A Southwest Air Stalking

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Tampa International Airport was frenetically busy at what I considered to be an ungodly hour of the morning. For many writers, 7 a.m. is still the middle of the night, and I am one of these writers. The alluring smell of fresh brewed coffee from Starbucks was almost enough to make me brave the line that stretched around the kiosk and halfway down the terminal...almost. I knew if I did, I wouldn’t be able to get the two and a half hours of sleep on the flight I greatly needed in order to be a fully functional human once I arrived in Philadelphia.

I’ve aspired to be three things in life: a morning person, a black coffee drinker, and someone who survives and thrives well on four hours sleep. I’ll never be any of those. Without enough rest, I feel hung over. Nauseous, a pounding headache, weak, and slow. On professional wrestling tours where we were unable to catch more than a brief nap between a show the previous evening and boarding a tour bus the next morning to travel seven hours to another city, I was afraid I’d drop someone on their head in the ring due to sleep deprivation.

It only happened once in my fifteen-year career, but it did happen, and it was bad. I was in Tokyo, Japan. As my opponent jumped off the top rope, I barely caught her in time, falling on her ankle, shattering it in several places. It was my first show of the tour. Rods and pins put her back together, but it’s something I’ve always felt awful about. I’ve also given myself several concussions by landing foolishly because I haven’t been all there while in the ring. Having learned from my mistakes, I trained myself to sleep anywhere, in any situation, in order to operate. Pain is a great teacher.

I walked past the airport gates to find a water fountain for my refillable bottle. I’d love to say I’m environmental – and most days I am – but in this case, I’m just cheap. I refuse to pay $3.50 for water. Remember when water was free and we paid for porn?

Returning to my gate, a giant Mr. Olympia-sized bodybuilder with a shaved head, too-tight shirt and jeans that barely made it around his Incredible Hulk legs openly stared at me. He wasn’t bad looking, but he made me uncomfortable. He gazed at me as if I was a juicy steak and he hadn’t eaten in a week. I kept walking.

I’m used to stares, but this guy started to follow me.

Admittedly, our kind is rare, as we were the same alien breed of fitness freak. However, this did not mean I wanted to share my genetics with him in order to create miniature gym rats.

Fuck. I realized that he was on the same flight I was. Southwest Airlines open seating policy makes people rush to board instead of clogging aisles trying to figure out what side “A” or “D” is on like aimless idiots. Additionally, they offer pre-boarding, which I opted for. Most days I’m a huge fan of this open seating concept, except on that day.

Naturally, Mr. Olympia was in “A” boarding, and with nothing but an entire airplane full of open seats to choose from, he headed straight for my row. He and his much smaller friend squashed in, with him taking the middle seat. Even those who are petite will not willingly take a middle seat if other rows are open. I was definitely being preyed upon.

McStares graciously allowed me half my window seat since his tree trunk-sized leg impinged on the other half.

As if on cue: “You’re really vascular,” he stated. Vampires, athletes and Homeland Security agents looking for people carrying drugs adore vascularity. I’ve learned to suffer through long sleeves in summer when returning to the United States customs and immigration in order to avoid being “randomly selected”.

“Um, yep.” I made a big show of opening my book wider and turning towards the window.

“You look great. We’re going to see Rush. Been to all their concerts. They’re playing in Philly tomorrow night. Do you like Rush?” I fucking love Rush. Red Barchetta, Tom Sawyer and Limelight got me through endless I-95 drives between parental visits from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, to Enterprise, Alabama.

“They’re okay,” I replied.

“So, what do you do?” Clearly, he wasn’t good with reading “fuck off” body language.

“I’m…an accountant.” I deliberately picked the least interesting career I could think of on the spur of the moment.

“Oh? That’s interesting,” he said.

“Really, it’s not.”

“I love your hair. Can I touch it?”

“What?”

My red hair hit the back of my jeans in length. At the moment, much of it was on the armrest. He picked up a handful, rubbed it thoughtfully…and then smelled it.

Why not just really go for it? Ask if I want to join The Mile-High Club, show some real initiative and fortitude? I snatched my hair back. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m just going to read and sleep.” I dramatically put earplugs in and made my 5’8”, 150-pound frame curl up as small as possible against the window.

I had a sinking feeling I wouldn’t be allowed to sleep. Hell hath no fury like a meat-head scorned. He fidgeted around, prattling on about A playlists versus B playlists for Rush concerts, training, diets, mass and protein for the duration of the two-hour and thirty-eight minute flight. Kill me. I wanted to ask if he minded shutting the fuck up, but I didn’t think he would comply.

Damn. I needed to pee, and every shake and rattle of the plane caused seatbelt strain across my bladder. I sat with my eyes squeezed shut, taking deep breaths. There was a sticky issue with getting out my row. Should I turn my ass to pass the guys? Or my crotch? Neither visual played out well. At an impasse, I held it.

“So, do you want to meet us for the concert Thursday night? I can probably get another ticket for the show.”

I looked at him and said, “I have to return some videotapes.” (Ambiguous Brett Easton Ellis American Psycho reference.)

He looked baffled, thus confirming the only thing we had in common were dumbbells.

“Uh, no. Not my thing. I’m not much of a concert goer,” I said. Unless you count Kid Rock, Reverend Run, Greg Allman, Def Leppard, Coldplay, Madonna, Blue Oyster Cult, Henry Rollins, Whitesnake, Great White, Guns ‘n Roses, Trans Siberia Orchestra, an awesomely absinthed night at Stone Temple Pilots, The Trailer Park Boys live, nearly every Cirque du Soleil show, and Rush R40. I pushed my earplugs in deeper, turned into the window and tried to meld myself to the window while ignoring his jostling leg up my rear. My throbbing forehead pressed against the cold glass and I desperately wished for a pair of noise cancelling headphones and sleep. If I can’t sleep on a flight, it seems long. Really, really long.

Finally, it was time to leave, or as Southwest Airlines calls it in their made-up lingo, “deplane”. Mr. Olympia eyed me as I stood up, primed to make one last desperate attempt. With a big smile and a warm tone of voice I told him, “If you touch anything on me as I pass, my fist will ‘Rush’ into your face, sweetheart.” He went silent for the first time in hours. As I moved past him, I shook out my hair, taunting him. I just needed the excuse, any excuse. He retreated, allowing me to pass. Submit, musclehead bitch!

Pee or Starbucks? I desperately needed the bathroom, but Starbucks was………Closer To The Heart.