| dewy decimal |
2004-02-10 - 8:26 a.m.
I'm not one of those people who hate plane rides. The isle seats, the tiny blankets made of felt, the precious packets of salted, dry pretzels, the hoof-sized cups of beverage, the cabin pressure, the nauseating smell of sanitary wonder and the raucous swoosh of the mile high toilet flush; they really don't bother me. I swear.
Lee brings Zip Packs for the three of us so we wouldn't have to eat the shitty airplane food, which actually doesn't smell that bad today, chicken curry steak or something like that. The lady next to me keeps eyeing my meal through her periphery and eating this Zip Pack is making me feel like such a snob. Like I simply couldn't bare the culinary indiscretion of my fellow passengers.
They show a movie about a kid who befriends his two rich uncles and the little boy from the 6th Sense is in it and the sound is shitty and the plot is unimpressive and at the end I start crying. Everett is playing Ms. Pac Man and Lee is ripping through some Grisham novel. I tell the Korean lady next to me, "Sorry, I'm crying. It's the movie. Heh, I'm crying."
When we get off the plane I tell Lee, "This would be where I light up a cigarette if I were still a smoker right about now."
"Should we?"
And I didn't anticipate that he would even consider smoking on the trip but he goes on about how this is Vegas and how this is the slippery city where the shit goes down. Where accountants abandon their numbers and grandpas with bad cholesterol are making their third rounds at the buffet lines. I make the executive decision that we will be adhering to our New Years Resolutions but that "Should We?" has loosened some kind of stronghold that I had secured earlier and "Should we?� "Should we?" will be following me around for the entire trip where "should we" can be, at any time.