Laura stepped aboard the Boeing and the blast of the airconditioning ruffled her hair. The man ahead of her coughed and shuddered the scent of cigarettes in her direction. She prayed he would not be sitting next to her. The welcoming committee asked for her ticket. Navigating the way to her seat was not beyond Laura, but she humoured them with a smile.
"Welcome aboard, my lady. I hope you enjoy your flight."
She tried not to giggle at the man speaking to her. He was a feather boa short of a leading role in a burlesque show. After a beat, she nodded at him and turned her attention to the queue down the barrel of the plane. It fascinated her how others saw nothing wrong with manhandling on-board luggage to make their skis and guitars fit, or how they tried to shove rectangular suitcases into round gaps. A man with a puce face in Business Class was bellowing into his cellphone while a flight attendant tried to explain the mix-up with the seat numbers. A mother shot apologetic glances at passersby as her baby warmed up its voice. Laura watched the disgust on an elderly woman's face when a man draped his dreadlocks over the headrest.
She found herself standing beside a woman who appeared to have nodded off. Now for the dreaded small-talk.
"Excuse me, I'm sitting next to you."
There was the unclipping of a seatbelt and a scrum of sorts as they moved into position. Laura's pain, after she hit her head against the overhead luggage compartment, was met with sarcasm.
"You know, it just comes out of nowhere." She made no attempt to hide her guffaw.
Laura grimaced. Ensconced in her seat, she began to wait, and pray. Pray that no-one would occupy the window seat. She rather fancied some distance between herself and the Dozer. She appraised each of the passengers and rated them from "Not bad" to "Dear God, No". Every time she locked eyes with someone, she anticipated having to scrum her way out of her seat. A man with a sub in each hand and too many beers in his gut paused and then passed, leaving a blonde woman in his wake. She looked at Laura meaningfully, and she recognised the international sign for: "That's my seat."
Three rows back, a man hawed at whatever his companion was saying about the stock market. The baby in the front was auditioning for soprano. Mr Puce had found another seat and was ordering a double whiskey with his hand towel. The old lady was batting dreadlocks out of her face. Laura shuffled back to her seat.
"Don't hit your head again." The Dozer guffawed once more.
Laura directed her anger at the seatbelt and looked past the blonde out of the window. All she could see was sky and tarmac. The blonde pulled out her tablet. The floral cover had a sticker with the words Aimee Green written in a hasty script. Apparently Aimee Green liked playing Solitaire while listening to a playlist featuring Christina Aguilera, Gwen Stefani and Cyndi Lauper. With her thumb in her mouth.
Laura swallowed. It was hard to ignore the wedding ring on Aimee's hand because it caught the light as she suckled. Laura stared at her folding tray. The plane began to move and the flight attendant's demonstration about unlikely event actions and floatation devices distracted her from Aimee's bobbing hand.
Once they were in the air, the Dozer's jaw went slack. Laura retrieved her novel from her handbag. Chapter Seven of the tale of a man who was trying to debunk the legend of ghosts in a local cemetery. Ten pages later, a glance confirmed that Aimee was losing at Solitaire and the Dozer's head was lolling. The man three rows back continued to haw as he discussed the merits of his hedge fund. The captain emerged from the cockpit and asked the owner of the dreadlocks to stop harassing others with his follicles. Defiant responses clipped the air and the flight attendants began to hand out drinks, much to the relief of the puce businessman and the mother, who poured some brandy into her baby's bottle. The couple in front of Laura had raised the arm-rest and were bucking against the seat as they cuddled. Aimee retrieved a wrinkled thumb from her mouth and a trail of spittle marked its trajectory to her lap.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your co-pilot speaking. The captain has stepped out for a moment but will return shortly. We are anticipating some bad weather just outside of the city, so we will be keeping the seatbelt lights on until the worst of the turbulence has passed. We hope you have a comfortable ride."
As he signed off, the seatbelt light pinged on. The Dozer woke up in time to tell the flight attendant that she wanted Ginger Ale and ice. Aimee asked for bottled water, but only if it was cold. Laura's order was interrupted by the Dreadlocked man saying he knew his rights and the man hawing about the exchange rate.
"What will you have, my lady?"
Laura baulked. "Water, please." No! She wanted caffeine, preferably in an IV bag. "And apple juice, please." She hated apple juice. "Thank you, sir." She was relieved she didn't substitute sir with 'your majesty'.
"Sorry, sorry. I really need to get past." A nasal man pressed against the drinks trolley.
"May I help you, sir?"
"I really need the, uh, facilities there."
"That's for business class only, sir. The facilities are at the back of the plane."
"But someone is in it!"
"You're going to have to wait your turn."
"I'm going to take my turn all over your carpet if you don't move out of the way."
The flight attendant pushed the all-call button above Laura's head. "Sir, you will have to go to the back of the plane."
"I know my rights."
"Ah, tell someone who cares." The hawer's voice was distinct amongst the muttering. "This guy here wants to be the Dreadlock Rapunzel and you want to mark your territory like an incontinent Schnauzer. Grow a pair, man."
Laura watched backs arch.
"Listen here..."
"Good idea," said the captain. I think, sir, you will find that the bathroom has been vacated. And sir, please no more comments apart from the weather and everyone's health."
"But I am a businessman."
"Good for you, Donald Trump. But keep it down." He turned to Dreadlocks. "Might I suggest that you switch seats so that you sit in the middle. That way nobody will be behind you and there will be no problem."
"There will be a problem. That's my seat."
"All the more reason for you to use the bathroom and return to it, sir." The captain sighed. "Would you mind undoing your, uh, ponytail for the duration of the flight, sir? Then you won't need to drape your dreads."
The collective exhaled and Aimee returned her thumb to her mouth.
The co-pilot's voice returned. "Cabin crew, brace for turbulence."
Laura spilt most of her apple juice.
"We can hear you!" The hawer laughed.
The captain shimmied past the flight attendant's trolley once they had navigated to an empty aisle seat. Aimee tapped her tablet in frustration. The Dozer propped her head upright with her hand. The couple murmured and gasped in front of Laura. She couldn't focus on her book with all the shuddering the plane was doing. Her watch told her only forty minutes had passed since take-off. Aimee reached into her handbag and pulled out a vanity case. She began sorting the different products on the folding tray. Out came hairspray and a comb. She flicked her head forward and pumped the nozzle. Laura coughed. The old lady asked what that smell was.
"My lady, please don't do that." The flight attendant's smile was tight.
"It's OK, I'm done." Aimee waved a wrinkled thumb at him. She began teasing her coiffure into a high bun.
Laura sipped her water. The Dozer snorted in her sleep.
Out came Aimee's contouring kit. Laura admired her steady hand as she applied lines akin to warpaint to her T-zone and cheekbones.
"That's very unhygienic," said the old lady. "Putting makeup on in public is common."
"Oh, who are you to judge?" It was the nasal man. "Times have changed."
"But class hasn't."
"Look," said the Dreadlocked man, turning to face her, "if this is some kind of dig at me..."
"It's not," said the nasal man. "She means that woman over there."
"Which woman?" The hawer broadcasted down the plane.
"The one painting her face," said Mr Nasal.
Aimee raised herself in her seat. She looked like GI Jane. "Mind your own business, people." She popped her thumb into her mouth.
"Do you still suck your thumb?" The hawer nudged his companion. "John, look, a thumbsucker."
Aimee slumped down and turned her face to the window. She smudged her contours on the upholstery.
"Oh no, you didn't!" Mr Nasal gasped.
"The height of low class," said the old lady.
"Get off your high horse."
"Then keep your rat tails out of my face."
The Dreadlocked man whipped his hair.
"Ew, stop it." Mr Nasal shrunk into his seat and flapped his hands at the dreadlocks.
Laura sipped what was left of her juice. Only another two hours to go.
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