THE HIGH LIFE

I fly quite a lot for business. I fly Southwest because it’s reasonable in price, has friendly staff, and allows two free bags per passenger. Because I fly on my own, I can also grab a middle seat right at the front of the plane on Southwest flights and be in a Lyft before the back of the plane has made it to baggage claim. I usually look for a woman about 15 to 20 years older than myself to sit next to. They are always respectful and rarely grumpy. These women will inevitably strike up a conversation with me, stating how beautiful my daughter and granddaughter are (as they look down at the iPhone Home Screen photo of my wife and daughter), and they then tell me about flying to our destination to see a doctor they’ve been going to their whole lives or else to visit a child they are immensely proud of. Pleasant stuff.

Today, I made the mistake of not recognizing that the other person on my aircraft row was the type of person who doesn’t get off their phone until the flight attendant shames them with the ole ‘this plane is not going anywhere until…’ line. He was a film exec, so he was on a desperately important call about a character in a script and some director who has had five minutes of buzz. The flight attendants walked past several times and ignored that he was wheeling and dealing after the cabin door was shut. They sat down in their jump seats, buckled up, and made no less than three announcements about how short the flight is, so we better damn well know what we want to drink before they get to our row to take the order. A minute before take-off, I forcefully asked the gentleman to get off his phone and shove his bag under the seat. To his credit, he did so immediately. I hope his movie tanks.

I’m thinking of billing Southwest for services rendered.