The man pauses in the aisle, marks down the colors of the seats, the feel of the tepid airplane air hitting his face, appreciates the scenery of those joining him on his flight from Berlin to Amsterdam. The black bag in my left hand becomes heavier, the leather bag on my right shoulder pulls my bones down towards the mish-mashed carpet of light blue, burgundy, puce and navy blue, threatens to snap my arm clear off. Still, he waits. For no apparent reason other than to hold everyone up from getting on the plane and sitting down. He grins like a buffoon, shuffles his bags around in the cabin stowage area above, pushes his gold-rimmed grandfather glasses up with his right index finger. The bane of our existence, the sardonic jokester, the unbridled grinner, the haughty smiler. He exists to pause, a temporal anomaly existing neither in time nor space. He speaks to others sitting down of banal topics related to seat locations, his favorite foods, his final destination. My fingers have reddened. The pressure of the bags is mounting. I imagine my fingertips exploding, blood spraying everywhere coating all passengers rouge. The buffoon will not notice but I will be escorted off the plane to medical. I will miss my flight.
The leather strap on my right shoulder digs in, begins to melt into my skin. Soon we will be one and I will be known in New York as that freakish man that walks the streets with a leather bag dangling from his shoulder skin. My body will reject the leather graft , a debilitating infection will ensue and months later, my arm will be amputated. This man is killing me. Slowly.
The stewardess comes by to ask him to sit. He engages her in a ridiculous conversation regarding the occupancy limits of the plane, the food that will be served, her favorite color. I brace my legs against the seats, afraid one of them might leap forward and up, send the man hurtling towards the back of the plane. Gently, I bring my black bag forward and begin bumping his legs. “So sorry,” I say and he looks back, smiling. Again, I begin bumping him. “Ah, I am so sorry. I think my bag is dying to get to its seat.” Subtle shifts of focus defray any chance of hand-to-hand combat and as he turns once again to ask me to stop, I make my move, speeding past him with my bags, knocking him in the arm, pushing him into the seat on the side. As I run down the aisle cackling, the cabin crew tackles me, restraining me with plastic handcuffs.
I watch from the office of the polizei as my plane leaves Berlin, the buffoon smiling from the window of 2A.
