Our kids are now at the age at which they need very little supervision when we fly. Since it’s almost impossible to get four seats in a row, my wife Lala and I often sit together while Poppy and London huddle over a tiny screen in silence across the aisle.
Not a bad deal: We're forgiven for ignoring our precious little gems and they can order rounds of soft drinks freely while we pretend not to notice. On a recent flight home from spring break, Lala ripped recipes from magazines while I gave her the play-by-play on the other passengers aboard.
"That woman will never get her belt secured—should have purchased two seats. I hope she doesn't pull a Kevin Smith and get us delayed," I said, referring to the corpulent Hollywood director who had a supersized tantrum after he was booted from a recent flight for endangering other passengers with his rotundity.
"This one sounds good." Lala pointed to a procedure for some sort of complicated soup that involved avocados, a blender and what is referred to as "chill time." "You should make it."
"And check out Boozy McDrunk hitting on that poor girl." I nodded to an obviously inebriated 50-something man sporting a Hawaiian shirt complimenting a coed on her tan, which to me looked much closer to a burn.
"How do you feel about raisins?" Lala shot me a smile. "In food, I mean."
"He has some nerve, that guy."
The fact that Lala and I were really speaking past each other might seem to some like the downside of almost 20 years of marriage, but we see it as a way to mutually support our individual interests.
About halfway through the flight, Lala got up to go to the bathroom and, having nothing better to do, I followed. I figured I could see where they put Miss Two-Seater and maybe spot a few toupees while I was at it. At the back of the plane, Lala turned the handle and opened the restroom door on a standing man. I recognized my old friend Boozy from his shirt, which was as colorful as Lala's now embarrassed face.
"Oh my god!" she said and burst out laughing. "He should have locked the door."
"I never grow tired of that one," a flight attendant added, laughing along. "That and when people show up barefoot to go in there." He pointed at the lavatory with a crooked finger.
While Lala and the steward chatted about other embarrassing moments at 30,000 feet, Boozy rushed back to his seat and I slipped in. I made sure to lock the door and, as I did so, the automatic light illuminated that my predecessor had spewed vomit all over the tiny vestibule.
"Sweet Jesus," I said and put my hand over my mouth. The bastard didn't even have the sense to clean it up. I'd love to say that I got out of there immediately and informed the authorities, but I'm a man who had to use the bathroom, so I used the bathroom. It took some ninja skills and fancy footwork, but I'm proud to report that I escaped relatively unscathed.
"Don't go in," I warned my wife.
"Why?"
"Let's just say he did some decorating in there."
"You mean?"
"Yup: Chunderdome."
Up the aisle walked a 5-year-old with a mass of red hair. Maybe the attendant was clairvoyant or maybe he was just a seasoned veteran, but the little ketchup head was barefoot.
Appalled, all three of us stared at his lack of footwear and he noticed. "Um, do you think I need shoes?"
"As a mom," Lala said. "I highly recommend it."
I thought of what looked like pureed kidney bean soup and smelled like rum back in the little room of hurl and said, "Kid, go get two pairs."
Robert Wilder's most recent book is Tales from the Teachers' Lounge. Daddy Needs a Drink appears the first Wednesday of each month in the Santa Fe Reporter.
