China 2007

Flight CA4419. We've already been delayed an hour for takeoff, and I'm stuck in 15F. A window seat, to be sure, if it hadn't fogged up from my seatmate panting over my shoulder.

This strange Chinese man departs Lhasa for Chongqing. It seems he flies a lot, because he likes to pile his peas, carrots and tomatoes into the center of a loaf of bread, and shove it all in. He looks like some kind of accountant, in a striped white shirt and black pants. He seems young, though - a stuck-up lip and white socks with black shoes. He finds amusement in hanging his briefcase from a closed tray table, and even when perfectly steady, constantly adjusts it.

He pulls out a paper table, full of numbers and Chinese characters. He muses over it for a moment, then puts it away.

He has a habit of whistling. His arms are small, but his ambitions are not. He desires power, growth, impermanence. Stuck in a seat for more than twenty minutes, and all the armrests belong to him. The window gives him an outlet, though. The problem is, he's in the middle seat. And how can he look out the window? Well, he could turn his head. That might work. Or he could stand up, bend down or bend over to stick his head over mine or in front of my face. Then, he could look at the clouds to his heart's desire. I'd offer to switch seats with him, but I doubt he understands English. He probably won't get the monkey babble I'm so good at, either.

What a shame that my head is in the way. He'll have to tear open the air sickness bag and - oh, no, he's not sick. You had me worried for a second. He's just going to tear it to itty-bitty pieces, and place those pieces back into what remains of the bag. And then he'll put any unnecessary waste in there - a cup, his food, why not? What is a flight attendant good for, anyway?

Something else draws his attention. He stands up, several times, to twist his body just right. He has face sideways, so that his backside juts out into my seat - my "personal space" that I'd rather not like violated - and shouts wildly to someone in the back row. I bend forward, head in my hands, enjoying some peace from his once-eternal munching with mouth wide open. But now I can't lean back: he's claimed the window once more, this time with his ear pressed against my headrest. He begins to expand, and I move forward, squeezed against the traytable. He mumbles something to himself, for what seem like hours - only minutes that my non-captive classmate in other seats feel. I stare downward, focused, waiting to be relieved of the pain in my spine.

Back to his food - slurp, slurp, slurp. I dare to turn my head, and look outside, downward: only to see clouds and more clouds. I'm pressed forward once again as he nudges his way behind my head. I'm feeling quite violated indeed... but I suppose it's all in my mind. I had worried how my videotaping might interfere with his strict, rule-abiding moral standards, but as he sits next to me text messaging, seatbelt unfastened, I don't think I need to worry about that anymore. He starts banging the two metal pieces of his seatbelt together, for a few minutes at a time. We're almost there, right? I close my eyes.

Let's just not think about the Man Sitting Next to Me.