I am secretly attracted to eccentricity, but does that mean I am a magnet for the crazy, the lonely, the relentlessly peculiar? On my flight to Paris yesterday, I was sitting next to an insane man. He started by requesting Perrier and orange juice, which seemed innocuous enough, but then he deliberately filled his glass with mineral water to the absolute brink. We both watched the liquid wobble unsteadily back and forth for three seconds, and then predictably, it rose above the edge of the plastic cup and landed on the tray and in his lap. He then took his juice and did the same thing. One couldn't even have hoped to pick up the cup without a spill. Wordlessly, I handed him my napkin.
A moment later the flight attendant was about to move from our row when all of a sudden he requested peanuts. He repeated the request and she turned abruptly and said, "Monsieur, un moment, s’il vous plaît." He settled back into his seat and I head him chanting softly, "Peanuts, peanuts, peanuts..." She dropped two small bags in front of him and wheeled away. To my relief, he crunched away silently... for two minutes. He robustly declared "J’adore peanuts" in an attempt at conversation and I reached for my book. He then pulled out the in-flight magazine and opened to a page in the middle. He stared at the French words like he was trying to picture them naked and continued eating. All of a sudden, he began coughing hysterically. I thought he might be choking on a peanut but then his fit subsided to the occasional cough and some throat clearing. In French, I asked him if he wanted a cough drop. He looked at me blankly and I repeated my offer, when he replied that he didn't speak French. "Oh, I thought that since you were reading the magazine.." No, he had just started taking Dutch lessons and wanted to see if he could understand any of the French words.
As gently as I could, I suggested that since Dutch and French were not in the same family of languages, drawing any superficial similarities might be difficult. To which he replied, but all those European languages are really the same. With dismay, I realised I could no longer pass him off as a quirky little Frenchman, but one of those idiotic Americans. He called out to the flight attendant and pointing to me, asked "Could I have her peanuts?" She shot me a look of sympathy and gave him two more bags. He handed her the empty Perrier bottle, which he dropped into my lap en route. As he started reaching around the floor beneath my legs, I motioned for him to stop, and handed her the aluminum can myself. He apologised sheepishly and then launched into a critique about the difference between honey roasted and plain roasted peanuts (I wish I were making this up), and I decided to efficiently end the conversation. I opened my book, turned away from him and to my left, and began reading. Ten minutes later, he was starting a monologue on the big peanut conspiracy and I was wondering what I could stab myself with. At this point I had gone from monosyllabic replies, to occasional nods, to complete indifference. Yet he was still talking and on his seventh bag of peanuts. I looked up when a popcorn kernel landed in the middle of my book.
The adorable little nightmare sitting across the aisle had discovered that her new favorite hobby was throwing her popcorn at me. Two more kernels landed in my lap and her mother scolded her half-heartedly before smiling indulgently at her antics. I tried to give the three-year old a stern, exasperated look but failed when she winked prettily at me. I winked back, knowing that she would grow up and someday cause some unsuspecting man indescribable heartache. The peanut man looked over at the growing pile of popcorn in my lap and in a stage whisper said, "SOME people can be SO inconsiderate of their fellow passengers." The one-hour flight was already feeling ten days long.
Dante’s definition of hell is proximity without intimacy. In this case, proximity was working quite well on its own.
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