People Roulette

Okay, so I know I only met you a few minutes ago and we’re just two people forced to sit together on a domestic flight, but I saw something back in the airport that’s giving me an adolescent fit of the giggles, and I just have to share it with someone.

Before I tell you about it, though, let me just say this: thanks so much for being a normal person. The fact that you’re under 300 pounds, able to formulate coherent sentences, and seated next to me, makes you a statistical anomaly. It’s the thing that scares me most about flying – not going down in a ball of flames – but who am I going to have to sit with. It’s like People Roulette. I could get someone like you; or I could spend three hours, wedged in the fetal position, between a couple of inbred Sumo wrestlers.

Take that guy: see that porker wearing the ‘Who Farted’ t-shirt? The guy with the gurgling smoker’s cough, bumping passengers in the head with his backpack, looking for his row? Yup. He’s the kind of travel buddy I usually get saddled with.

Whenever I see a guy like that, squeezing his way down the aisle, I know he’s headed for an adjoining seat. I’ll start centering myself emotionally and getting into character while he’s still a ways off. The role I usually go for is Dead Guy In The Seat, and it’s something I take seriously. If my performance is unconvincing, I might be forced to listen to hours of penetrating insights on every topic from celebrities to third world economies; sophisticated opinions like: “I’ll tell you how to fix the Middle East right damn now. You just bomb all their asses. That’ll teach them sonsabitches.” If my acting falls short, I’ll have to hear all about medical ailments, or the finer points of vacuum sales, or about alcoholic uncles who should’ve kept their hands to themselves.

With a guy like that, I like to make sure and claim the armrest early. It’s sort of a douchey land-grab, I know, but surrender just a corner and he’ll eventually annex the rest of it like Germany would. Then, all you’ve got is enough room to do little Tyrannosaurus Rex arms for the remainder of the flight. Shh, here he comes. Quick, claim your armrest. You and I can share ours. You want the front or back? There. Now act sleepy.

What a relief, he’s passed us. I think we dodged a bullet with that one. It’s lucky for him they don’t charge airline tickets by the pound.

Am I talking too much? Oh, no. Now you think I’m a talker. I assure you I’m really not. I’m just excited about the thing I witnessed in the airport; something unusual I’ve never seen before.

So, get this. In line, at the security area, I see a man, right? He’s burly, at least six-two, and he’s got a thick, scraggly, rapist beard. He’s looks like any regular guy: maybe late thirties, wearing plain blue jeans and a faded softball shirt. Everything about him is ordinary and forgettable. He’s the sort of guy that’s probably only referred to as What’s His Face; a man who blends into the background like human wallpaper.

But there’s one little thing about this guy that’s different. One small detail makes him impossible not to look at: he’s wearing these bright-red, patent-leather pumps, with three inch stiletto heels.

Totally bizarre, right? Weirdest thing I’ve seen in a long time. I mean, I’d get it if he was a full on cross-dresser – there’s some sort of logic to that – but this guy’s your standard-issue dude except for the shoes.

After his bags are scanned, the man makes his way off towards the gates. The high-pitched click, click, click he makes with each step, echoes off the terrazzo floor and commands attention. Every few strides he totters off balance awkwardly, which only ads to the spectacle. People are gawking. They nod in his direction and whisper to each other. They crane their necks to get a better look. The Man In The Pumps is causing quite a sensation.

I walk in the same direction as the man. The whole time I’m following him, I wonder what the deal is with his bizarre choice in footwear. I figure he’s lost a bet or something. The shoes are some kind a joke, or he’s worn them on a dare. If not that, then maybe he’s got some weird foot problem where a doctor’s ordered him to walk in heels for therapeutic reasons. I keep studying the man to see if I can discover more clues.

He turns into the same gate I’m headed for. More people stare at him. More whisper and snicker to each other. Waiting for the flight, I keep tabs on the guy occasionally. The serious way he’s conducting business over the phone is in stark contrast to his ridiculous appearance. What the hell is this guy thinking? By the time they call for boarding, my curiosity is running wild and I’m scared that if I don’t find out what the deal is with the shoes, my head might explode.

As people start to form a line, I see my chance. I squeeze my way through them and get a spot behind the guy in the heels. “Okay,” I say, in the most winsome tone I can muster, “I’ve just got to ask you this…” The guy turns around, gives me a skeptical look and waits for my question.“What’s up with the shoes?” I ask. There, it’s finally out there. What a relief.

“Well,” he says in an effeminate voice,“I just … like ‘em.” He’s kind of snippy the way he says it, and he quickly whirls back around.

“Well alright, then.” I say with a quick chuckle, filling in the awkward silence. His answer takes me completely off guard and so does his voice. I’m not sure what to think. First, there’s a flash of admiration, as if I’ve stumbled upon a rare and fearless soul living life by his own rules; a rugged individualist who thumbs his nose at all social norms and conventions. I’m tempted to offer up a high-five and say, “That’s right, you go girl. You wear your high-heeled shoes and to hell with what everyone thinks about you.”

But after a second, it sinks in how utterly unsatisfying his answer is. He just wore them on a whim? What? The guy just happened to look in his closet this morning and decide a pair of bright-red, patent leather pumps, with the three inch heels, were perfect for the airport? The heels made more sense than the sneakers, boots and loafers that were in there too? That’s total bullshit. And where do you get a pair of men’s size thirteen pumps anyway? They can’t exactly be an ‘off-the-rack’ item. A lot of premeditation went into this and I’m irritated by his lame answer. I think it begs a bit more inquiry.

“It’s just…” I begin, tentatively; giving the man a head-to-toe gesture as he turns around again “… incongruous.”

He looks at me thoughtfully for a moment before answering, “A little incongruity can turn a trip to the airport into an adventure.” Then he straightens up and smiles, preening momentarily.

“Well, I suppose it can,” I laugh. And there at last is an answer I can live with. It’s plain-old shock value the guy’s after. He could have just said so to begin with. I mean, I totally understand the desire not to blend-in. I guess some people get neck tattoos and bolt shit to their face to stand-out, others wear high heels. I think if I was going to be that overt about it, though, I’d just wear a sign around my neck that says: 'I Need Lots Of Attention – Please Look At Me,' and avoid the risk of breaking an ankle.

That’s one of the things that makes flying such a great social experiment, don’t you think? You have to admit that purely from an Anthropological standpoint it’s pretty interesting. Where else do you get mashed together with so many people you’d never choose to hang out with, and for such long periods of time? It’s like the line at the Division of Motor Vehicles except with wings.

So the guy in the pumps is a few seats behind us. No, no don’t look now. He’s sitting down anyways. You wouldn’t get the full effect. But make sure you take a look when you hit the restroom. It’s worth your while.