She hadn’t spoken since the bumps started. She may as well have been underwater. She had her hair pulled back really tight and she had one of those bags that expands with a second zipper if you want to bring home some ceramic bowls for your mom. It was too big to fit under the seat in front of her but she really decided it was going to go there—she had her back in the seat and was kicking her heels into the side of the bag. The flight attendants hated her from the start. She had already been moved once because she said she was not comfortable operating an emergency exit. She said her nerves would act up or some bullshit like that. I can’t believe they fell for it. The flight attendants probably just wanted to get her as far away as possible so they put her way in the back of the plane. The buttoned attendant stared blankly at the bold words “economy plus” when she waved her boarding pass in the air as she was ushered to seat 27B.
Anyway, these bumps started about an hour into the flight. They weren’t the types of ones that just shake you a bit in your seat, or the ones where all the kids under seven tell their moms and sisters how it feels sort of like that time they went to Six Flags. They were the types of bumps where even the guys in their suits with worn leather briefcases who have flown enough to know how to fall asleep surrounded by a baby and a puking five year old whose mother is in first class and certainly isn’t going to get out of her seat until she finishes her fourth mimosa— those real business guy fliers, the bumps are making them clutch both arm-rests and look like they’ve just been fired and won’t retain their clients.
This lady’s body just shut down. Her hands froze into claws. She was dripping with sweat, which made her attempts to open the tray table with her claws that much more difficult. Also, her claws kept her from holding on to the arm-rest so she just bounced around in her seat. Once the tray table snapped down from the seat in front of her, she tried to pin her fingers on it in order to try and open up her claws but they may as well have been rubber banded. They snapped back into position the second she stopped forcing them open. Her sweat wasn’t really cooling her down all that much and she ended up turning a boiled pink color. Her pulled-back-hair came loose because she was bouncing all over her seat and was sticking up in every which way like antennae. All of the sudden, she looked at me with eyes that were popping out of her socket and was very clearly transcending the human form.
I was sharing my row with a lobster. All I have to do now is ask the stewardess for a cup of melted butter and maybe even a lemon wedge. They offer the lemon wedge with the drinks anyway— I’m sure it’s no hassle. Plus, this is the lobster who held up the plane because she wouldn’t sit in an emergency exit and she insisted her suitcase should go under her seat, but her coat should go over. I thought I might as well check to see if this lobster is too small or if I can keep her. If she’s too small I’ll probably have to throw her back and hope to see her on the return flight. I stand up and get out her huge suitcase to measured her. I pull up the metal handle —the one you extend so you can wheel it around without hunching over and hurting your back— and placed it right by her eye socket and check to see if the luggage extended past her tail. It’s close but she’s certainly of legal size. I also discover no eggs dangling from the small scooping legs at her waist. I hit the assistance button and almost immediately, a stewardess comes out with a large speckled pot on her cart, just for me.
Without a word, we throw the lobster right into the pot and heft the heavy lid over top. I tap on the shoulder of the woman sitting in front of me. Her baby hadn’t eaten a thing a flight but was still wearing a bib. I asked if I could use her baby’s bib and she smiled, and said, “of course, just don’t get too much lobster juice on it, it’s a gift from her grandmother.” I thank her and tie it around my neck. It has a fire truck stitched onto it. The stewardess opens the lid of the pot and we peer inside. The lobster was cooked perfectly. The stewardess gets out her long tongs and pulls the lobster out of the pot and onto a lovely silver platter. She slices a new lemon for me, and pours me a cup of butter. I realize the only thing that I am missing is a hammer to break the shell. I fumble around the whole cabin asking if anyone has a hammer because I have this really great lobster with me and I’ll even share some with you if you let me use your hammer. But no one has a hammer, the whole plane is hammerless. I figure this is the end for me. Left to starve in front of this steaming lobster. But lo and behold the wonderful stewardess tells me I may as well use the suitcase, It’s not like the lobster needs it anymore. So I grab the suitcase by the long metal handle, and I swing it over my head like a maul and it crashes wheels first into the lobsters right claw and splits it open. The juice goes everywhere but my bib keeps me dry. And right as I get my fork in there to try and work out some claw meat— the fucking plane crashes into the ocean. Water spills into the broken windows. My lobster swims away, massaging her broken claw and I have to settle for this bag of peanuts.