Brazilian bobblehead routine

The other day I was getting ready for a trip. It should have been a simple task, as I had done it hundreds of times. But, no, I was in a new house and no longer had my routine down. The underwear was here, socks over there, I couldn’t find my ties, the suit was where it was supposed to be at least, but I couldn’t find the shoe polish. It took me almost two hours to pack. I used to do it in 15. When I arrived at my hotel in São Paulo, I chuckled to myself at the ease with which I unpacked. In a city 4000 miles away I had more of a routine than where I lived. Then I laid down, closed my eyes and realized I have another routine that never fails.

So, I boarded the plane in Miami the previous evening and sat in 26A, right next to a nice, little old lady. She was 60, maybe, and a candidate for Grandmother of the year. She smiled, as if to say to me, "Hey neighbor, we’re gonna be together for eight hours." Before turning away and placing her bags under the seat in front of her as directed by the flight attendant, she opened her mouth as if to say something. I leaned closer, but not too much, we were not yet even on speaking terms. I was ready to listen to this warm, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting grandmother. But, no words came out. No Portuguese. No English. No Chinese. No Spanish. Just an open mouth and eyes looking at me. Then I heard what I thought was the roar of a jet engine. But, it came from somewhere deep inside of her. In that first nanosecond I had hoped that my hearing compass was off and it was really the pilot revving the engines. It wasn't; people were still filing in, lost sheep looking for seats, clearly marked by numbers and letters. The next nanosecond it hit me. My worst fear hooked me in its death grip. She had a rumbling and then a loud, gut wrenching COOOUUGGGHH!

Like a shotgun just fired, I recoiled. I cracked the back of my head on the window. I stared at her wide-eyed. Post traumatic cough syndrome they call it. It was not a tickle in the throat kind of cough. Grandma had not accidentally swallowed the wrong way. It was the cough of the devil itself.

In Portuguese she said, "Boy, I hope you don't mind but I have a horrible COUGH, COUGH, COUGH cold." She had gone from kindly grandmother to poltergeist in three seconds flat.

What could I say? I tried to quickly and desperately come to terms with this catastrophic situation. I recalled what the woman who checked me in said, "We have a completely full flight tonight so we can't upgrade you. I’m sorry." I’ll bet! These two were in collusion. To me, those words from the American Airlines check in lady, were a death spell she cast upon me. How could she...I was just a regular, nice, traveling average Joe.

Yet, there I was, with nowhere to go. It was an emergency. Panic. Hell. Punishment. Brutality. Torture. Eight, nine hours next to disease central. What amendment to the Constitution states no cruel and unusual punishment?! Would it be possible for both the Marlins and Yankees to lose?

Truth be told, I was only getting over a cold. It was gifted to me in Spain a couple of weeks earlier. I took it with me to Miami, Boston and Maine. It logged many miles on American Airlines. I brought the last vestige of it with me to Brazil. I was hoping to give it a final send off and burial somewhere in the concrete of Sao Paulo. The thought of a sequel was too much for me.

Three minutes after boarding the plane, I was trapped completely, staring down the barrel of another cold or worse. I was threatened and cornered, looking around in desperation as more passengers had trouble deciphering their seat assignments. At the very worst they would have to sit next to a crying baby, a snorer, a portly person. Next to me was the SARS flag bearer.

Maybe, I thought, there would be a no show and I could take their seat? Middle, shmiddle, I didn’t care! In vain I summoned all of my strength, hoping to duplicate some Star Trek trick and force a seat to appear - just for me - somewhere, anywhere, the wing, engine nacelle, wherever but next to 26B. I didn't care about being obvious. I looked left, and right, and left and right. Eyes wide open. Little dog like whimpers were emanating from me. I would have spent the flight on the wing if I could have. Forget the cold outside at 37,000 feet. I'm from New England, I could have taken it. But, that jungle fever she had brought with her no hardy New Englander could tolerate.

I was gripped by anger, overcome by fear. COUGH COUGH COUGH! Grandma, I mean Poltergeist, continued her gagging, raspy, deep cough at 15-second intervals. Maybe it was biological terrorism, a new secret weapon? Had airport security searched her? Should I warn the stewardess, after all that would surely have resolved the situation. Maybe her real name was Fatma Al Aqsa Allah Mohammed Mohammed Allah.

Her head would bob left and right, back and forth, in stride with the rhythm of her coughs. She looked like a goddamned bobblehead doll. Pretend your grandkids are around, set a good example and cover your mouth! On the inside of course.

I cozied up to the window as if I were a drunk and it my bottle. I rang the bell and asked the stewardess how to roll down the window. I had become delirious. My system had gone into shock. I pointed those useless and noisy air conditioning jets right into the DMZ between us to blow away the germs that were invisibly invading my personal space. I feared a slow, SARS related death somewhere over the Amazon at 3am. Would they just throw my body out of the plane like they do when someone dies at sea? Maybe Ebola would be quicker.

But alas I realized I have a routine of bad luck with neighbors on flights. And the Captain of flight 907 had his routine. He said, "Make it so," and gunned the engines. For me it was so, for the whole flight down to Brazil. Eight hours. COUGH COUGH COUGH. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH.

So, I gave up and accepted my fate. We all have our routines. Then I took my shoes off, wondered why I had showered that morning and waited for my Dixie cup of ice with a splash of Diet Coke.