Lady Parts

by Andrea Martin

  The kid next to me is now complaining to his mother about his seat. He doesn’t like being in the middle. Who does, kid? You’re five. You don’t have a choice. He is yelling that he wants my window seat, the one I booked months ago so that I would have control over the window shade when the flight attendant asks, ten minutes into the trip, if I can lower it so the other passengers can better see their television screens. Unlike the other passengers, I will not be watching my television. I will be reading my book, goddamnit, the Dalai Lama’s The Heart of Compassion. I hope to achieve this state in the next seven days at my spiritual retreat. And to get a head start on compassion, I’ll need the fucking window shade open to do it.

  The mother is not paying attention to her demanding son. She has now put her phone down to ask the flight attendant if her daughter, who is sitting in the last row of the plane with her husband, can sit up front with her.

  “There’s nothing we can do, ma’am,” says the flight attendant. “The plane is full, and all seats have been assigned.”

  The mother turns to me now and asks me if I would mind giving up my seat so her daughter can sit up front with her.

  First of all, NO, over my dead body, I uncharitably think of her unreasonable request. No one’s switching, okay, Ms. Needy? So stop pleading.

  Second of all, I paid an additional $60 for my “even more space” seat. That means I have two additional inches of precious real estate that I ain’t giving up. Besides, her daughter is in the middle seat in the last row of the plane. Does this woman think I’m crazy? Does she think I’m Mother Teresa? Who would give up a bulkhead seat with extra leg-room to sit in the middle of the last row, the pee-and-poo row closest to the toilet? Maybe the Dalai Lama. And maybe after I finish his first chapter on kindness I will revisit the seat-swapping quandary. But for now, Selfish is my mantra.

  “No,” I say to the manipulating mother, “I’m sorry, but I’m claustrophobic and need to be by an open window at the front of the plane.”

  The woman looks at me in disbelief and with disdain. I could strangle her and rip her phone out of her hands so she will never ever be able to split a kiwi apart again. The war is on.

  The flight attendant is making an announcement now that someone on the flight has a peanut allergy. I remember I have packed a bag of homemade trail mix with me so that I won’t be tempted to eat the prepackaged processed sugary snacks the airline provides. I have yummy walnuts, raw cashews, organic almonds, and ginger pieces in my little bag. I came prepared. The mother indignantly blurts out that her son, the seatbelt- and food-tray assaulter, is also allergic to peanuts.

  Averting my eyes from the mother, I inform the flight attendant that I have other nuts in my purse but not peanuts.

  “That’s okay,” she says, “it’s the dust from the peanuts that people are allergic to.”

  “Wait a minute,” says the enemy, with whom I am gearing up for full-blown combat, “my son is also allergic to walnuts.”

  “Oh,” says the flight attendant, looking apologetically at me, “but it’s just when he ingests them, right?”

  “Listen,” says the mother, “I don’t want to have a fight over this. I said he’s allergic to walnuts.”

  I am now holding back a viper’s store of venom. My voice is pinched. My mouth is brittle. I am perched in seat 8F, ready to kill.

  “Well, then I won’t eat my walnuts,” I say belligerently. “I won’t eat any of the nuts I brought with me. I’ll keep them sealed in a bag, away from you. Don’t you worry. No one will see or taste or feel my nuts for the next five hours.”

  I am appalled at my lack of courage. I surrendered so easily. I’m weak. I can’t even stand up for a few unsalted cashews.

  The mother goes to the back of the plane to check on her husband and daughter. The kid closest to me is now jumping up and down on his seat and hitting my headrest. He kicks his knapsack on the floor and it lands on my shoeless feet. I have a ritual when I fly. I take off my shoes. Put them neatly in my carry-on. Put on some cozy socks. Place a tennis ball behind my back, and I’m ready to fly in comfort. I whip around to face the kid. My eyes are fixed on his as I mouth the words, in slow motion, clearly and menacingly.

  “Sit. Down. Now.”

  He looks back at me stunned, but he obeys and sits. I keep staring at him. He is frozen. My eyes could burn a hole in his Spider-Man hat. I wish I’d brought my Valium with me, the two left from last year’s surgery. I’d have no trouble dropping them into his juice box.

  Okay, now I’m verging on child abuse.

  I could be arrested for this, though the brilliant comedian Paul Lynde was not apprehended on a Southwest flight when he said to the mother of a screaming child, “You shut that kid up, or I’ll fuck it.”

  Who am I? Has my darker self, the evil Mrs. Hyde, taken over? The caring Dr. Jekyll in me loves kids. I, the one-time Canadian ambassador to UNICEF; I, the woman who fostered a Haitian child for ten years; I, the spokesperson for COAF, the Children of Armenia Fund; I, a kids’ mentor at performing arts organizations all around North America; I, a camp counsellor at the Luther Gulick camp in Maine for five summers in a row. I, the mom of two kids she loves madly and unconditionally and would put herself in front of a train to protect.

  Have I turned into that kind of cranky old woman who overnight becomes irritable, irrational, short-tempered, and abrupt? Am I now the woman I thought I’d never be? The crotchety spinster sitting on her front steps in a rocking chair, yelling at the neighbourhood kids to get off the lawn?

  Airline travel could drive anyone insane. I know it’s a dull and boring conversation—how flying isn’t what it used to be—but I’m going to risk being boring and reminisce. Let me take you back to a time when flight attendants were called stewardesses, passengers smoked in their seats, and sharp knives were not considered weapons. If you were fortunate enough to travel in first class, as the cast of SCTV were, you were given bottles of wine or champagne during the flight, roast beef was carved on linen-clothed tables in the aisles, and you ate with real silverware.

  I loved travelling with the cast, and no one was more fun to travel with than John Candy. Even though we were all treated equally on the plane, he demanded the most respect and was given it. Everyone loved John and felt elevated in his presence. No one was more generous than John to anyone, anywhere. Or more grateful. He was boisterous and lively and indulgent. Booze flowed, food was abundant. John made everything into an event. Nothing and no one seemed to bother John. He loved people. He didn’t feel threatened. He was an open vessel, a free spirit, an innocent kid. I wonder what he would be like if he were sitting next to these children and their mom. First of all, he wouldn’t be judgmental. He would engage in play with them, make them laugh. The mom would adore him. The father would have traded seats with some kind soul so he too could be in John’s presence. John would probably find the kids delightful, not annoying. And then he’d hold court. A crowd would gather. He’d be in the moment, not even thinking of what the next five hours would bring. John would make the flight into his own personal party, and everyone on the plane would be invited. He was a volcano of joy. It’s no wonder the whole world still misses him. John ate, drank, and danced happiness. He didn’t need a week at the Golden Door to develop that skill.

  If I can just keep a lid on my judgmental, fearful, ego-driven Mrs. Hyde for the next three hours, I’ll be in the loving arms of the Golden Door, where my enlightened and compassionate Dr. Jekyll will feel safe to emerge. I know that, at my core, I’m kind. It’s my neurotic personality that gets in the way. For now, I’ll practise deep breathing. I’ll take my bag of nuts to the washroom, a nut-safe zone, and I’ll savour each and every one of them. For the next seven days, after all, I am going to be meditating and hiking and doing yoga and journaling and having hot stones placed on my aching back. I will have finished Mr. Lama’s book on compassion. I will have perfected the art of happiness. Nothing will bother me again.

  I arrive at the Golden Doo
r.

  It’s beautiful. First thing up: yoga. Then, counting the minutes to lunch. I’m so hungry. And boy do I need a cup of coffee. And while we’re at it, a TV. So limber and yet so hostile. No chocolate within miles. I’m famished. I’m about to boil my belt. Get me out of this Zen hellhole. I’m not meant for this relaxation thing. Deepak Chopra, my ass.

  Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, finally I start to unwind … seven days later. Surrender, serenity, gratitude, bliss.

  Armed with my newfound happiness skills, I board the plane. Kinder, and more compassionate, to myself and to others.

  With an open heart, I lower my window shade.

  Ten minutes later, I open it again.

  Rome wasn’t built in a day.

  The Graphologist

  I had my handwriting analyzed by a graphologist recently at a birthday party.

  She asked us to write out our names, and then she interpreted our signatures. The birthday girl instructed the graphologist, Paula, not to alarm anyone with what she saw. The way in which someone wrote a g, for example, might indicate that person was a serial killer, and no one wanted to spend the evening in fear of being strangled in the powder room. Paula could also tell by your handwriting if you were confused about your sexuality and/or you were a liar and a thief. In fact, companies hired her all the time to screen prospective employees. She looked for traits of honesty, reliability, and intelligence, and the ability to be happily exploited. For instance, would you be content with a small desk and an office with a partition but no real wall? Her track record, she proudly stated, was great. She travelled the world and was hired by corporations, government, and spas—and for birthday parties.

  She showed us Donald Trump’s signature, which was thick and persistent. It was written with a heavy hand and heavy ink. It looked like a locomotive in motion. Jacqueline Kennedy’s signature was neat and pretty, but Paula said it showed aloofness. I liked it because it was legible. Osama bin Laden’s signature was ornate and insistent and confident and scary. It looked like the writing of a madman. Albert Einstein’s was small and didn’t take up too much space, yet he changed the world. We were all impressed and excited to see what our names would reveal.

  She kept her analysis very short and complimentary.

  “Very, very smart,” Paula said as she studied the way I wrote my name.

  “Creative, independent, very literary. You are a writer.” That was really reassuring, having just signed a book deal. She was about to move on but stopped abruptly and blurted out a zinger. “Oh dear. Look at the way you cross your t. You are very, very sensitive to what people say about you professionally, and personally you have a tendency to be defensive.” And then she cheerfully went on her way to analyze the nervous woman on my right.

  “Wait just a moment,” I said defensively. “I don’t think I’m that way at all. I’ve worked hard not to care about what people think of me. Is there something I should be doing differently when I write my name? Should I change my signature?”

  Paula, who had twelve more women to get to, ignored my line of questioning, smiled knowingly, and creepily moved on. Maybe she’s a serial killer, I thought. No one would ever know. Who could read handwriting in that group, a bunch of drunk women over fifty? Besides, what Paula said was bullshit. She was, after all, an elaborate party favour, one step above a singing telegram.

  In any case, I took down her number. I also chose not to walk back to my car alone.

  Wherever You Go, There You Are

  I’m already planning my escape. I am huddled in the guest bedroom, checking my watch every ten minutes. I have been up all night, not able to sleep in my new surroundings. I am the guest of a husband and wife, two doctors I met in New York. They are lovely, generous, intelligent people, and it’s always fun to dine with them in Manhattan, which is really the only socializing we have ever done.

  They invited me to stay at their beautiful sprawling farm in Maine. Even though I grew up in Maine, I have never spent time in farm country, and I thought this would be a wonderful opportunity to see more of the state and have a little excursion at the same time. They own a working organic farm along the northern coast. Guinea hens roam freely around their 135 acres, goats munch on grass to keep the ticks away. Belted cattle graze in the distance. Vegetables and herbs sprout everywhere. It is late May, and the lilacs are still in bloom this far north. There is a wooden wraparound porch, a stone labyrinth by the front door, unspoiled vistas, and miles and miles of manicured lawns as far as the eye can see. It is green, bountiful, expansive, peaceful, idyllic. But my only thought is When the hell can I get out of here?

  I arrived just yesterday evening, at five o’clock. I pulled my car into the gravel driveway and instantly panicked. I wanted to back up and speed away before my hosts could see me. In hindsight, I should have made some excuse when I landed in Portland, something like, My plane was delayed and now I really think it’s too late to drive the two hours, by myself, to your farm. But instead, I got in the car and drove the two hours. At the time, I was proud of myself for honouring the invitation and not copping out. But that was last night. Now it’s 6 a.m. and I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept. I need a cup of coffee. Do I stay in my room until the proper hour? What is the proper hour to leave my bedroom and go down and get a cup of coffee? I’ve got the chamber of commerce free magazine Discover the Jewel of the Maine Coast next to me on the bed, and I’m mapping out my next destination, if I can just sneak out and, like El Chapo, hide myself in the laundry basket, get in my car, and speed away. Then I could find a cute little café, sip my latte, and sit alone blissfully.

  I’m not a prisoner here. I could leave of my own accord. Steve McQueen is not my cellmate, though I wish he were still alive and we were sharing this room. It’s not like I have to dig my way out of a tunnel using a metal utensil. I am a free agent who could easily go downstairs and make a cup of coffee and wait for her hosts to get up. Or maybe they are up. I’m too scared to find out. And yet I really need caffeine. Maybe they are still sleeping and I won’t have to make conversation. I am the house guest from hell.

  I think it’s a morning issue. I need to get my bearings before I start the day. I need solitude, to arrange my thoughts. What do I think is going to happen if I just tell them how I feel, that I’m tired and in need of privacy? I think every host should be required to put a How to Be a Good Guest manual in each room. Then we would know what was expected of us. Airlines give you guidelines. Put your seat backs in the upright position. Fasten your seatbelts. Shut off all electronic gadgets. I’m speaking to you, Ms. Martin, in seat 3F, you with the iPhone 5, whose light you are trying to conceal by putting the phone under your leg so you can type one last text before the flight attendant walks by.

  It would be so comforting to have direction. Everyone would be on the same page.

  I wish the following guidelines had been left on my pillow last night:

  Dear House Guest,

  1. Come downstairs anytime. You will not be disturbing anyone.

  2. Pour yourself a cup of coffee.

  3. No one will speak to you unless you speak first.

  4. Go back to your room.

  5. Shut the door.

  6. Please return your used coffee cup and put your tray in the upright position.

  Have I lived alone too long? Am I just no longer flexible? No adventure left in my gypsy soul?

  I didn’t used to be like this. I’ve travelled and lived in many places.

  Paris, for two years. Morocco for six months. Missouri for one year. Boston for two. Maine, Toronto, Los Angeles, eighteen years in each place over the span of sixty-five years. Been there, done that.

  But now I’m planning my escape. Who am I? Django Unchained? To escape what? Me?

  You know what they say: “Wherever you go, there you are.”

  Fuck them. Who are they anyway? Some bohemian acid-tripping writer from the ’60s? Who coined that phrase?

  The Maine Eastern Railroad has an excursi
on in the summer. Sounds like so much fun. And I can do it alone. Be on the train for two hours as it travels from Rockland to Brunswick. In a restored antique car. And seniors travel for only $17 round trip. I am now one of the seniors I see pictured in all the train brochures, but with darker roots, and outrageously expensive highlights. This is my next fun adventure. A really slow two-hour train trip in which the train travels one mile every fifteen minutes. Chipmunks walk faster. But at least I’ll be able to spot one.

  At 6 a.m. the next morning, I escaped. Yay for me. I’m in a bed and breakfast in Boothbay Harbor, Maine. Alone. I left the farm early. My hosts were very understanding as I lied and said I was called back to New York for a meeting. I had a good night’s sleep. I feel rested and restored and inspired to write and explore. I have a crisp white flannel bathrobe on, compliments of the inn, left for me in my cozy little room. I just poured myself a cup of coffee from my very own coffee machine. Birds are gently tweeting outside the sliding French doors, which open to a tiny balcony overlooking the harbour. It is gorgeous. Quiet before the tourists awake and begin walking up and down Main Street. My favourite time of the day. I feel bad about lying. What a cowardly thing to do. Maybe I’ll write my host and hostess a letter, in which I’ll tell them the truth.