Onions and Mustard

I was reminded today of my flight to Myrtle Beach last November.  

This was during the height of the TSA, full body pat down issue.  I did receive an upper torso pat down from an overly friendly TSA agent who kept calling me buddy (but that's not why I thought of it today).  

I went to Myrlte Beach for the SEDUG (South East Datatel User's Group) conference.  Datatel is the maker of the academic database we use at Lee and we go to talk about it and complain (but that's not why I thought of it).   

Why was I reminded of my trip you ask?

Every once in a while someone crosses your path that makes quite an impression.   As I boarded the flight from ATL to MYR, I came across one of these special individuals.  As I entered the plane, a few rows back I spotted an older gentleman, with a long grey beard who was of considerable girth.  I knew immediately without looking at any row or seat numbers that he was my seat mate.  This is how it works for me.  If there is another person of size on a plane, in a movie theater or in a ball park, they are seated next to me.  I have accepted this lot in life as some kind of BMI kharma.

This man has not yet accepted his lot in life.  He looked at me with contempt as I placed my bag in the overheard.  He was seated next to the window with his legs spread more than shoulder length apart, his hands at his sides, his fists clenched.  I sat next to him.  He didn't move.  He was very much in my seat.  I didn't fight him.  I just squeezed close to the arm rest on the aisle.  I recognized that he was prepared to take a stand.  This was principle for him.

"This ain't gonna work," he said in a grizzled southern draw.  "Don't even try puttin' that seatbelt on.  If I can't get mine on, I KNOW you ain't getting' yours on."  I reached for the seatbelt and snapped it in place.  "Hrmm," he growled.

While the other passengers arrived, we sat silent and unmoved for several minutes.  His fists clinched into my side, his leg pushing me.  It didn't take long before I noticed an odor.  It was not a kind, friendly odor like caramel apples.  Nor was it a fresh, clean odor like newly washed bedsheets. 

It was an unhappy odor.

I sat for a few minutes trying to put a name to what I was smelling.  It was truly a mosaic of odd smells.  The best I can do is to say, it was as if someone had taken minced onions and strong mustard and strained them through a sweaty dress sock while smoking Marlboro reds.   Think about that for a second and let it sink in . . . . 

The odor was growing stronger by the moment, like the dark cloud surging from Mordor.  I started to feel a little nausea, but I couldn't show weakness.  I've never thrown up on a plane before.  What would I do with the little bag after I used it?  I had to stand my ground.

While the flight attendant was making her final check down the aisle, the onion man motioned to her and asked if he could sit across the aisle next to the woman where there would be more room.  She said yes and he practically climbed over top of me to get there.  

Yes!  I moved closer to the window and settled into the enjoyment of having the whole space to myself and reveling in the small victory I had won.

Later in the flight, I heard some grumbling from across the aisle.  I looked over to see the onion man and happen to lock eyes with his new seat mate.  She has never met me . . . but she hates me.

I was able to gain a small victory that day . . .  or did I?  

The smell of onions and mustard haunt me still.