Friday, Mar. 07, 2003 - 3:20 p.m.

JFK to LAX

Part Three

5:09 p.m. As it should be, my rowmate, 8J, was served first. But as she stared with displeasure and abomination at her Filet Mignon situated next to a circular mold of scallop potatoes I could almost hear the boiling of her blood. The scowl on her otherwise tautly pulled collagen injected face suggested that FA (Flight Attendant) and plopped in front of her a helping of Alpo in a dish inscribed "Bitch." Had the FA declared war? How much longer would 8J sit still repulsed by the tiny steak and potatoes? Is it possible for her to actually explode when an implode would be more politically correct and plane friendly?

5:10 p.m. Before she could even allow herself another thought 8J beckons the FA and in a mind numbingly shrill voice says, "This has a funny taste. I�ll take the pasta instead." I sized up the FA as one smart cookie because it didn�t take her long to notice the fact that 8J never bothered to taste her meal. Never bothered to actually taste the filet or any part of the potatoes. Never even bothered. I want to shout out kudos to 8J for not only standing up for herself but for quality control that would benefit us all but chickened out cause I was afraid the FA would spit in my food.

5:11 p.m. Seemingly defeated the FA departs with said entree.

5:12 p.m. FA returns with said entree saying, "I�m afraid we have no more pasta." Once again, the absence of "ma�am" hung in the air like the gas 8J emitted earlier. 8J, "But you told that woman you had extras!" FA, "I was mistaken. Would you like to try the filet once again?" 8J, "What do you think?" I guess the FA thought not because she quickly left with meal in hand.

5:13 p.m. As my pasta dinner is delivered with a smile I wonder if 8J will ask me to hand over my food or better yet demand I trade with her. As I savor the sight of my delicious shell-shaped pasta topped with sun-dried tomatoes and smothered in a creamy mushroom sauce sprinkled with parmesan I make best efforts in preventing it�s scent from wafting to my right. You could only imagine my embarrassment, after slowly and methodically raising the fork to my lips, at first taste the tiniest of pleasurable sounds escaped while I was licking my lips.

5:15 p.m. Unable to stand the indignation one more second 8J leaps from her seat, huffs as she laboriously hurtles, and almost clears, my legs and feet and storms down the aisle toward the galley. I had visions of ovens searched and carts overturned until finally cupboard doors were pried open with bare and determined fingers only to expose where the flight attendants had band together to hide four or five extra pasta dinners. I ate my dinner in silence as I waited for the name calling and hair pulling to ensue which would inevitably lead to an undercover Federal Marshal revealing himself (and not in the good way) in order to maintain calm on the aircraft.

5:18 p.m. As 8J returns empty handed I�m desperate to ask: What happened? Where�d you go? Did you kick butt? I would have also asked if she was still hungry but I assumed the bag of popcorn, half pound of mixed nuts, 3 Heinekens, 3 glasses of Sarraz, plus assorted gum and candy whatnots retrieved from the Prada carry-all might have done the trick.

5:33 p.m. Whatever did occur in the galley obviously pushed Miss Diva Thang Flight Attendant into a new realm of passive aggressive behavior towards my little 8J. 8J was only to be referred to as "you" the remainder of the journey. The "You want water?" and "You had enough?" etc. was reminiscent of dialogue from Silence of the Lambs, "It puts the lotion on its body."

5:51 p.m. When the desert cart arrived 8J ordered Bailey�s and Coffee and without missing a beat both the strawberry cheesecake and Haagen-Dazs Triple Carmel Explosion. I sat back, not wanting to get hit by flying objects, and held my breath as I awaited the fresh battle to commence.

5:52 p.m. Defeated the FA reluctantly delivered all requested items.

8:00 p.m. As hours passed without incident I felt 8J was becoming bored and restless and wondered if I was under obligation to cheer her up by antagonizing her. I thought I could ask her, "What does your husband do for a living?" or quip, "I assume your French�"

8:10 p.m. Even after three hours of listening to her music blaring from her Sony Disk-man headset resting around the base of her neck, even though she captured and dominated the shared armrest the entire flight and even though she was a self-imposed adrenaline junky I was falling in love. Falling in love with her determination and ability to get what she wants, feels she deserves and is entitled to and not at all repulsed by her assumption she could, would or should and will get it.

9:00 p.m. When the FA delivered our coats I was flabbergasted to here a "thank you" emanate from 8J�s seeming painful augmented lips. In turn the FA responds with a heart felt, "Your welcome ma�am." She said ma�am and I thought I was going to cry.

9:35 p.m. In my car driving solo back to my modest condo in Los Angeles I looked to my right and for a moment missed 8J. I consoled myself with the thought that this flight from JFK to LAX would be with me for a long time. Consoled myself knowing that the memory of 8J would actually be hard to forget. As I drove over the crest on La Cienega Blvd. and saw the lights of Los Angeles stretched out before me I knew that the city was full of 8Js. And even though most of them were locked away isolated inside their BMW�s or Mercedes I could always count on running into an 8J almost anywhere in this town.

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