March 16, 2017:

Missus 17A wants to shove my computer bag from beneath her seat into the aisle space under my feet. When I shove my bag back where it belongs she glowers, and tries to shove it out again. "Excuse me," I say to the flight attendant. "Could you help this lady find a space for her purse?" Where glowering turns to laser daggers and her teeth grind and her jaw ages 30 years from sheer frustrated entitlement.

Flaccid grandma with powder-caked cheeks orders not one, not two, but three minibottles of brown-tinted bourbon which she lays out randomly around her lowered seatback tray. The smell is everywhere. Flight must be murder on addicts in recovery.

Big guy, dad belly, white hair, slumped to his left, sleep of a baby.