In Flight

Just after the seatbelt sign went off and people jumped to their feet, as I was hunched over my bag restowing my various entertainments, I felt something heavy but soft land on my head, from above. It fell in front of me and I immediately recognized it as my bag, which until then had been in the overhead compartment a seat back. I looked back and saw a middle aged man with rapidly retreating black hair and a number of gold chains glaring at me. I laughed.

“You shoved that thing right in front of my bag,” he said loud enough for several rows to hear.

“This?” I asked, “This pillow?” holding up my backpack which contained only clothes.

“I hoped there was something hard in there,” he retorted, in a tone that could only mean, “so that it would bruise your fucking head.”

“Oh, so you wish ill on strangers?” I asked rhetorically. “You must be a politian.” That got a laugh. “You must be one of those people who advocated atomic warheads for Iraq and hurricane Ivan.” That only ellicited chuckles.

He huffed and turned back to his bags. I did the same, sans huff.