After two announced delays, we finally boarded.
I’m fake smiling at people as I snake through the aisle full of lucky bastards up front. I hate them with all of my being.
All the while straining my neck to catch a glimpse of seat 23D. For sure, I was giving the death stare to whoever had kicked me out. Daggers, baby. Get ready to have me think that I’ve made you uncomfortable with my death stare.
But it was empty. And not just that seat. The entire section of rows 16 to 29 was completely absent of seated passengers. What’s going on here? I didn’t know whether to be annoyed or elated. What did this mean? I didn’t know what to feel.
So I asked the flight attendant. She said, “Oh, this section is empty for weight distribution purposes.”
Huh? All of it? That’s bullshit!
Here’s the thing — my father was a professional pilot. I grew up in airplanes. I know this is true. My brain knows it’s a real thing. I’ve been in airplanes with him and personally witnessed him move people around for proper weight distribution.
But I can’t get my emotions out of the way of my brain. It makes no sense.
“Keep moving, sir. Your seat is just back there.”
When I got to 37D, I found exactly what I assumed I’d find given how this entire mess had gone so far — two people occupying seats 37D and F. My bookends.
I thought to myself, “Oh, here we go. Fourteen more hours of this shit.” Wheels up.
And then an angel appeared.
“Sir, now that we’re airborne, we can redistribute the weight. Would you be interested in changing seats?”
Uh, would I? All I know is that within ten seconds, I was back in that aisle, being led to a new and promised land. I don’t remember standing up. I probably left some of my crap in my old seat. I’m sure I stepped on the person next to me.
“Sir, take your pick. You’re welcome to just about any seat in this section.”
So I chose. Really, there was only one choice.
I sat my ass right down in seat 23D and contemplated the fourteen hours of relative bliss ahead.
