"They tell you to locate your nearest emergency exit. I do this immediately! I say, 'Let's see... I'll go around the fat fuck... step on the widow's head... push those children out of the way... knock down the paralyzed midget, and get out of the plane where I can help others.'"*

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.

"Well, what exactly is... 'a water landing'? Am I mistaken, or does this sound somewhat similar to crashing into the ocean?"*

Marcy and Me Part II

            This is the continuation of the story of my first flight home for Thanksgiving which I mention here.

            Marcy received her first glass of chardonnay and I got my tomato juice strait up, and we went right back to talking about the Union Pacific Railroad.

            It was fascinating stuff. Marcy had been working for them for a good ten years (she was one of those women who looks like she’s 45 but is probably only in her early 30’s) and she had lots of great stories.

            She asked me why I no longer lived in Omaha and I explained that I was in college, and she thought that was a good plan. I was pleased that I was pleasing her—I’ve always been overly concerned with strangers’ opinions.

            Marcy explained that she wished she didn’t live in Omaha, but her mother lived there and wanted her to stay in town, since she’s an only child (unless you count her pathetic, unsuccessful brother) so she felt kind of obligated to never move.

            I said my parents were adamant that I attend college at least 500 miles away from Omaha (this is true—they didn’t want me trying to come home on weekends; and they were smart because I totally would have) and she thought that was cool.

            She said her mother was all alone in the world since her father had died, and if Marcy—her only child (aside from the brother who didn’t seem that important)—didn’t stick around, her mother would be a wreck.

            During this time, Marcy leaned further and further into my personal area. She wasn’t being rude—she was on her third glass of complimentary chardonnay and feeling friendly. I unfortunately (?) was still downing my first glass of tomato juice and couldn’t quite wrap my head around being in kissing distance from a stranger.

            And then things got sort of personal.

            “So, do you have a boyfriend?”

            “No, I don’t.”

            It’s funny, when you’re extremely young and have had boyfriends and aren’t too worried about eventually having them again, it’s so easy to be honest and say, “No, I don’t have a boyfriend.”

            (I mean, at that point you think you’re going to live forever and date princes and movie stars and then eventually settle for a sweet, organic farmer who plays the guitar and writes Nobel Prize-winning novels in his spare time. Right?)

            Marcy sat in my face for a moment, breathing her firewater breath into my face. She sighed heavily.

            “Um…do you?” I asked.

            “Yeah. And oh my God, it’s the hottest relationship of my entire life.”

            She leaned back into her seat as though she truly needed a moment to think about how sexy her boyfriend was and how to best describe how truly “hot” her relationship was to a stupid college freshman who was reading The Voyeur and sipping tomato juice like an idiot.

            “Wow, that’s really great,” I said. I waited.

            “Can I tell you what happened, though?” Marcy asked.

            “Of course! I mean, sure, obviously.”

            I was in one of those moments where I feel somehow that I’m watching something sick and twisted—something I shouldn’t be seeing. It is in these moments that I feel a kind of perverted euphoria. Always have.

            “I don’t know what’s going to happen with us. I mean, have you ever had a sexual experience so intense that things got…out of control?”

            I pretended like I was trying really hard to remember a life rife with crap loads of sexual experiences, and I busted out some sweet acting skills. I furrowed my brow and bit my lip.

            “Not…not really. I mean, god, my life’s been so crazy. It’s hard to pick a time when I wasn’t out of control. Sexually. You know?” I just talked and talked.

            Around this time the flight attendant refilled Marcy’s chardonnay glass for the third time. Marcy took a large, thoughtful swig and leaned into me.

            “You wanna hear a story?” She hissed alcohol into my ear.

            “Yes. Yeah, I do.”

            “Okay, so my boyfriend—his name is Greg and he’s so perfect. I mean, I think he really loves me. We’ve only been dating for a few months but I can already tell he isn’t like other guys.”

            “He sounds terrific,” I tried to keep my words simple—I didn’t want Marcy to get sidetracked.

            “And he came over and things were getting a little, you know, crazy in the bedroom. And I have these three dogs…”

            She leaned away from me out of her seat to look for the flight attendant. The newest glass of wine had disappeared quickly.

            “Yeah, Marcy? What kind of dogs?” I wanted to keep the story going. I was enthralled. And a little bit nauseated.

            “Um, well one’s a German shepherd and the other two are mutts. Where’s that flight attendant?”

            “Well, keep telling the story. I’m sure she’ll be here soon.”

            “Okay, so anyway. Greg and I were doing it when suddenly he got this great idea that he wanted to do it, you know...that way.”

            “Which way?” I didn't really know what we were talking about.

            “You know. That way. Like…" She whispered. "Like...doggie style!”

            “Oh, goodness,” I responded. Doggie style. Interesting. I made a mental note to look that up.

            “And so we closed the bedroom door so the dogs couldn’t get in, because Greg hates the dogs and they’re crazy. And anyway, we started going at it and—“

            “More wine, ma’am?” the flight attendant appeared with the bottle.

            “Oh, yes. Thank you!” Marcy swigged at her fresh wine.

            The flight attendant walked on and Marcy, with her new glass, started relating the story with a clearer focus.

            “So he’s going at me from behind--" (aha! I thought!)--"when suddenly, SNAP! His penis hits my pubic bone and—whoosh! There’s blood all over the place! He’d fractured his urethra! Can you believe it?” She looked at me with a sick, foggy smile.

            “What?! Oh my god! Wait, what happened?”

            “Well the blood’s going everywhere and Greg’s screaming in pain and so I call the paramedics! And then I’m running all over the house trying to get him towels and ice and the dogs get into the bedroom and they’re leaping all over him and I just don’t know what to do!”

            “Wait, are you telling me he broke his…?”

            “Yes, he broke his penis. It was terrible. And then, when the paramedics arrived and knocked on the door I realize, oh shit, I’m still naked!”

            “A man can break his penis?” I felt sure I would’ve heard about this before.

            “And so I have to put clothes on and corral the dogs into the kitchen so the firemen can come help Greg!”

            “Oh, Jesus!”

            “Yeah, it was really intense.”

I should stop here. This story is getting much too long, though it is almost over. If you’re still with me, many thanks! If you want to hear the end of Marcy, let me know. It’s pretty close to being over anyway. I may rewrite this at a later date. Smooches!

*Quote from, yet again, George Carlin.

"About this time, someone is telling you to get on the plane. I say, 'fuck you, I'm getting IN the plane! IN the plane! Let Evil Knievel get ON the plane! I'll be in here with you folks in uniform! There seems to be less WIND in here!'"*

 "Marcy and Me Part I"   

            All this traveling and eating puts me in mind of the first time I flew home from Los Angeles for Thanksgiving.

            I was eighteen and about three months into my first semester of college. I had only flown by myself once before, when I was thirteen, from Omaha to Baltimore, and at that point I’d had gate-to-gate supervision so there was no way I could mess things up.

            This time I was too old for a chaperone (or at least they didn’t offer me one) so I had to suck it up and go it alone.

            It didn’t seem like it was going to be too tricky: I was on a Midwest Express DIRECT FLIGHT from LAX to Epply. They don’t have this flight anymore, unfortunately. I’m not really sure if they still have Midwest Express. But I’m sure I’ll look it up at some point while I’m writing this and let you know.

            So anyway, I was able to do a lot of the basic airport things you do pretty easily. This was approximately 10 months before 9/11, so you didn’t have to be a ticketed passenger to go through security and my friends Dane and Michelle even hung out with me in the terminal. I want to say that Dane parked right at the curb of the airport as well, but I’m sure I’m making that up. This wasn’t the 1950’s.

            I got on the plane and settled into my usual window seat. I used to be able to fall asleep on planes right away and I liked to have something to lean against. Now I feel claustrophobic and have a constant, violent urge to pee unless I’m sitting in the aisle.

            I remember I was reading The Voyeur for school, and thinking later that that was somewhat amusing given the events of the flight.

            My seatmate soon joined me and I was dismayed to see that she was slightly, shall we say, zaftig. I’ve since gotten to the point on airplanes where I just assume the person sitting next to me is going to spill over into my seat. I’m not lucky that way.

            I opened my book and started to read. Midwest Express had (has? I still haven’t looked that up) only two seats per side of the plane, and they were roomy and pretty comfortable.  I was starting to fall asleep when my neighbor leaned over.

            “Are you from Omaha?”

            She was middle-aged and blonde, with a doughy face.

            “Yes,” I replied. “Are you?”

            “Yes, but I travel a lot for work. I was just admiring your t-shirt.” She nodded at my Union Pacific Railroad t-shirt that I wore constantly from the age of 17 to the age of 21.  (Now it has pit stains.) “I work for Union Pacific.”

            “Wow, cool!” I was genuinely intrigued. “My grandpa was a railroad man for years and years.” (It’s true. He was a brakeman. I think. I’ll have to ask my mom. I always picture him driving the train. Conducting, if you will. But I’m pretty sure that’s wrong.)

Beautiful, old train.

            We began discussing the railroad and she introduced herself as Marcy and explained how she worked in the insurance department of the UP.

            She soon began making my day with stories of gory train accidents. She shared anecdotes about people getting brutally crushed by train wheels. She described the injuries sustained by train jumpers. She talked about a man getting cut in half by the ball-and-socket joint thingies that hold the cars together. It was disgusting and incredibly entertaining.

            Soon the cocktail cart started rattling down the aisle.

            I perked up immediately, because I love drinking tomato juice on an airplane. I don’t ever drink it at home or anywhere else, but on an airplane it tastes delicious. Sort of like how Twix in Europe taste so much better than they do here.

            When the beverage cart finally made its way to our row, the flight attendant reminded us that they offered complimentary chardonnay; along with the warm chocolate chip cookies we would receive later.

            I was no stranger to wine at eighteen. We managed to learn how to drink in high school, like normal teenagers. But I was afraid to get carded and be completely mortified in front of the very cool Marcy. So I stuck to the plan and ordered my tomato juice. Marcy ordered chardonnay and asked if it was limitless.

            And that’s about when things started to get kind of weird.

I will continue this story in another post—maybe even tomorrow. But I’m trying to work on keeping these shorter. You’re welcome!!

 See? Right here!

PS Midwest Express still exists! Only now it’s called Midwest Airlines. 

*Quote is George Carlin.