Page 4 of Saltwater Cowboy

“Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff.” The pilot’s voice came over the intercom.

No.

The plane started to move and I thought I was going to be sick. For me, taking off is the worst part. For nervous flyers like myself, the whole takeoff process is a tease. You start moving slowly and then stop. Then when you think it’s another move, then stop, BAM—you’re hurtling through the space time continuum. No one could convince me that hurdling through the air at over five hundred miles per hour was a speed a human should go. I doubt the Wright brothers ever anticipated their little invention going that fast.

We went left. Then right. Then there was a long pause. We don’t like the long pause.

My hands rubbed nervously over my shorts before they gripped the armrests for dear life. My knuckles were white.

My poor attempt at a breath hitched in my throat. As the wheels lifted, the weight of the world barreled down on me, and my stomach dropped.

“You alright?”

I ignored the muffled question to my right and kept my eyes squeezed shut. This guy was way too chatty for me. Didn’t he learn about stranger danger? I could be a Black Widow ready to prey on my next victim and he’s over here asking if I’m okay.

My lungs filled with stale air in a desperate attempt to calm my nerves. A few years ago, my therapist taught me how to do these deep breathing exercises, and she claimed they would “regulate my nervous system.” I can attest that my system was still very nervous, and this breathing technique was doing absolutely nothing. Instead, I focused on the repetitive melodies ringing through my ears.

What felt like a lifetime later, we hit cruising altitude, and my vice grip on the armrest let up a bit. I finally felt like, for the moment, I was safe and dug through my bag to grab my snacks. I popped a sour red Skittle into my mouth, and my teeth cried for mercy. Out of reflex, I squinted and scrunched my nose.

The first sour candy is always the worst; after that, I adjust and can eat an entire resealable bag in one sitting.

“Those are the best,” the mountain sitting next to me noted.

The absolute last thing I wanted to do was converse, but I ignored him enough already. I paused my music and slid the right headphone down.

“What?” I pretended I didn’t hear him.

He nodded towards the candy on my tray. “Those are awesome. I mean, I’m more of a chocolate kinda guy, but those are a close second.”

This man was way too chatty for me. I just wanted to eat my candy in peace and get off this plane.

“The orange ones are my favorite,” He shared.

I grimaced. I had a vehement dislike for those. When I was seven, I choked on an orange Skittle. A quarter of a century later, and I still eat around them. You tell me you wouldn’t still be a little wary of the thing that tried to kill you as a youth.

Traumatized.

Why is he talking? This man is an open book. One I didn’t want to read.

On any other day, I would’ve indulged him and tried to carry on a conversation. Today, I wanted to feed all men to the alligators in Georgia. Except the pilot, he could stay—as long as he gets us to Wippowa safely. Then he goes to the gators with the rest of them.

“Those are the worst ones.” I countered.

“Agree to disagree. Orange flavored anything is superior to whatever the red flavor is.”

This man’s southern drawl was thicker than molasses. I would dare to say thicker than Blythe’s husband Charlie—and that’s saying something because he’s a country boy through and through.

I finally made eye contact with him. “The orange Skittles taste like toilet bowl cleaner.”

“Do you often taste toilet bowl cleaner?” A ghost of a smile danced on his lips.

If this was his way of flirting, he was horrible at it, and I was certainly not in the mood.

“All the time.” I hit my limit on conversing. My headphone slid back over my ear, and his chatter went away.

I rifled through my bag in a desperate attempt to find my book. Surely that would keep Mr. Orange Skittles quiet. An open book was the universal sign that the person didn’t want to be disturbed—they wanted to get lost in a fictitious world and forget about whatever it was that was plaguing their everyday life.

Why do I always overstuff my bags, making it impossible to find anything? All of my closest friends are so organized—then there’s me. I thrive in chaos.