In the latest New Yorker, there’s a David Sedaris story entitled “Turbulence,” which deftly links a bunch of things that I often find both enjoyable and frustrating: air travel, crossword puzzles, and well, other people. It opens,
On the flight to Raleigh, I sneezed, and the cough drop I’d been sucking on shot from my mouth, ricocheted off my folded tray table, and landed, as I remember it, in the lap of the woman beside me, who was asleep and had her arms folded across her chest. I’m surprised that the force didn’t wake her — that’s how hard it hit — but all she did was flutter her eyelids and let out a tiny sigh, the kind you might hear from a baby.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have had three choices, the first being to do nothing. The woman would wake up in her own time, and notice what looked like a shiny new button sewn to the crotch of her jeans. This was a small plane, with one seat per row on Aisle A, and two seats per row on Aisle B. We were on B, so should she go searching for answers I would be the first person on her list. “Is this yours?” she’d ask, and I’d look dumbly into her lap.
“Is what mine?”
If that doesn’t hook you in, I don’t know what will. Check it out.
That is hysterical! I’ve sent it along to heaps of people.
My favorite bit:
Forty across: “I give money to p—”
Forty-six down: “—ublic radio.”