Excuse me. Hi, sorry. Do you mind opening the shade? I know it’s bright, but I like looking out the window. When did we stop opening them? It’s not that I’m anxious—quite the opposite. I try to control so much that it's rather nice to have something I can't. That’s up to the pilot and God to deal with. No, I just like the heights. The view from above. It’s inspiring, no? That while everyone carries on down there, we can watch from a distance? Make up stories about their lives, pass judgment if we must. When you’re up here and they’re down there, you get to decide.
Oh, do you see that? Just there? Look, that small pond. Excuse my reach, let me point it out to you. The sun is hitting the water just so. That sparkle. Yes, even from my seat, through that tiny, thick window, I can appreciate it. From your seat, too, I’m sure. Do you wonder if it’s even better in first class? I’m certain it’s the same. We are all going to the same destination with the same luggage carousel waiting and the same Ubers to hail. They only just get to brag about how they got there. No one boasts about the middle seat, but I’ll still get there all the same. I’ll even see more.
Look two rows up, in 17C. That man took off his sneakers and his socks. It would be uncouth even in the summer, but in November? And there, look! In row 21. Don’t they look like two lovers quarreling? Their arms crossed, their gazes on whatever they’re watching on their phones, even though they keep furrowing their brows and looking at each other sideways? They must have had an argument before getting on the flight. Maybe it was over who would take the middle seat. Yes, I think that’s it.
This is why I love it back here. One simply doesn’t see this in first class—they are all so worried about being perceived. They drink their free champagne in the seat they purchased with points, with the Louis Vuitton Neverfull they bought on Canal Street. They spend the entire two hours stealing glances at their neighbors to see if they are stealing glances back. We all want that seat and that champagne and the thought that people are envious of us in some way, just based on our position in a steel tube. But back here? If you choose to watch, no one watches back. Not really, anyway. They'll only shoot you a dirty look if you've taken the last of the overhead space. Then they cram into their seat with their free soft drink and close their shade and wait until we land. But if you watch, you can look out the window with the same view as the people in first class, with nothing but real stories surrounding you. It’s entertainment in itself.
I couldn’t help but notice your watch. Are you traveling for work? Ah, a golf trip. That must explain why you took off your wedding band. Yes, it left quite a tan line. I can understand how it would affect your swing, though. Even the smallest things can make the biggest impacts. Oh, I didn’t mean to offend you—I only meant that it was an interesting choice. Like look over there, just across the aisle. Don’t make it too obvious. See that woman? I sat next to her in the terminal. She’s been working on that same text message since then. She’s rewritten it over and over. Before we boarded, she typed and retyped the same word at least a dozen times. Don’t accuse me of being nosy! If she didn’t want people to look, her font wouldn’t be so large. I assume Donna is a daughter. Or a sister. Whatever is happening with Donna’s husband, though? It seems this woman is done playing mediator. Maybe he was off playing golf, too.
Why am I going to Mexico City? Oh, that isn’t my final destination. I exaggerated about the same luggage carousel and the same Ubers and all that. No, it’s just a layover for me. So where is my final destination? Well, that is rather personal. I don’t know you. How do I know you won’t stalk me? No, if you want to know that badly, just follow me on Instagram. You’ll see where I’m heading there. But I don’t always share where I am until I’ve already left. If you look at my social media, you’d think I’m in Amsterdam right now. But I’m not. I’m here, in the middle seat, flying to Mexico City, which is admittedly not my final destination.
Would you like a stick of gum? I find it always helps with my ears when we land. No, really, I insist. Oh, yes, I’m sorry, let me put my seat back up. I always forget that, and I hope the flight attendants do, too. What difference would it make in a crash landing? I’d at least want my last few breaths to be more comfortable than how these seats would have me. Yes, I suppose you’re right; maybe that’s why people pay for first class. Well, at least back here we can watch the same landing. The buildings taking shape, the people coming into view. Even the best of them look a little less spectacular as we descend. Oh, look, that man has finally put his socks and shoes back on—better late than never. And the lovers seem to have forgiven each other. Honeymoon in Mexico City does sound rather romantic.
What a smooth landing. Should we clap? No, no. I’m just joking. Why celebrate someone doing exactly what they’re supposed to do? I don’t clap for the mailman when he delivers my mail, do I? No, that’s exactly what the pilot is paid to do, and that’s why I’m rather fine giving up control to whoever the pilot is. Him or her or they—I’m not particular. They do their job, and I’ll do mine.
What’s mine? Haven’t I already told you?
Well, it was nice to meet you. Thank you for opening up the shade. I’m sure I’ll see you again.