I am Joe's queasy stomach.
As our plane came swooping into the San Diego airport at around 8ish last night, I couldn't help but be sick.
I also could only imagine that, were the plane to somehow over correct, and touch a wing to the runway, I would be rather ill protected in that ultra high speed, rolling ball of carnage and twisted metal by that little blue strap around my waist.
I was uncomfortably, yet serenely napping at 32,000. I had recently been dazzled by 2.5 hours of S.W.A.T. on FX. Cabin light signaling seatbelt sign flashes on. Dip, and bump. Dip, and bump. I am moderately coherent, my pillow folded up on the tray before me, my spine bent at a 90 degree angle, and my neck bent at another with my face half plastered over the edge of the pillow/mini-screen, my body ultimately in the form of a tiny staircase, descending the seat in front of me.
Bump, dip. Bump, dip.
Tap tap tap.
"Please sir, attach your seatbelt."
What is the point? If some mythical flying creature, with the ability to withstand subzero temperatures and fly 6 miles high, not to mention is the size of a rather hefty pig is suddenly sucked into the engine, thus sending us plummeting towards earth, I doubt this little blue strap is anymore than an absurd pretense.
I doubt that there is anything more chimerically pointless than the airplane seatbelt. Such a false sense of comfort. Such a facade.
This last thought was more or less on my mind as we were landing.
Suddenly, an Asian boy vomits all over himself, the seats in front of him, and the people sitting in those seats in front of him. Literally cocks back his head at a 90 degree angle, and projectile vomits, but 2 seats ahead of me.
So many angles on a plane.
I am Joe's queasy stomach.
As the plane roughly jerks to a halt, I sit, horrified in my seat, awaiting the puke stench to wash over me.
It didn't take long. Airplane chicken cordon bleu, mixed with coke and bile. Rather unpleasant. Seat belt light off. I grab my things and bolt for the aisle. Just as I am parallel with freaking exorcist, a tiny little woman jumps in front of me, and the aisle slowly clogs, like too much hair in a sink drain.
I close my eyes, and focus on restraining my gag reflex, which is currently attempting to ejaculate everything I have ever eaten all over this tiny woman. I look to the left. Vomit, all over his lap, down the front of his shirt. Pukelits on the ceiling. Vomitlings nesting atop the seat. The man in front, wiping bits of bile from his bald spot. All within inches. Horrid putrescence, trying to force its way into my olfactory system, a lilliputian thief, deftly sneaking through my defenses. Nose futilely plugged, I try to imagine I am anywhere else. Which is hard, when the horror is but inches away.
Slowest plane exiting of my life. It felt like I was there for an eternity, slowly watching people dipped in molasses, dragging their sticky, spiderweb snagged luggage from dark, gooey overhead compartments, only then to amicably converse about stocks, politics, and why everything is Bush's fault.
Slow slow slow.
Finally, like a dam gradually cracking and breaking, people began to funnel out, and finally I was free, Thai food, 2 packs of ginger cookies and 1 package of cheese crackers still nestled in my roiling digestive juices.
Airport air never smelled so fresh.
I doubt they will clean that puked on blue strap of ineffectual, false comfort very well, before the next person is strapped in with a counterfeit sense of security.