Megan; Omaha, NB; Present Day

"Gooooooodevening ladies and gentleman, I'd like to be the first to welcome you to Los Angeles from Omaha, Nebraska."  Most of the flight erupted in that type of laughter that's fairly slow and whimpery since it's intended to prevent one from crying.  "The local time here is 1:42am, putting us at about 2 hours and 10 minutes later than our intended arrival time."  I let out a hyperbolic groan, which woke up the chick sitting to my left at the window seat.  She'd been sleeping up against that wall this whole hellacious flight. Lucky bitch with the window seat.  I whipped out my iPhone and texted, "Look who finally landed" and a pissed-off looking emoticon to the contact in my phone listed as Whiskers.              "I don't think we're allowed to use our mobile devices yet," said the guy to my right.
            "Oh, yeah, sorry," I retorted.  Hate airplane conversations.
            "For those of you with connecting flights, they've deffffffinitely all left by now, so if that's the case, please approach a flight attendant to discuss your accommodations." Luckily, LA was my final destination.  I was supposed to be on a painless nonstop flight to LA from where I lived in New York City to go wine tasting for the weekend with my boyfriend, Max (Whiskers in my contact list; it's my "pet name" for him).  That's actually one perk of being in a long-distance, bi-coastal relationship: whenever we do see one another, it's special, so we always whisk ourselves away to somewhere exciting and vacationy.  I guess the other perk would be how rarely I have to shave my legs.  But this was what I got for trying to give us an extra night together by getting on the last flight of the day on Friday instead of the first flight of the day on Saturday; I warned my boyfriend that my flight wouldn't get in until 11:30pm, but he said it was no sweat and that he was stoked we'd get to increase the number of times we don't have to sleep with only our iPhones as company by one more night.  However, of course, some totally F-ed up cosmic event would hate me enough to cause the world to turn upside down, resulting in my flight of big-city New Yorkers and Los Angelenos to have to make an emergency landing in Omaha.  Did you know that Omaha is a city in Nebraska?  I'll tell you what, I didn't until I got to spend almost two precious hours, during which I could have been spooning in a California king size bed, chilling with a planeful of irritated city folk in the middle of bum fuck nowhere.  The most off-the-grid locale that any of us travel to is Brooklyn (The Valley, for those from LA), so this whole emergency landing in Nebraska shit was completely ironic.  But the clincher, was why we had to make the emergency descent in the first place.

A little over eight hours ago, I was walking my suitcase down the middle aisle of the plane towards my seat, 16A.  My boyfriend had used frequent flyer miles to make the reservation and had kindly chosen me a window seat.  This flight was gonna be an easy one; I couldn’t wait just to pop in my ear buds, lean up against the window, and sleep for the next six hours until I'd be with Max.  Oooh row 16, nice.  I reached my spot.  I hoisted my carry-on into the overhead compartment and filed myself into the 16th row to my window seat.  I plopped down, settled myself, put in my ear buds, and closed my eyes.  Not even a minute later, I felt a harsh tapping on my right shoulder.  

What the hell. 

I peeled my eyes open to see a slightly chunky, Jewy-looking girl with wavy hair extensions and huge boobs poking my shoulder, which caused her obnoxious Tiffany charm bracelet to make a loud chinking sound right up in my face.  Definitely a New Yorker.

            “Uh, scuse me.  You’re in my seat.  16A?  That’s my seat.”  I whipped out the Internet on my iPhone to check my mobile boarding pass.  Love mobile boarding passes; you never have to worry about printing or losing anything.  Sure enough, she was right.  I was supposed to be in 16B. 

            “Shit,” I whispered.  Middle seat?  How was this possible?  I thought Max said I had a window seat.  Guess not… fuck.  “Sorry about that,” I said, and begrudgingly moved one seat over.  I decided I didn’t have to sleep on the flight; I had just downloaded the new Adele album onto my phone, so I figured playing that over and over could keep me entertained for at least half the flight.  Perusing the Sky Mall would take care of the remaining three hours.  I was scrolling through my iTunes when a husky man, probably mid-forties, in a polo shirt and Dodgers cap slid his briefcase under the seat in front of 16C and planted himself to my right.  A Los Angeleno.  I hoped he’d be chiller than the brat to my left who was currently placing a Burberry sleep mask over her naturally snarling face. 

            “Hello, ladies,” said Dodgers cap.  He was jolly.  And a talker.  I wasn’t happy.

            “Hi,” I quietly said back.  Burberry sleep mask pretended she was already asleep and didn’t respond. 

            “So where are you headed?” he asked.  I squinted a little, in confusion.

            “Uh, LA,” I responded, slowly, like he was retarded.

            “No, no, no, I mean are you headed home, or to vacation, or to work?”

            “Vacation,” I answered, sort of shortly, hoping he’d catch the hint that I wasn’t an airplane conversator, and leave me alone.

            “Oh I see.  A New Yorker.  What do you do here?” 

            “NYU student.  I’m actually from Maine originally,” I told him.  He was annoying, but seemed nice enough, and I thought it’d be bad to completely ignore him.  “But my boyfriend lives in LA, and I love it there, so my plan is to move sometime soon.  Not have to fly so much.”

            “Very interesting.  Very, very interesting.”  He was talking so loud.  This dude was weird.  “Interesting.  Well, what do you study at NYU?” 

            “Cognitive neuroscience.”  I hoped that would be enough to kill the conversation.  Revealing my area of study normally confuses people enough to ask no further questions.  Which is actually pretty useful in situations of mind-numbing small talk.

            “I studied physics in college and grad school,” he unfortunately responded

            “Oh, okay,” I said.  “I was never all that good at physics.”  I was trying to be nice.

            “Yeah, well that’s because it’s the most difficult and least understood scientific field.  Obviously you had trouble.”  I could tell he wasn’t trying to be a dick, but I still decided he was a dick.  “Then I joined the Air Force.  Became General at thirty-eight; you never hear of Generals in their thirties.  But, after eighteen years in the military, a person needs something new, you know?”  I nodded.  “But anyway, I don’t mean to tell you my whole life story.  I live in Pasadena now and breed hairless cats.”

He breeds what.

            “Oh, wow,” I said.  It was then that I gave up any hope that this would be an easy flight.

            “Yeah, my wife and I.  We love it.  We breed hairless cats, and give them to various organizations and groups of needy people.  Like the blind.” 

            “Oh, like seeing-eye dogs?”

            “No, like pets.  People forget that the blind have other pets besides seeing-eye dogs.  And hairless cats are perfect pets for the blind.  They’re the kindest little creatures you’ll ever come to meet, and there’s no way any blind person would think they’re ugly, you know?”  I agreed.  “I actually keep two of my own as pets.  Oh I have pictures!  Wanna see?”  He was a little too loud and enthusiastic for any stranger sitting six inches from any other stranger to appropriately be. 

            “Uh, sure.”  He swiftly retrieved a Gateway laptop from his briefcase and opened it to reveal his desktop picture: two hideous, bald, angry looking beasts curled up next to one another on a plaid couch. 

            “This is Casanova and Whiskers,” he said. 

            “Whiskers!  That’s what I call my boyfriend!”  The minute I said it, I knew this guy would not handle it well.

            “Why would you call him that?  Does he have long facial hair?”

            “No, no,” I assured.  This weird Dodgers cap guy was my worst nightmare.  “It’s my ‘pet name’ for him.  Like, ‘honey’ or ‘sweetie,’ but an actual pet name.  It’s nothing.  Never mind.”

            “It’s really a name better suited for a cat.”  I nodded again.

            “You know, I think I’m gonna try to get some sleep now,” I said.  He looked sort of rejected.  Not my problem.  I stuck in my ear buds, switched on Adele, folded myself over onto my lap, and shut my eyes.  Not too long after, the pilot came on to prepare us for take off.  We began our ascent, and to the soulful sounds of Adele, I thankfully fell asleep.

What was apparently a little over three hours later, I awoke to the sound of the pilot on the intercom.

            “Hey, ladies and gentlemen, sorry for the interruption.  I apologize for the inconvenience, but it seems as though we’re going to have to take a little detour.  We’re going to make a hopefully brief emergency landing in Omaha within the next fifteen minutes, just to let someone off the plane.  It shouldn’t deter us more than an hour.  All I ask is that people in Coach please stay in Coach and use their designated bathrooms, and that those in First Class stay in First Class, and use their designated bathrooms.  Thank you, and sorry again.” 

WHAT. 

I jumped to the conclusion that someone in Coach had lost all control of their bowels, had gotten explosively sick all over the Coach bathroom, and was now causing people in Coach to flood up to First Class to pee.  I thought how much I would hate to be the person who caused the delay of an entire flight because of my diarrhea.  Just to be sure, I turned to ask the weird dude to my right.  Burberry sleep mask was still conked out.

            “Is somebody sick and needs to be let off the plane?” I inquired.

            “Actually, we’re making the landing, because there’s a dangerous man on the plane,” he answered, casually.

            “A dangerous man?!” I repeated, surprised both at the information and at his delivery.  “Who?  How do you know??”

            “Yeah, sitting back in 22C, there’s a black man.  Probably in his late 20’s.  Big, with a Mohawk, definitely gay, and he’s got a Chihuahua with him.”  Things were not making sense.  “He’s clearly high on some sort of drug and keeps terrorizing the stewardesses, because he’s demanding they move him and his dog to first class.  He keeps saying his dog refuses to sit in Coach.  I saw him making a bit of a scene, trying to claw his way up to First Class.  I went back there to try to calm him down so we wouldn’t have to make a landing like this, but the stewardesses are nervous, and I get the feeling our pilot is pretty sensitive, so we have to let him off the plane.”

            “Oh my god, that is crazy,” I stated, not knowing what to address first.  “What’s going to happen to the guy?”

            “Oh, he’ll definitely be taken to prison,” weird Dodgers cap guy guaranteed.  “That’s a felony.  Yeah, he’s gonna be in big, big trouble.  I bet he didn’t think he’d end up in Omaha, Nebraska tonight.”  Weird guy let out a little chuckle. 

Uh, yeah, and neither did I.  Omaha, Nebraska?  What the hell! 

Fifteen minutes later, we were on the ground.  People in the rows behind and in front of me started turning on their cell phones and calling loved ones in LA to let them know we’d be late.  A typical one-sided conversation I’d overhear went something along the lines of, “Hey, it’s me.  We had to make an emergency landing… Omaha, Nebraska… I know, so random… The pilot says we’ll be about an hour late… I have no idea why, he didn’t tell us.”  Apparently, weird Dodgers cap guy’s interference in 22C with the subject of our emergency landing provided me with inside information that no one else on the plane had.  At least he was good for that.  Burberry sleep mask probably could have gotten in on the info too, but she was still dead asleep.  I took my phone out of my pocket and texted Max: 

Me: We had to make an emergency landing in none other than Omaha fucking Nebraska.  Some big gay dude with a Mohawk is apparently high on something and has a Chihuahua and was harassing the stewardesses.

Whiskers: What the fuck.

Me: Yeah, it’s insane, we’re gonna be like an hour late.  I’m so sorry.

Whiskers: Yeah you’ll have to explain that to me later.

Me: I know, it’s like, the weirdest shit ever.  I’ll call you when I get there.  Sorry you have to stay up so late.

Whiskers: Oh it’s fine, babe.  I’d be up anyway probably.  See you soon.

After about twenty minutes of listening to confused phone calls, peoples’ frustrated conversations turned to gasps and whispers as four strapping airport police officials in neon yellow uniforms came stomping down the middle aisle towards 22C.  They spoke too quietly to Mohawk man for me to hear an argument if they had one, but not too long after, there he was: a buff, sort of mixed-race dude in a cutoff muscle t-shirt, sporting two blinged-out earrings and what was more like a faux-hawk.  A Los Angeleno, for sure.  He didn’t seem belligerent or violent like I had imagined, as he agreeably passed us, with two airport police in front of him and two behind.  I didn’t spy the infamous Chihuahua; I wondered if Mohawk man got to carry her out himself, or if one of the airport police confiscated the little diva dog. 

I flipped to my Facebook app and updated my status.  I never update my status, but I thought this profoundly bizarre moment was worthy.

“There is nothing stranger than having to make an emergency landing in Omaha, Nebraska because some queen was getting violent with the stewardesses about wanting to move his Chihuahua to first class.  Confused?  Me too.  Except I'm confused in Omaha, Nebraska,” I typed.  An hour later, my status had thirteen “likes.”  

We were supposed to be on the ground for just enough time to escort Mohawk man off the aircraft, but for whatever reason, the police started questioning him while they were still on the plane, so that caused a significant delay.  The pilot kept coming on the intercom to apologize, but people weren’t buying it.  Our landing at the Omaha airport obviously wasn’t planned, so finding the space and time to schedule a takeoff for our flight took a while as well.  Weird Dodgers cap guy was getting restless. 

“This is such terrible, terrible luck,” he told me.  “You know, I was supposed to be on a much earlier flight home today, but that flight got cancelled due to problems with the engine.  Now this.  I’m beginning to think it’s me.  I wish I could have just fixed that engine, so I wouldn’t have had to get on this flight.  I can handle engineering problems much better than crazy guys with small dogs.” 

Oh, weird Dodgers cap guy.  All he wanted was to get home to his wife and hairless cats, yet here he was, in Omaha Nebraska, in the aisle seat, torturing me.  None of us on the flight could believe this outrageous event.  Then it occurred to me: on what flight other than one between the cities of New York and Los Angeles would there have to be an emergency landing because of some freak-show on coke throwing a hissy fit because his Chihuahua needed a first class seat?  Would this happen on a flight between St. Louis, Missouri and Minneapolis, Minnesota, for example?  Between York, Pennsylvania and Little Rock, Arkansas?  What about between my hometown of Portland, Maine and anywhere at all?  Even if the flight to LA had started in Omaha and not New York?  Of course not.  But the biggest divas in the sky always travel between New York and Los Angeles.  And I would never have to deal with them if I just lived in LA.  I groaned an inappropriately audible groan.  Weird Dodgers cap guy gave me a horrified look.  Burberry sleep mask didn’t stir.

Finally, at 1:15am East Coast Standard Time, we prepared for takeoff.  I was exhausted.  I popped in my ear buds once again and was out as cold as Burberry sleep mask in no time. 

I didn’t wake up until the pilot’s announcement when we arrived in LA.

Me: Look who finally landed >: (

Whiskers: There you are!  I was getting worried.  I’ll be there in 20.

Me: Thanks, Whiskers.  This is such a friggin nightmare.

Whiskers: No problem, babe.

Me: I don’t know how much longer I can do these flights, you know.  It’s not fair to either of us.  I gotta move here.  Soon.

Whiskers: I know babe, don’t worry.  We’ll figure it out.  See you in a little.

Me: K.  See ya in a few.  Love you, Max.

Whiskers: Love you too Meg.

Ten minutes later, I was rolling my carry-on out the door to ground transportation— happy to be out of New York, out of my middle seat, far away from Burberry sleep mask and weird Dodgers cap guy with his freaky hairless cat stories.  And especially happy, to be the fuck out of Omaha.