A Dissertation About People Who Loudly Eat Apples On Airplanes

Charlotte, North Carolina, 1:56pm. Finally sinking my front lip into a much deserved MASSIVE “brown beer” ale after a hell-flight on U.S. Airways 1437 from Laguardia. I was seated in the forever-loathed Middle Seat. Next to a smelly bum and — far considerably worse — a Chewer.

I hate Chewers. Chewers are that strange class of de-evolved people that find it socially acceptable to CHEW SHIT in your earlobes at close proximity. For instance, the $*@!-ing coach section of an evil leg-mangling domestic carrier while I am attempting to regain much-needed hours of anxiety-ridden SLEEP.

I knew this would all become a problem the minute I attempted to vault my six hundred pound purple carry-on into the wedge of space that somehow classifies as an “overhead”. As if my personal space was not pre-invaded enough by seeing a B row on my fuck-you-customer-of-Travelocity ‘over-purchased’ airline ticket, as I’m destroying the muscles in my forearms some — person — decides to touch me. And I really don’t like to be touched.

Tap-tap-tap!

What, the fuck. I mentally simmer, giving the obese mini-suitcase a final heave and slamming the cover closed. Just as I’m about to take my seat –

Tap-tap-TAP!

I whirl around, attempting not to belt “I HAVE HAD THREE HOURS OF SLEEP AND WILL MURDER YOU IF YOU TOUCH ME AGAIN,” and eye-glaringly confront my assailant. A small, 90 pound redhead heavily channeling the 60s gazes back at me. She smells like a tree.

“They make these things smaller and smaller every day now, don’t they?”

She giggles, gesturing around the airplane. Excuse me, little tiny freakish person dressed in seventeen shades of GREEN — are you our environmentally conscious stewardess offering up shot glasses of wheatgrass? NO. No you AREN’T, because we aren’t on VIRGIN AMERICA, we’re on U.S. AIR where everything SUCKS.

Not as bad as Delta, though, I mentally remind myself. Nothing save riding on the coals of hell is worse than Delta.

“Right,” I reply with stiffened lips, attempting to smile as I realize this… little, baby vomit green… thing… has my coveted Aisle Seat. I suddenly catch my breath with envy.

The Aisle Seat is where anything is possible. In the Aisle Seat, you can write mean things about the festering people around you and successfully avoid their voyeuristic eyeballs.  In the Aisle Seat, you get served by the human beings who push the Drink Cart first, but have the most time to rummage about in your pocketbook to extract a crisp five in exchange for a bottle of Something. Finally, in the Aisle Seat you can escape to the bathroom at your own will.

I hated this little ball of annoying in that moment. And as the minutes ticked on as she (obviously not a versed frequent flyer like myself, who can shove-and-sit in less than 15 seconds) proceeded to arrange her little “space” like she’d be in it for A YEAR… fluffing her pillow while the growing line of impatient commuters mentally (or in my case, actually) tapped their feet… carefully arranging her food…

Oh. No. I mumbled, horrified as I saw the items she began removing from her Hippie Love travel sack. And I knew then… she was that dreaded class of inhuman folk… she was a Chewer.

Minute 10. Middle Seat. Electronic items now permitted, I hastily fumble to plug my earbuds into my (it was already on, $*@!-ers!) iPhone. Ensue scrambling for mind-drowning rock playlist.

Minute 11.5: Chewer pulls out a GIGANTIC APPLE. Turns it, contemplating.

Minute 12: Chewer begins polishing GIGANTIC APPLE. Consumption is nearing.

Minute 13.5: The first horrifying sounds of Apple Death ring through the cabin.  Chewer has begun chewing on GIGANTIC APPLE.

Minute 14: Decide going deaf is worth not hearing disgusting Chewing sounds, use forefingers to shove earbuds as deep as feasibly possible into eardrums.

Minute 15.5: Endure Ray Lamontague’s “Trouble” louder than anyone ever should.

Minute 16: Chewer finally extracts remnants of GIGANTIC APPLE from her incisors, and proceeds to PLUNGE the mangled carcass into her seat pocket.

I am so horrified at this point I’m not sure if I’m even going to make it through the rest of the flight. I practically croak as I TAP-TAP-TAP the offending human being who has created a holocaust in row 19, and without warning scramble over her to go regain my sanity in the lavatory.

The remaining forty-three minutes passed by in pure hell. My fear that she would eat something else, paired with the fact that my right earbud now wasn’t working — made my heart race Panic Attack fast until touchdown.

When we were finally given the clear to unlatch our death-trap seatbelts (WHY airplanes don’t provide PARACHUTES instead of the shitty ‘floating device’ cushions is beyond me), I sat absolutely rigid  until the line of human salmon moved downstream with their obese carry-ons and/or offspring.

When my turn finally came, I took one last look at Chewer. She glanced back at me, sheer Chewing evil in her eyes, and began tugging at an Extra Large pack of Double Bubble. I think I audibly squealed in horror as I ripped my suitcase from the overhead and sprinted out of the airplane like a Jewish bat out of Hitler hell.

I am now holed up in the only pub in the North Carolina airport that serves alcohol, with a large beer at my quaking fingertips and four hours to go.

The odds are not in my favor.

Back to the liquor menu.

Ashley