on the plane

The man in front of me has a head like a potato. It's actually quite impressive. A balding spud, wide and flat-topped with a dark fringe of hair below it. It's speckled with small brown dots and stray hairs that rest in and around the folds above where it meets with his neck. I want to start tapping it with the spine of my copy of 451, but I wouldn't dare. The drink I had before this flight, something between a soda and a sickly sweet syrup of liqour, sent me in a good and funny mood where I could ponder my current sadness from outside myself. It tempts me to do silly things, like tap on complete strangers. It also cost an arm and a leg.
The man to my left started his flight with a phone call, talking of mergers and more business lingo that I don't know, nor would I care to. I have to admit, there was a small pang of superiority upon hearing his conversation. Here I am, I'm living. I'm on a plane to a place I've never been with no plan and no reason other than to experience. I'm scared witless. Hence the drink. I'm not here for business and I never would be. My work meetings usually include beer and pull-up contests. I refuse to pay the five dollars for the in-flight Internet access. My life is purposeful.
But with consideration, this initial thought is easily quashed. I don't know this man. Now do I know the darker, tanned gentleman to my right with the jittery knees. Jitterjitterjitter, they tap out an insistant rhythm. The occasional SNOOORK of him snorting back whatever has lodged itself into the back of his sinus accompanies the rhythm of his knees with acute punctuation. JitterjitterjitterSNOOOORK. Again and again.
I wish i had been sitting next to the bright couple, in their Hawaiian shirts an jewelry and sunsets with their surly pierced teenage son. They wanted to talk, I could tell the moment I saw them at the bar, waving exuberantly to the bartender, whom the seem to know. They had wide smiles and wider wallets, and a general air of approachability. As I walked by their two individual seats, they both reached out to touch my arm. You have excellent taste in books, the woman said. Yeah, that's such a classic, her husband agreed with her. I smiled and thanked them in such a way that I hoped I mirrored their openness. I'm friendly, just like you! I wanted to say, but couldn't. their son said nothing, just stared.
I'm also in the middle seat, if you haven't already deduced by now. The middle seat will always be the worst. You're either hovering awkwardly over the shoulder of your neighbor, trying to peek past your jurisdiction into their personal bubble which happens to include the window, or you're crawling past and over your other neighbor in a frantic effort to get to the bathroom. Neither of these things work for me very well. Given a choice, I always choose the aisle. You're in the immediate attention zone of the air hostesses, which means you're served first and with the friendliest demeanor. And if you're a frequent urinator like me, the other benefits need no explanation.
But my choice was no choice. Knee-jitterer has me seat vibrating and businessman has his laptop open on some worklike page. I guess I'll just continue to stare at the shiny mesa of a potato in front of me, and ponder the width of that man's face from the front.