The Airsick Bag

I’d just survived a week in Florida with my folks, both of whom I adore, but when people say, “Oh, wow - Florida - must be nice!” I just smile. We don’t get within sniffing distance of the Gulf of Mexico. My entertainment, aside from traipsing diligently around their cul-de-sacs twice a day in the hours when I can elude the omnipresent heat, is playing marathon Rummikub with my mother – and dining out, which is a treat for me since I live in a small mountain town where we manage to eat out at least three times a year whether I need it or not.

Anyway, my folks have long since given up the airport run, being 83 and 89 years old. I’d slept lousy, fearing I had set the alarm wrong or would oversleep, so wide-eyed, I popped out of bed at 3 a.m.for the long ordeal. The Astrovan picked me up at 4:15 for a 7:45 flight to Denver.

The driver was friendly, and I sat next to an older lady who was a huge football fan and loved the Chiefs, our Broncos biggest rival, so we had a great conversation about all things pigskin. At the airport, I killed time reading, sipping coffee andpeople watching. I always seem to get fingered for the “thorough” security check where one bares one's soles and has one's carry-on bag ravaged by a stranger. Knowing I would be expected to survive on seven pretzel rings, I had packed a lunch - you know, string cheese, a granola bar, an apple, some crunchy snacks, etc. As the security agent rummaged through my bag, he pulled out the lunch and examined it. “What? Are you afraid you’ll get hungry?” The nerve! I said, "Yes, I'm afraid I'll get hungry. I've got a 10 hour day ahead of me and you people don't bother to feed us anymore!" That shut his pie hole.

When I’d checked in, I was early enough to get a good seat – bulkhead/window – oh, yeah! When I finally boarded, I’d already been on the road for hours and found my row where seats D and E were occupied. I climbed across into F. Seated on the aisle was a fortyish guy, and in the middle seat was a young black man sporting gang tatooes on both arms and clad in a pale blue double-knit shorts outfit with the crotch of his pants between his knees. I sat down and arranged myself.

I was perusing a magazine waiting to begin taxiing. Suddenly, the young man reached into the seat pocket and pulled out the barf bag. Oh, God, no!

He leaned forward and urped right into that bag while I pressed my nose to the window. He urped again and again. Then he wiped his mouth and sat back, holding the liquid filled bag out in front of him.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“Yeah, this is my first flight.”

“Oh, really? Well, it will get easier. Just relax.”

Whew! I was afraid he was contagious.

As we taxied down the runway, he urped again. I glanced askance and chewed my lower lip, flagging down the flight attendant and purchasing the in-flight movie, “Chicago.” In between barf episodes, he laid his head back against the seat with the courtesy icepack plastered to his forehead until the next urp arrived. The flight attendants finally chucked the little barf bags for a more efficient black trash bag. I watched a flight attendant pick up the microphone.

“Do we have a doctor on this flight? If so, please come forward. We have a passenger in need of care.”

Lucky me. I was stuck next to him.

A nurse appeared and took his pulse and he said he had acid reflux disease and often vomited blood. Wonderful.

I watched adorable Richard Gere dance. Finally, one of the flight attendants slipped me a five dollar refund with a wink and a grimace.

The guy probably vomited ten times. About forty-five minutes before we changed planes, he fell into a light sleep and seemed to be over the worst of it. The odd thing was that there wasn’t much odor, so at least I wasn’t gagging.

As we approached the airport for landing, a voice came over the PA to say that paramedics would be meeting the plane to remove a sick passenger, and we should all remain seated. Even more wonderful.


I felt sorry for the guy and yet I feared I might catch some dreaded disease. Once off the plane, I headed straight for the bar and sat at one of those high top tables. I ordered a beer from the menu that had such small print I ended up with some undrinkable microbrew, which I bypassed for a red beer, a breakfast of sorts.

The kitchen wasn’t open yet, so I sipped my drink and watched the news. Pretty soon, a solo guy sat at the table next to me. I said something, and he responded. I grabbed my bag and slipped onto the seat at his table. I had to tell someone about the barfing seatmate. He had been on the same plane. He was nice guy on his way to a family vacation at a Montana lake. Turned out, he was an arson investigator. We talked about his job and politics. We discussed Annika Sorenstam, the woman golfer playing in the PGA. We covered football. Then the waitress brought menus, so I got another drink and an order of wings. He bought me a second drink. We talked about Tampa and Denver, politics and war and before I knew it, it was time for my next flight. I pulled out a twenty, and he held up his hand.

“It’s on me.”

“No, come on. You had two beers. I had two drinks and food. Take this.”

“Nope. I’m on vacation. My treat.”

“Well, thanks. That’s awful nice of you.”

“My pleasure. You’re a very interesting woman.”

I smiled and said thanks and walked away with a little more spring in my step.