I bang my head against the fuselage as I board the plane, reminding me that I am probably making a mistake.
“Oh, didn’t see that comin’, did ya?” says a short, pudgy flight attendant. She laughs. Her permed red hair jiggles. Her chubby cheeks squeeze her eyes closed. She looks like a less-charming Edie McClurg, the secretary from Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. I caddied for Edie once.
I grin and don’t say anything. If there is one thing I’ve learned in my twenty years of Hollywood, it’s that no one wants to hear it unless you are famous. I’m no one. I work my way towards my seat, clutching my leather journal, the only thing I am taking onto the plane. The overhead bins are too small for standard carry-on baggage. In a stroke of airline industry genius, they slapped a carry-on sticker on the side, and then checked it with the rest of my luggage.
My seat looks out the window, over the wing. I have barely sat down when I am introduced to my neighbor, a man of roughly three hundred pounds whose ass oozes over the seat. His love handles engulf the armrests, slowly devouring them like The Blob. I wedge my hand into God knows what fold, searching for the other end of my seat belt. Where is Steve McQueen when you need him? Steve shook my hand once. I told him I hoped I was half as successful as he was. He said, “Kid, I hope you are half as successful as me, too.” (more…)