Urban Thought Collective

I sat in coach on my return from Chicago to Oakland. It was a very crowded flight, and even arriving as early as I did, I was unable to secure an exit row seat. But I did get the bulkhead, bulkhead window to be exact. I used to go along with the recommendation of the gate agents when they would explain how, in their view, the aisle was a good seat for those seeking more leg room. I totally disagree now. First of all, it’s not like you can just throw your feet out into the aisle. To do so with my size 15s would be to effectively cut off a main thoroughfare (think Peachtree in Atlanta or Wilshire in L.A. with an 18 wheeler jack-knifed at rush hour).

So, instead of being able to stretch out, you become the human accordion each time someone’s bladder comes calling or the flight attendants come through. Second, you can’t really relax in the aisle seat because you have to be constantly on the look-out for the panser battle tank doubling as the refreshment cart. I’ve seen passengers nearly get their shoulders dislocated when they weren’t aware and got clipped as someone with a smile possessing every bit the intensity of Jack Nicholson’s “Joker” from the “Batman” movies, screams “CHICKEN or PASTA?” at them.

The window seat is clearly the best in the exit row. Three reasons why. First, you might luck up and get the 737 or 757 models that have no seat in front of you in certain exit windows. This is clearly the best seat in the plane beyond the hallowed ground that lies beyond the blue curtain. You’ve got one whole armrest to yourself and a wall to rest your head upon. In the middle, you can be landlocked and frustrated like a middle-eastern country, forced to wage war on two fronts as you risk losing valuable real estate in the form of the armrest. Finally, you’ve got control. No one looks out the window unless you SAY that they look out the window. This can be very key if you are trying to take a nap and the sunlight on your side of the plane is blinding. After all, it’s all about control anyway, isn’t it?

But, I digress. I wasn’t in the exit row.

So, there I was. Bulkhead Window on an A319. Three on the left, three on the right. I had no illusions that I might luck up and have an empty seat next to me. I had already eaten my high quality, food-court, to-go meal before boarding and placed my book and headphones on the seat, optimistically (or naively, you choose) anticipating my solitude. In comes broad-shouldered Benny, a squatty little man shaped like a mini-fridge. He found his way over to my row and seemed to double and triple check that this was actually where his seat was. It was almost as if he was saying,”No…it can’t be…No…say it ain’t so…NOOOO!” I guess he got over that and proceeded to back it on up like a u-haul truck and would have crushed my Bose Quiet Comfort 3 noise-canceling headphones if I had not made an 11th hour save.

It bears mentioning that while the exit rows provide a significant leg-room increase, they do not accommodate the horizontally enhanced, and the bulkhead, in what United calls Economy Plus, do not either. (Do I seem a little obsessed with the exit row?) Mr. Mini-Fridge was spilling over onto my arm like women and children on the Titanic’s lifeboats and immediately began to jockey for elbow room. Since I could retreat to the wall, and had already secured a pillow, I conceded. He didn’t stop there though. He kept throwing his fat little shoulders around, trying to find that sweet-spot of comfort like a fat cat at naptime. He still had not said a word to me, or even looked my way. It never ceases to amaze me how 2 people can sit closer than do most married couples out on a date and never say one word to each other. No worries though, I wasn’t much in the mood for conversation anyway, with my sinus headache throbbing as it was. Seat backs upright, and tray tables stowed, seatbelts
fastened. Flight attendant mime safety show, wheels up, we’re outta here….

I should mention that the flight attendant’s performance is a make or break proposition, predicated completely on the execution of the mock seatbelt unfastening. If they release the buckle and the other end of the belt falls toward the floor like a bungee jumper, its a thumbs up…and, well..you can figure out the rest. It was thumbs down today since United has gone to this lame video presentation put on, apparently, by some of their flight attendants at last year’s annual meeting.)

As soon as we were able to take out our approved electronic devices, my laptop emerged from my bag. During taxi and take-off, I had been reading a biography about the great Duke Ellington, but thought I’d take this opportunity to get a look at a DVD that I had not been able to find the time watch for weeks. So, I put my headphones on and started the movie. I think Mini-Fridge must’ve frozen like a deer in head lights when he caught a glimpse of my computer screen.

“THE SPOOK WHO SAT BY THE DOOR,” it read, with a raised fist in the background. Clever little fellow that he was, he leaned over to the other arm rest so that he could get a better angle on the screen without me noticing that he was looking. This movie was truly a cinematic gem of the 1970s, although I doubt that many have had the chance to experience it. The narrator in the intro explained how all known copies of the film had mysteriously disappeared from the studio and remained lost until the original film negatives turned up 30 years later on the underground market. Why did it disappear? Could it have anything to do with the subject matter? Hmmmm?

In the opening scene a room full of black men in boxers are running, jumping, climbing, and doing all sorts of other physical agility and dexterity tests while a couple of white men in lab coats, holding clipboards note the results. We come to discover that these men are training for a spot as the first “negro” in the CIA. After enduring the psychological tests, the infighting with the other brothas, and being flamed by a few taunts of “uncle tom,” our man Dan Freeman (ah, the overt symbolism) emerges from the ashes and becomes the first in the CIA’s elitist espionage unit.

Freeman quickly tires of making copies and getting coffee and after five years of training, he tenders his resignation and returns to his home on the Southside of Chicago. Little did they know that Dan had a plan! He would begin to use his training to transform gangbangers and street thugs into Freedom Fighters. All they needed was a trigger, and the Revolution was ON!

Mini-Fridge must’ve been ready to ring his flight attendant call button by now. The brothas were taking back the neighborhood from the corrupt police, bombing the national guard with molotov cocktails, and throwing black fists to the sky. I only wish he could’ve heard the soundtrack. If I had pulled a daishiki out of my carry-on and asked for some black coffee, he might have tried to alert the Air Marshalls that we had an incident on our hands.

Well, I don’t want to belabor the point any further, but one last thing. As soon as the captain turned off the fasten seat belts sign at the gate in Oakland, he was outta there.

Destah Owens is a single father of two from Northern California and proud UCLA Bruin who travels the world for his job as a computer engineer. His blog, “Soufflés in Saigon,” is exclusive to Urban Thought Collective.