Marcy and Me Part III
This is the final chapter of my flight to Omaha with boozy Marcy, which I mention in great detail both here and here.
Marcy had just finished describing how her boyfriend (a man named Greg with really bad aim and even worse luck) had fractured his urethra on her pubic bone during “the act.” This, as I said before, was a feat I did not know possible. (But it is! Look at this!)
Marcy seemed as worn out by telling the story as I was deeply disturbed by hearing it. But I had to know how Greg had fared.
“Oh, he went to the hospital and had to get an I.V. drip. He was there for two weeks!” Marcy explained, tossing back more chardonnay. I tipped her glass upward so she’d finish faster and get on with it (just kidding).
“But, so…is he okay? I mean, you can’t put a cast on a guy’s ‘you-know-what.’ Can you?”
“Of course you can’t! But he was on bed rest for weeks. And now he’s in a wheelchair, poor guy. It sucks, too, because I haven’t gotten any in quite some time.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” I responded, feeling really sorry for Marcy.
“Yeah, but he’ll be fine. Right now I’m playing nurse, so that’s a drag. But he absolutely CANNOT become aroused or he’ll be in horrible pain. Which is so hard when he’s around me.”
“Yuck,” I thought in my head.
Not long after Marcy’s hideous story, my mind still reeling from the imagery that had been permanently burned onto my brain, the flight attendants started down the aisle with warm chocolate chip cookies.
Marcy and I chatted about more innocuous things while eating our cookies and washing them down with chardonnay and tomato juice, respectively (neither a good taste combo, I’ve discovered. Surprising!).
|This picture provided solely to break up the retinal monotony of this post.|
She gave me her business card before we landed, I guess in case I wanted to hear any more stories or meet up over the holiday weekend with her and Greg. And before deplaning, she hugged me good-bye. Drunk people are so sweet.
By baggage claim I looked for her (and perhaps a chubby guy in a wheelchair) but I didn’t see her. And I was beyond excited to see my family after the longest separation of my life, so it’s possible I wasn’t paying close enough attention.
I’ve since sat next to many other crazies on airplanes. I draw them like a magnet. There was the lady in a parka that smelled like pee and asked me if I liked to talk or if I was “one of those people who just like to sleep on the airplane.” When I responded that I was, indeed, a sleeper she said, “Too bad. Because I’m a talker.” I was lucky enough to switch to an empty row behind her (a move for which I somehow felt the need to apologize).
Then there was the woman who spent the entire flight talking about how her son had done a lot of jail time, but not just because of the time he got caught smoking in an airplane lavatory. “They really do have smoke detectors in there, you know.”
Airplanes are hilariously odd when you think about how many people are crammed into such a small space and hurled through the air together at incredibly high speeds. It’s actually weird that most of us choose not to talk to each other and either read a book or take a nap instead. I can’t think of any other situation where I’d be so comfortable falling asleep in a public place or leaving my purse next to a complete stranger while I go to the bathroom. But have a conversation? No way!
I’m just crossing my fingers that the next bizarre encounter I have on an airplane involves a normal but incredibly attractive man, because those guys always seem to be sitting somewhere else. Maybe they take trains?
*Quote from George Carlin.