Flying with Chainsaw (an excellent writer)
The only way Florida has ever appeared beautiful to me is when it gets smaller and smaller through the ovoid window of an aircraft. And here I am, as excited as someone as sleep-deprived as I get, about to escape this dismal swamp. Freedom.
However, much like Andy Dufresne's escaped through a tunnel of human waste, I also had a trial to endure. And there it was, seated in the aisle of row 21, my starboard companion for the flight. I found myself sandwiched between his girth and my dainty wife in the window seat.
However, much like Andy Dufresne's escaped through a tunnel of human waste, I also had a trial to endure. And there it was, seated in the aisle of row 21, my starboard companion for the flight. I found myself sandwiched between his girth and my dainty wife in the window seat.
I'm 6'2" and a few ticks under 180. Airline seats have never been comfortable for me. But I have never been seated next to someone of this size. Even using the term "size" feels inadequate, as it supposes that such a mass can be scientifically measured. Here he was, clad in Thomas Magnum short-shorts, an overwashed and gossamer-thin polo shirt the color of an unfulfilled childhood, that was expertly tucked into his waistband, as an effective display of his maddening girth —yes — there he was flowing out of his seat and onto mine by great degree. A weight that could only serve as a structural weakness to the burnished aluminum dildo I was trapped in.
His skin, if that's even the medical term for it, looked artificial, something that Lucio Fulci would put to effective and nauseating use. Blotchy, with pits and streaks of the palest death, like he stumbled against drying paint, only served to contrast the overall cracked surface color of a broiled chicken. The very color that life is never supposed to be. Fed by shadowed blood amok with untempered glucose. The Rolex on his swollen arm, bereft of observable joints, spoke to the level of medical care necessary to place him in the seat next to me. And on top of me.
The smell was as equally unwelcome. The tangy stink of wet clothes tossed in a dryer but never turned on, but you've been so busy eating Zebra Stripes and Chocodiles all week that they magically dried themselves. Sure they might have a bit of funk, but you have to wear something!
I wanted to rest, to sleep, to escape within myself where his cracking purple skin and odorous assault held no dominion. The sleep was blackened and fitful, when I awoke it was New Jersey.
The nightmare continues...
Tony "Chainsaw" Myles is writer and artist living in Southwest Florida. http://www.painterofdarkness.com/bio/
His skin, if that's even the medical term for it, looked artificial, something that Lucio Fulci would put to effective and nauseating use. Blotchy, with pits and streaks of the palest death, like he stumbled against drying paint, only served to contrast the overall cracked surface color of a broiled chicken. The very color that life is never supposed to be. Fed by shadowed blood amok with untempered glucose. The Rolex on his swollen arm, bereft of observable joints, spoke to the level of medical care necessary to place him in the seat next to me. And on top of me.
The smell was as equally unwelcome. The tangy stink of wet clothes tossed in a dryer but never turned on, but you've been so busy eating Zebra Stripes and Chocodiles all week that they magically dried themselves. Sure they might have a bit of funk, but you have to wear something!
I wanted to rest, to sleep, to escape within myself where his cracking purple skin and odorous assault held no dominion. The sleep was blackened and fitful, when I awoke it was New Jersey.
The nightmare continues...
Tony "Chainsaw" Myles is writer and artist living in Southwest Florida. http://www.painterofdarkness.com/bio/
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