This Isn’t the Mile High Club
Showing off my nuts seems to open the gate for conversation. My new friend, I’m calling her the Nut Peeper—she told me her name, but I can’t remember it—chatters away, complaining about the subpar service at her five star resort.
“Where did you stay? Did you have good service?”
“I didn’t stay at a resort.” I wish I had my headphones and charger. The stupid seatbelt sign is still on, though, so I have to wait. Besides, if I get up I’ll look like a jerk.
“Oh? Did you stay at a bed and breakfast? That’s risky. You never know what kind of place it’s going to be. I’ve heard all sorts of horror stories.”
“Yeah?” I don’t ask questions, but she must assume I want to know all about it, because she keeps talking.
“I had a friend who stayed in a five star B&B, and they didn’t even serve breakfast! That should be standard. I can’t imagine going somewhere for vacation where I had to prepare my own meals. Not unless it was a timeshare, and who wants to do that?”
In my peripheral vision I see her hand creeping along the armrest, like a fleshy spider. I’d like to squish it.
“Maybe people with food allergies?” I stupidly suggest, which gives her the green light to tell me her entire life story.
“My best girlfriend’s allergic to gluten. I don’t know if I believe her, though. I think she wants to be skinny, and she thinks if she can’t eat bread then she can’t get fat. I don’t eat bread because I don’t want cellulite. I only eat meat and vegetables, and I haven’t gained weight in over two years. Except sometimes during the holidays, because I love rum and eggnog. But once I go back on my meat diet—poof!” She makes the accompanying hand gestures. “It’s all gone again. You must be able to eat anything you want.” She gives my bicep a squeeze. “Wow. You’re in incredible shape. Do you do the P90X workout? What did you say you do for a living?”
The plane starts rolling, and a flight attendant appears to give us the usual safety speech. I’d much rather listen to her talk about inflating my seat if we happen to crash into a body of water than the chick beside me bitch about stupid things like eating a meat diet. In another life—maybe three months ago—I might have suggested she come to the bathroom with me so she could suck on my meat stick, but I’ve given that up. Kinda like people give up things for Lent—like chocolate, or swearing. Only this has been longer than forty days, and I don’t have a definite end date.
Nut Peeper fidgets with her purse and produces a small prescription bottle. “I get nervous when I fly.” She struggles with the cap, and suddenly I feel bad, partly because I’d considered shutting her up with my dick in her mouth, but also because her word vomit might have less to do with her being annoying and more to do with her stress level.
“Need some help?”
“Would you? Sometimes these caps are so hard to get off.”
I try to read the label as I twist the tiny cap, but the word is really long, one of those “blahblah-a-blahblah-pam” jobs. I don’t take medication unless I’m severely injured. I’ve seen enough players develop issues with painkillers, and I never want to go that way. I tend to stick to the basics like Tylenol or Advil if I’m hurting. It’s only when the game’s at risk and I need to get back out there and play that I’ll let the team doc give me a shot of something stronger.
I pop the cap and pass it back.
“Thanks. Want one?” She asks like she’s offering candy.
“I’m good.”
“I might fall asleep. If I lean on you, just push me to the other side.”
“Sure thing.”
I don’t know how many she takes, but ten minutes later she’s sawing logs and trying to snuggle with my bicep. I get the flight attendant to bring blankets and an extra pillow, and then I rearrange her so she’s no longer using me as her personal bed.
I don’t need medication to put me to sleep. I’m exhausted, and my body hates me, so I pass out a few minutes later. I’m not sure how long I’m out for, but I’m jolted awake by a tickling feeling on my beard. I rub it and give it a scratch, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in there apart from some grit and leaves and possibly leftovers from meals that didn’t get washed out thanks to the limited water supply and quick, semi-cool showers.
Nut Peeper is up and flipping through a magazine. Her head bobs a couple of times, as if she’s fighting to stay awake. The guy across the aisle is catching flies with his mouth. Randy and his seat friend are snuggled under a communal blanket in the row behind him.
I settle back in my chair and close my eyes. After a few minutes, it becomes clear I’m not going to fall back asleep, so I root around for my phone. The seatbelt sign is off, so I grab my bag and dig through it. I find my headphones, but not my charger. I pull everything out of the bag, including all the kid arts and crafts, but I’ve got nothing. I can’t listen to music, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been on the plane. I can’t play mindless games on my phone to pass the time. I’ll give Randy ten more minutes before I bother him for his charger. He doesn’t need it since he’s occupied.
Somewhere in my bag is a paper calendar. I find it at the bottom of the bag. It’s soggy from the gel pack incident earlier, and the ink has bled so the words are impossible to read. There will be another paper copy at home and also one in my email, but I have to wait to check all of that. Amber’s awesome at leaving plenty of reminders since I mix up dates and times a lot.
I’m a little worried about what the next couple of weeks are going to look like with her off the grid. She’s going on some portaging trip in the middle of nowhere. She says she’ll have her phone with her, but I can’t be sure she’ll have reception the whole time. Plus, she needs a break from my shit.
I shove my earbuds in and pretend to listen to music so Nut Peeper will leave me alone. I’ve just closed my eyes to settle in when the stomach cramps hit me again.
I don’t waste any time. Unbuckling my seatbelt, I head for the bathroom, but the occupied sign taunts me with its red, annoying glare. I hope I don’t shit my pants. I look around first class, checking to see who’s missing from their seats. I don’t see Randy, or his friend. Goddamn him. He has to be in the bathroom, boning that chick.
I move in close to the door to check if I can hear any noise inside. Oh, he’s definitely fucking her. I can hear high-pitched moans. I rattle the door, hoping it’s going to make them hurry the fuck up, but all I get are more moans. They’re muffled this time.
“Randy, you asshole, I’m going to shit my damn pants,” I whisper-yell.
I doubt he can hear me, but I knock again. It’s another minute before the door finally opens and the chick steps out. Her face is flushed, her lipstick is smeared all over her face, and her hair is a mess. Her clothes are in similar shape. I don’t think she has a bra on anymore. Her boobs must be fake, because her nipples are pointing right at me.
I’m standing in her way, so she can’t leave the bathroom unless I take a step back.
She pats her hair and giggles as she weaves down the aisle. I can’t decide if it’s because she’s drunk on the fumes in the washroom or because she’s freshly fucked and it’s hard to walk.
Randy’s still zipping up his pants as he leaves the bathroom. “I left you a present.”
He pats me on the shoulder and struts down the aisle. I’m practically holding my ass as I launch myself into the bathroom. There’s pee all over the seat. Randy’s or someone else’s I don’t know, but his gift is a spent, splooge-filled condom in the sink. Fucking asshole.
I grab a handful of toilet paper and rush to clean off the seat because this has gone from a level-one to a level-five emergency. I dry heave over the strong smell and the feel of pee soaking through the paper. I’m going to eat asparagus and piss in Randy’s hockey bag the first chance I get.
My stomach cramps again; I’m out of time. I drop my drawers, grateful for the lack of underwear and sit my ass down. I don’t even care that the seat is still slightly damp. There’s no time for anything but relief as the first wave hits me. I lean my head against the tiny metal sink. I don’t care about the germs or the stink or how badly I need a shower and maybe some medicated pads to soothe my ass. I feel like the new guy in prison right now.
I’m not sure how long I spend in the bathroom, but I triple flush. At some point there’s a knock on the door and someone asks if I’m okay. I might be groaning. I have the cold sweats again. I just want it to be over. I want my own bathroom and my bed. I want my girlfriend. Well, maybe not. I don’t want Sunny to see me in this state, but if we’d been dating longer, and I had the flu instead of this, it’d be nice to have someone comfort me.
Since it was just me and my dad growing up, whenever I got sick he’d make me instant chicken noodle soup. I could go for a cup of that right about now, even if it might come back up, or out, depending.
Eventually the cramps pass, and it feels safe to leave the bathroom. I can’t hijack it for the whole flight. Plus, the smell in here is making my stomach turn in a different way.
I pry myself off the seat and wash my arms up to my elbows in the sink made for dwarves or elves, or whatever small creatures can use these stupid things effectively without getting water everywhere. I check my pockets to make sure I haven’t lost anything, palming my phone in the process. Randy’s damn well gonna give me his charger for making me deal with pee all over the seat.
I steady myself and open the door, aware I’m about to do the gastrointestinal version of the walk of shame. I’ve been in here longer than it takes most people to join the Mile High Club.
At the same time as I try to leave the bathroom, the plane jerks with turbulence. The woman standing outside the door, who incidentally happens to be Nut Peeper, is thrown inside with me. Most of the time I have excellent balance. Today I don’t. She falls into me, grabbing my shirt as I stumble back.
In the melee, I lose my grip on my phone, along with my footing. The phone hits something metal with a concerning clang. I say a prayer to the phone-preservation gods that it doesn’t break, as every last important thing in my life is on that phone.
The door automatically shut me and Nut Peeper in together when she fell on me. These bathrooms are barely big enough for me, never mind adding another body, so maneuvering around in the cramped space is even more difficult. Plus, I’m a little claustrophobic, which is unfortunate since I’m big and it makes most spaces feel small.
“Oh my God. I’m so sorry!” She flails around. It’s the opposite of helpful. I have to brace myself on something to stop her from ending up with her face in my crotch. I put my hand down, and of course it ends up in wet spot. I don’t even want to know if it’s pee.
“It smells awful in here!” She tries to clamp a hand over her mouth and nose, but it manages to get caught in my shirt. All she ends up doing is mashing her face into my diaphragm and knocking us off balance again.
“I ate something bad last night,” I say, as if an explanation is necessary for why it smells like a manure field and a dead skunk combined with whatever crap they put in here to help mask the smell of people’s bodily functions.
I’m going to need to Purell my entire body when this episode is over.
Using the surface I’m braced against for resistance, I wrap my free arm around her waist to stop the flailing and manage to get us into an upright position. She’s still fisting my shirt even though there’s no reason anymore. I grab both of her arms, not caring that the likely-pee on my hand is getting all over her. If it wasn’t for Nut Peeper, I wouldn’t have it on my hand in the first place.
“Stop moving!” I order.
She freezes.
“I dropped my phone. I need to find it before one of us steps on it.”
“Oh, no!”
“Oh, yeah.” I let go of her, confident she won’t move, and scan the floor. It’s a tiny space, but I can’t see the device anywhere. Checking over my shoulder, I spot it. It’s in the worst place possible: sitting in the goddamn toilet. It’s got one of those protective cases, but I doubt it safeguards against chemically treated toilet water and poop particles.
“Shitsicles.”
“What’s wrong?” She grabs my arm again. I’m starting to think she’s doing it on purpose.
“It’s in the toilet.”
“Oh. Ew. That’s so gross. You shouldn’t use your phone in public bathrooms.”
There’s no response I can give that isn’t going to make me sound like an asshole. I might have a right to be one, but I don’t get to act like one unless I’m on the ice. Otherwise, it ends up in the media, all twisted around.
I have no other option but to stick my hand in there and get it. I maneuver to face the bowl of doom. Before I shove my hand in, I try to convince myself it’s the same as sticking my finger in an ass—like during foreplay. It doesn’t work, though, I’m still on the verge of gagging. I grab some of the rough, single-ply toilet paper to minimize contact. Whatever’s been in that toilet, it can’t be worse than some of the bunnies I’ve been with.
Except I can wrap my dick and give it a wash when the dirty is over. Not quite so easy in this case.
An announcement over the PA system warns us that we need to get back to our seats. A tiny bump follows, as if to drive the point home. Nut Peeper must have the worst balance in the world. She slams into me from behind, and I bang my head on the wall. I throw out my hand to stop from face planting into the bowl. I’m about six inches away from my poor phone, lying in the toilet bowl. It better still work, or I’m screwed.
Nut Peeper is making full-body contact. “Are you okay? I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m so sorry. I thought it was a good opportunity to use the bathroom with you out of your seat. You’re so big, and I wouldn’t have been able to get around you if you fell asleep again. I have a tiny bladder. I should probably have surgery.”
I shake her off and reach for my phone just as the sound of suction fills the tiny room. The little hole in the toilet opens, threatening to claim my phone.
“No!” I snatch it up before it can disappear forever.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to hit the button!” She’s latched onto me again, like a damn leech, peering over my shoulder.
“My phone almost got sucked down the toilet!”
There’s a knock at the door. “Sir? We’re experiencing turbulence. You must return to your seat immediately.”
“I’ll be right out!” I spin around, almost elbowing the chick in the neck, as I turn on the tap. I don’t know what I’m thinking as I hold my phone under the spray, other than I need to clean it off and that I’ll have to forever use speaker phone until I get a new one. Which I’ll be doing tomorrow.
“Won’t that ruin the phone?” asks Nut Peeper.
“Shit. Goddamn it!” I turn off the water and nab a handful of paper towels. I’d use my shirt, but it’s just as disgusting as the phone.
“You probably shouldn’t have done that.”
“Probably not, but it was covered in intestinal juice.”
“Ew. That’s gross.”
“It’s your damn fault. Why are you even still in here?”
“Because of the turbulence, remember?” She’s looking at me like I’m crazy, when it’s clear she’s the one a few bricks short of a load.
The flight attendant knocks on the door again, more insistently this time. “Sir? Only one person is allowed in the bathroom at a time. You need to come out now.”
I throw up my hands. “Great. Now we’re in trouble. Could this day get any goddamn worse?” I reach around Nut Peeper and throw open the door. The flight attendant’s concern changes to disgust when she takes in my appearance and the woman in front of me. She looks equally disheveled, although she’s not covered in blue toilet water like I am.
“It’s not what it looks like.” For once in my life it’s true, except based on our appearances, I sound like a liar.
The flight attendant rolls her eyes. “Both of you need to return to your seats now. The seatbelt sign is on.” She points to the lighted sign above the door.
Nut Peeper slinks out of the stall and wobbles down the aisle, banging into almost everyone as she goes, drawing more attention to me. People are already staring because of all the noise. Randy looks over the back of the seat and gives me a look like he disapproves of my choice. Dickhead.
“Sir, I won’t tell you again.” The flight attendant crosses her arms over her chest.
I gesture to the chick as she flops into her seat. “She fell into the bathroom when I was trying to leave, and then my phone fell in the toilet. My hands have been in that germ-infested water. I need to wash them. What if someone gets pink eye, or E.coli, or botulism?”
She just stares. She obviously doesn’t believe me.
“Why would I lie? Honestly. Come on. The only thing I’m responsible for is polluting the toilet.” She makes a TMI face, which I ignore. I don’t know why I want her to believe me so badly. I guess it’s just that for once I’m not being a dog, and I want some acknowledgement.
“None of this would have happened if she hadn’t gotten trapped in the bathroom with me. Just ask her. I wasn’t trying to mile-high it. Look at the size of me. I barely fit in one of these bathrooms. Take a whiff. It doesn’t smell like sex in there.”
I move to the side, and in doing this, I give her a full view of the damage. There’s water all over the place. But that’s not what puts a look of disgust on her face.
“Not trying to join the Club, huh?” She pulls a pen out of her pocket and lifts the spent condom out of the sink, holding it up for me to see.
“It’s not mine. I swear.”
Her eyes narrow, and she lowers her voice to a whisper. “I know who you are. I think what you’re doing is repulsive. I hope Waters sticks you in the throat for what you’re doing to his sister. You’re a disgrace to hockey.”
It’s the most demeaning insult a person can give me. What’s worse is that it’s centered on a misunderstanding. But I know how it all looks, and based on my reputation, I can see why she won’t believe what I have to say.
A few months ago, I probably would’ve gotten busy with that chick just to make the flight go by faster, but that was the old me. The new me keeps my hands to myself and keeps other people’s hands off me. The second part seems to be the most difficult. I only have control over my body parts, not anyone else’s.
I go to rub my face with my hand until I remember it’s got pee and chemicals on it.
In my peripheral vision, I spot a crack in the curtain they pull across to separate the first class passengers from the economy class. A teenage boy in the second row holds his phone above the seat. As soon as he sees me looking he lowers the phone a few inches and makes like he’s typing. I know better. After years of being caught doing things I shouldn’t, it’s not a surprise that someone’s recording this whole stupid episode.
I point at the kid. “Stop that!”
He hits a button, and then his phone flashes a number of times. At least he’s stopped filming, but the pictures aren’t going to be any better since I’m pissed off.
“Aren’t you going to stop him?” I ask the flight attendant. She doesn’t seem to see the issue. I poke my head through the curtain like the guy in that old Stephen King movie. “If you post that I’ll have my lawyers sue you for defamation of character.” I pretend to take a picture of him with my phone. “I have facial recognition software. I’ll be able to find out what your name is and where you live.”
“Sir!”
The flight attendant tries to get around me. I’m too broad, though. I take up most of the aisle, and she definitely doesn’t want to touch me.
The kid’s eyes bug out, and he finally puts his phone away. I can’t relax, though, because I doubt he’s going to delete the video. I don’t know how much he heard or what exactly he recorded, but I don’t want this leaked to the media. Especially if he caught the used dome hanging off the flight attendant’s pen.
I’d take refuge in the fact that it’s probably a grainy video, but I’m wearing a team hat, and if enough people see it, someone will recognize me, and I’ll get tagged. It’ll be a shitshow. I’ll have to run interference with Vi, since Alex will shit a brick and threaten to kick my ass, again. If he thinks I banged someone in a public bathroom, on a plane, he’ll probably break my nose, just like I broke his earlier in the year. That was at least justifiable. The dickhead denied being with my sister on public television. And she still moved in with him.
Beyond that, I’ll have to explain it to Sunny and dig myself out of a hole that doesn’t exist. I really hate those chicken wings, Nut Peeper, Randy, cell phones, and social media right now. This is officially the shittiest flight I’ve ever been on.
I realize all the people in economy are looking at me, including the guys I went on the trip with. The plane does that shuddery thing again. I back out and pull the curtains closed.
The flight attendant braces her hand on the door. “If you don’t return to your seat immediately, I’m going to have you banned from this airline.”
I’m still covered in toilet water. It’s all down my shirt and still all over my hands. It’s probably on my ass, as well. My head hurts from more than the hit on the bathroom wall.
“Okay. I’m going. I’m just gonna wash my hands. I don’t want to contaminate the plane. I pretty much landed in the toilet when that lady crashed into the bathroom on me.” I reach for the bathroom door but she blocks the way.
“I can’t sit through the rest of the flight smelling like this. It’s not fair to the other people on the plane. Everyone’ll be using their barf bags.”
The flight attendant huffs, but she opens the door. She watches as I pump half the contents of the dispenser into my hands and soap my forearms up to my elbow, again. I can’t tell if it’s the bathroom or me that smells like pee at this point.
I move on to my face after I finish my arms. She clears her throat, an indication that I’m pushing it now. I’ve got three more hours on this plane, though. If I’m going to be banned from the bathroom, I want to smell less like a toilet and more like cheap airline soap.
Once I’m as clean as I’m going to get, I head down the aisle. I stop at Randy’s seat.“I need your phone charger.”
“Fuck that, you’re not getting it.”
“Why not?”
Randy gives me this look that tells me he thinks I should know. He nods in the direction of my seat where Nut Peeper is reapplying lipstick and fluffing her hair. “Not cool, man.”
“Dude. I didn’t—”
The flight attendant clears her throat from behind me. I shake my head, annoyed that he could think I’d do something like that, and return to my seat. I want to grab my backpack from the overhead compartment. I have a spare shirt in there, but I have a feeling the flight attendant might junk-punch me if I do.
Nut Peeper apologizes seventy-five times. I can’t even pretend to listen to music because she thinks she broke my phone.
I shove the device in my pocket, close my eyes, and pretend to sleep until they turn off the seatbelt sign. I don’t know how long the reprieve is going to last, so I grab my bag from the overhead bin. My spare shirt is dirty, but it doesn’t smell like poop, so it’s a step up. I’m not risking another trip to the bathroom so I sit down to change my shirt.
I don’t hear the click of the camera, but the flash indicates Nut Peeper is taking pictures of me shirtless. I get my toilet shirt over my head. My hat pops off and ends up in the aisle where the flight attendant runs it over with her drink cart. Shoving my hands through the sleeves I pull the cleaner shirt over my abs.
“Really?” I ask as the clicking continues.
She doesn’t even look embarrassed as she shrugs. “Can you blame me? I didn’t realize who you were until some kid in economy got excited about you being in the bathroom. Do you think I can get your autograph?”
I don’t say any of the things I want to. “I don’t have a pen.”
“I do!” She pulls out her purse and hands me a sparkly pink one.
“What do you want me to sign?”
“How about this?” She motions to her chest.
I keep my eyes on her face. “I can’t sign that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I have a girlfriend, and I want it to stay that way.”
“Oh. That’s too bad.” She rummages around in her purse and finds a crumpled piece of paper. “Can you make it out to Guinevere?”
Of course she has to have one of those long, difficult names. At least it’s reasonable for me to ask how to spell it so I don’t mess it up. She practically sits on top of me while I scribble a message and sign my name.
“Thanks, Buck! Can I get a picture, too?” She doesn’t wait for my response. She snuggles in real close and snaps half a dozen selfies before I can even think to smile.
If that kid’s video doesn’t end up on the internet, these pictures will, or the ones of me shirtless on a plane. All I can do is hope I can talk to Sunny before they go viral, along with whatever ridiculous and inaccurate story gets posted along with them.