebrow hairs are very long and he wears a fleece pullover. He seems practical. From what I can see of his jawline, he looks kind. I bet he used to be super into camping.

Blearily, I look out the window. We are on the ground. I look at Chris, my wonderful, handsome boyfriend.  His eyes are glued shut. He is either asleep or hiding from me.

“I’ve HAD it. Nuh-uh. No sir. This is just absurd.”

Don with the hearing aid nods vigorously. I cannot yet tell if this is his chosen method of wife-pacification or if he hasn’t the foggiest what she’s saying.

At this point, they begin discussing the pitfalls of travel. I say they but really, it’s all Joan. Good old Joan. Joan has “REALLY had it now.” and also doesn’t understand why they “go on all of these godfuuhhsaken trips.”

This leads me to the vocal quality of Joan. She’s got one of those voices. To describe it as piercing would be perhaps giving it too much credit. It is not a clear, bell-like tone. It does not cut  or slice so much as cheese grate. (Or maybe spiralize if you’ve spent too much time on Pinterest and are trying to avoid the dairy farts I don’t know I’ve heard that’s a thing no first hand knowledge or anything I love dairy so does my GI tract)

Joan has really had it. In fact, she announces this again. She’s had it and, to be honest, finds this whole thing absurd. Not a mention of a delay? I mean really.

She is over 60, with big plastic sunglasses on. It’s bright. I get it. She wears lots of jewelry, the kind that sparkles and bangs into each other on different parts on her body. Her perfume is strong. I have a little bit of a headache — wonderful foreshadowing for the next six hours.

Speaking of, our plane takes off. It is eerily quiet; save for Joan’s dulcet tones.

“Well thank fuuuhhcking gawd”.

This makes me giggle. I’m with you girl. Maybe I’ve read her wrong. Maybe we’ll have a great repartee. Maybe I’ll be so inspired by our relationship I’ll write a sitcom about it. The future is bright, chickens.

Trouble begins again when our plane hits a little turbulence as we climb.

“I hate this.”

Joan, angel, me too.

I glance at my boyfriend again. His eyes are no longer glued shut but he is maybe still hiding from me.

A handsome, slightly bored looking flight attendant makes his way down the aisle. Joan, my benevolent queen, announces to the plane at large that she “NEEDS A VODKA.”

I am amused. The flight attendant is amused. We’re going to have a great time. He asks her if she’s like anything with it.

“ICE.”

Don, bless him, orders one as well.

The flight attendant returns shortly and hands them two mini bottles of Tito’s. It is at this moment I notice Joan still has her sunglasses on. Her stock falls, slightly.

“Dammit. I can’t open this. I can’t open this. HELLO CAN SOMEONE HELP ME OPEN THIS.”

The handsome/bored flight attendant reappears. He quips something fun about ‘if you can’t open it you can’t drink it’. I laugh. Don laughs. Joan does not laugh.

The first vodka is poured. The first vodka quickly disappears. Joan wants another.

“I want anothuhh vodka.”

Don, the sweet thing, hears her. But, alas, doesn’t move quickly enough. As he struggles to reach the service button overhead, Joan takes matters into her own hands.

“HELLO I NEED ANOTHER VODKAAAA”

The plane at large is now painfully aware of Joan’s drink order. A second bottle of Tito’s materializes quickly. She knocks that one back too. It is at this point she seems to settle into her movie of choice (Sisterhood of The Traveling Pants; a classic. She kind of seems like a Tibby. But maybe a Carmen? Who knows.)

I find JetBlue to be a fabulous airline. I have free wifi, a plethora of snacks, and Manchester By The Sea, the ultimate plane-movie. There is, however, one large shortcoming. On JetBlue planes, the controller to your personal screen is built into the armrests — right where your elbows rest when you’re sitting like a normal human person. I have turned off my television several times. I have nearly blown out the eardrums of my unsuspecting neighbors by inadvertently leaning on their volume control. It’s not great.

Poor Joan. Joan never stood a chance. She reclines, hitting her remote control with her elbow. The screen goes black. Joan gasps, hollers, and then being frantically poking the screen. After several harrowing moments of dark, her screen alights. We have Sisterhood! Tragically, in her frantic poking, she hit the fast forward button. She doesn’t recognize the scene. Carmen’s in some kind of a horrible dress? I would call the color dusty rose, but that’s just me.

Joan gasps again. She screams. Then, she slaps the screen in front of her. Hard. Full palm. The seat bounces forward, and 12A is rudely awoken from a nice looking nap.

“I HATE THIS. I HATE IT. THIS IS THE WORST. We don’t need tuh live like this. I’m never doing this again. I don't care if we spend every penny we have. I’ll pawn the jewelry. I’ll PAWN IT AWWWLL.”

Joan has not embraced life in Coach yet, but she quickly screams for another vodka. Maybe #3 will lessen the stings of finding yourself an every(wo)man?

Hours pass, as do the Tito’s bottles. She has found inner peace, thanks to vodka #6 and the DIY network. She holler/grumbles now and then, comparing the experience to ‘hell itself’ and ‘a greyhound bus’.

“Alright, Susan. Stop aggravating everybody. You’re embarrassing me.”

Don has taken the bait at last. And, hold up, SUSAN??!

I drift away to sleep, turning Boyfriend Chris into Human Pillow Chris. As the tinkling sound of vodka hitting ice in a plastic cup lulls me to sleep, I ponder the worth of Joan/Susan’s jewelry and, indeed, life itself.