I recently flew across the country and the sound of death filled the cabin. Every five seconds, some anonymous passenger was coughing up a lung, clearing asbestos out of their throat, sneezing floor wax out of their nostrils.
This must be what a tuberculosis ward in the Bastille sounds like. It was nauseating, disgusting, and too much to think about.
cough cough cough.
I tried to shove my face into the collar of my own shirt, to act as a filter, but I knew I was no match for the microscopic snot flavored germ.
As part of the complimentary beverage service they should serve Robitussen and sani-wipes. They should hand out rubber gloves and disinfectant.
I just wish I could have stopped breathing all together.
I know airlines refute this common complaint, saying that they have super sonic filtration systems that scrub air with a lemon fresh scent, but I don’t buy it.
I think they lie to us, just like they say our bags won’t be lost or they’re on time or they don’t have change for cocktails.
So when you are flying for three hours and all you hear is sniffling and gagging, your mind starts to wander. You start imagining walnut sized particles of petri dish stew floating around the cabin like some kind of CDC carnival ride.
I found myself trying to breathe defensively, in short pursive bursts. I was sucking in oxygen, getting rid of it quickly, before any of the viral time bombs could lodge in my lungs and take me out.
I wanted to push the call button and ask for a Diving bell to put over my head.
Just then, the guy in seat 11-E began hacking up something viscous. He was coughing into a napkin, but I swear, in the gleaming sunshine spilling through the window, I could see a billion molecules of EBOLA exploding into the cabin air.
I find myself getting mad. I suddenly want to slam my tray table into the guy ahead of me and toss my ample 3 ounces of ginger ale in his face.
I wonder to myself, if enough people expel enough toxin into the air, will the yellow masks drop from the over head compartment?
I stop myself from pushing the call button a second time. I want to push it so badly. I want to ask the flight attendant to smother the guy in seat 11-E with a pillow used by the drooling toddler three rows back.
I can actually see the bubonic plague dripping out of 11-E’s nostrils. Wipe your nose dude. Wipe your nose!
Someone give that bag of flesh a Bounty paper towel so he doesn’t have to keep using the same cocktail napkin made out of recycled beer nuts and car parts.
How much throat clearing can one man do? There should be a limit and when you exceed your limit, the emergency door opens and you are tossed out over Manhattan, Kansas.
I would think that when you chortle more than a bull in a pasture on a cold Kentucky morning, they would land the plane, call for a ambulance and get you some damn medical attention.
What do you say FAA? If a text message can bring down a jet liner, how about a sneeze?
I know we’re flying domestically, but I wonder if this guy has been to Western Africa recently.
Maybe the guy in 11-E got a hold of some bad Ju Ju and he’s an incubation chamber for the Plague.
All I know is this. When I get off the plane, my throat is scratchy and my nose is runny.
I see 11-E at the baggage carousel. I want his bag to be in Seattle.
I see him wipe his nose on a cocktail napkin and I roll my eyes wondering how many of us just got sick.
Life’s Crazy™