As the latest survivor of a TSA groping, I still had that lingering feeling of their hands all over me while I made the walk of shame. I could feel that my strained body was on its last legs struggling with each step after an intense few days of packing around the clock and it was all I could do to get to the terminal.
I managed to board the correct plane on the first try and I was surprised by how nice the seats were. I'm very claustrophobic to the point were I only buy 4 door cars, because I know that it's only a matter of time before I find myself waking up in that convulsion-inducing back seat, along with strangers and acquaintances who will ignore my desperate pleas to pull over and let me out: thinking that it's just the drugs talking.
So, I was very relieved when I saw these futuristic, reclining seats with ample leg room and a partition with a little window so I could ask my neighbour random questions or advice. But as I slowly moved forward in a line of people, who resembled worker ants carrying crumbs to stick in any compartment that they could find, I went through a doorway and all the nice seats disappeared.
I realized that this was third class seating, where in the event of a crash, we would receive whatever oxygen first class forgot to breath. Then as we desperately suck into our masks for a little more life, the crew will quickly close the gates, just as they were trained to, further segregating us from the Elite. So, when we crash our betters will have ample time to gather up all the coconuts to feed the few of us that are willing to blindly take orders; killing and enslaving the rest for island domination.
My nightmare scenario! And to top it all off we were going to be crammed in the back of the plane like sardines. Each row sat ten people and there were hundreds of claustrophobic rows.
Whenever I suffer from claustrophobia induced panic I have a tendency to lose control and repeatedly bang my head into things, usually car windows, like some retarded woodpecker, so I was anxiously awaiting the terror that was my seat.
My only saving grace was that I planned ahead and asked @cathi-xx to choose my seat in advance, because I couldn't figure out how to navigate the British Airways website.
My window seat was on the second to last row on the plane and it was comforting that it was one of the few that only had one seat next to it before the isle. After about five strenuous minutes of repelling passengers from my free seat, with mind control and evil stares, I heard the crew telling a bald, middle-aged man, that was sitting behind me, that he couldn't sit in the seat meant for flight attendants.
I knew that I was going to have problems when that man got up and sat down next to me. He began shoving objects in every orifice of the plane that he could find and I couldn't relax until his hands were empty. He then took a long, deep breath and exhaled second-hand alcohol poisoning whilst staring dead ahead. I broke the uncomfortable silence by asking if this was his first time visiting England and in an English accent he began talking about how he is constantly travelling for his business.
I tried to sound interested for as long as I could as he explained the cut throat world of cell phone accessories, but then he asked about me. My instinct in this type of situation is to lie, but I was shocked to find that I hadn't even had a chance stop and think of any good whoppers to tell.
So, I began talking about @cathi-xx and how I met her on Steemit. I could see that same concerned look on his face that I had seen on everyones face while describing to them how I was moving across the world for a girl that I had met on the internet. He began giving me step-by-step advice of how not to become destitute when @cathi-xx failed to meet me at the airport, but I stopped listening: it was a lot to take in and I have ADD. The only thing I remember is the first thing that came from his slurring lips, “Never, ever call a black cab!!!”
I attempted to change the subject back to Steemit to see if he would join, but as I was explaining how the payout worked, that drunk bastard fell asleep. Over the next two hours I failed to get to sleep, but then I needed to pee. I tried to ignore the urge hoping my drunken friend would wake up, but after 30 minutes my kidneys began to ache.
I began tapping him on the shoulder while softly saying, “Hey buddy! Hey buddy wake up! I've got to go to the bathroom!” but he didn't respond. I began to wonder if we had bonded enough for me to be able to shake him. After about a minute of deliberation I began shaking him profusely, but he was out cold. Out of desperation I started to slap him, but then I realized that our relation probably wasn't on that level yet and things might turn ugly.
He was a big guy and his knees were touching the reclined seat in front of him, so I began formulating an escape plan. I thought of trying to straddle him, but due to Cerebral Palsy and the massive incline of the seat that was in front of him, I knew I would end up falling in his lap. I thought maybe I could step over him, from armrest to armrest, but then I realized that there was a strong possibility of me accidentally stepping in his lap.
I gave him one last shake before shoving his arm off the armrest and squatting with my feet on the seat to get a good view of my obstacle course and I realized there was a problem in that his other arm was resting on the other armrest. I reached over him to move his arm, but it wouldn't budge since his whole body weight was leaning on it.
I decided to go for it: I stood up slowly holding onto the tops of both his seat and the seat in front of him, while fighting the turbulence and trying to decide which part of his lap I should step onto for stability in order to launch myself into the aisle but as I placed my left foot on the armrest I heard the flight attendant sitting behind me say, “Sir, what are you doing?”
“Nothing!” I blurted out while retreating back to my seat, then the drunk man's eyes opened and he turned around to look at the flight attendant, then he sank back into his seat and shut his eyes again. I quickly shook him and said, “Hey buddy, I have to use the bathroom!” He nodded in agreement as if I had asked him a question and then he staggered off to the bathroom. I quickly got up and ran to the other bathroom.
When I got back I tried again to fall asleep, but I soon began regretting my decision to save six thousand dollars by riding with all the riff raff in the most uncomfortable seats ever devised and as my spine began to hurt in new ways and with every position I tried, I realized that British Airways had thought of every conceivable option to get us to pay that small fortune.
As the time slowly passed, my drunken friend began waking frequently to go to the bathroom and I followed suit, squeezing the urine out, in fear of being blocked in again. About five hours into the flight my neighbour suddenly awoke, stood up reached into the overhead and vigorously rifled through his bag as if he had a score to settle. However, he was forced to stop and sit back down empty handed when the food cart came to give us breakfast.
As we stared at our trays, at what British Airways considers to be food, I began to explain how TSA reacted when my left leg lit up their X-ray machine (without mentioning my computer that was disguised as a bomb). He seemed a little shocked and looked suspiciously at my left leg as if it was up to no good, until I asked,
“What is it like going through English customs?”
“Do you have a customs form?” he asked.
“No.” I replied.
He jumped up and walked over to a flight attendant. Then he came back and handed me a blue card to fill out. As I sat there staring at the card he asked if I had a pen. When I said no he jumped up and began assaulting the overhead compartment again until it finally submitted, offering a pen as tribute to its conquerer.
He handed me the pen, but I could barely make sense of the form and after bombarding him with questions, he ended up filling it out for me.
When we finally landed my nerves were getting the better of me: I knew that I somehow had to get myself and my bomb-like computer into a foreign country. As I slowly walked toward the exit my paranoia began to grow and I realized that it might not have been the smartest idea to have the drunk guy on the plane fill out my customs form. I stopped and took a few deep breath and my anxiety lifted revealing what I was really afraid of. This was the first time meeting @cathi-xx in person and I was just moments away.
Link to Part One
Link to Part Two
Link to Part Three