Greetings from Scotland once again,
Several commercial flights ago, I temporarily adopted an old man. Though he was most certainly of Indian descent, my private name for him was Boris Van Der Waal. Boris because I feel the name is grossly underused in both my life and this, my blog. Van Der Waal because it ties it together, after a fashion.
Well there it is, the whole point of the story, naked and premature. Allow me to incubate and see what develops.
Put your small bags completely beneath the seat in front of you, we appreciate your cooperation as this will be a full flight. Wending my skinny way amidst the Brownian throng, I always manage to board near first, and as restitution I promptly find my way to the back and settle in next to the window, waiting to see which fellow traveller will sit beside me. Most of the time, no one does. The sole empty space on the plane is the middle seat in my row. Am I that intimidating? Part of me likes to think so, the same part that might enjoy knifehunting or raw meat or politics. But this is not the point.
Boris, among the last passengers to arrive, shakily sat down in the aisle seat, and directed either a nod or an involuntary jerk of the head at me, which I returned. He looked at least seventy, small, balding, and wrinkled. After takeoff, I shut my eyes for a little nap, but heard the rustling of blankets and magazines and jackets. I opened my eyes to see Boris making a pile against my armrest. Curious. He swiveled in his chair, put his head on the pile, and shifted around. What little hair he had left brushed against my arm. The entire affair startled me, this was a practice entirely new in my experience. He said to the stowed middle tray table, I am old, can I lay down. Didn't ask, just calmly conveyed. I was in no real way inconvenienced, and had no real influence, so I said sure. The people across the aisle laughed, and made comments under their breath about poor old Boris, and eventually the attendant came and asked him to sit up. Boris was not happy about this, and protested. I am old. He stayed as he was, and I told the attendant it was fine. She left him alone.
When it came time for peanuts to be distributed, Boris sat upright. He received two packets, and said I want more. He was calmly informed that there weren't enough for everyone, and repeated I want more. Turning to me with more fury than I expected from an old man he said From Dallas they gave me more, why can't I get more, this is ridiculous. He tried reaching into the basket the attendant carried, but was unsuccessful against his more nimble adversary, who stepped ahead an aisle with a dismissive grunt. Poor old Boris. Only two peanut packets. Which are unsatisfyingly small. Boris sulked, arms crossed, acataleptically muttering something about Dallas and his righteous ire.
When it came time for peanuts to cease distribution, I excused myself to the bathroom, and on my way back asked the attendant for two more packets, which were kindly and promptly given, since there had been a little more than the passengers had wanted. Except Boris. I sat down again, and gave him my winnings. Only two peanut packets, which are unsatisfyingly small. He was ecstatic. It was me and Boris, interstitial comrades, united against the airborn waitstaff, and he appreciated the help.
We left the plane, and I walked much faster than Boris could. I never saw him again, nor will I, and I am indifferent to this.
until the planets align,
walter