Crop Dusted

There is a connection between this post and part of the photo h'yar (William Shatner & wonky friend, from an old Twilight Zone episode).

There is also a connection between the coming subject, and the title.

In another time, place and pay grade, my job for one of those evil, mean corporations was as something of a security trouble shooter. Lots of unexplained emphasis on the "something", but I digress.

Anyway, on one particularly memorable flight, I noted on my boarding pass that I had been granted the seat in coach officially designated as '2B'. It was the first time in my flying days that I'd ever landed that seat assignment.

And after the flight, I swore it'd be the last. And I don't care if Willie Shakespeare takes offense at that or not.

It was supposed to be a routine trip: Denver to Chicago O'Hare. Drive from O'Hare to Elkhart, IN. A couple of day assignment, then back home. Eh.

The 'Bard should have warned me about the flight out.

Settled into my '2B' seat, I tucked my briefcase on the floor beneath the seat ahead of me, and after eyeing my seatmate for the flight -- a rather annoyed-looking woman in business attire who apparently couldn't get upgraded to First Class, from the amount of bitching she was doing to any flight attendant who regretfully ventured within earshot -- I fetched my trusty reading material from my case and settled in for the 2 hour (or so) flight. For this flight, my literary choice was The Caine Mutiny.

Even it would prove appropo before long.

After the smooth takeoff and relatively turbulence-free ascent to cruising altitude, I eased my seat back just a tad, and got as comfortable as my 6' 2" frame could get in '2B'. I was just learning how Midshipman Keith and roommates had managed to avoid fateful demerits for chasing an errant spring from a bolt action rifle out of their room and onto their dorm roof, when 'it' came a calling.

'It' didn't speak. 'It' was invisible. 'It' had no discernible form or substance. But 'it' was unforgettable. And unforgiveable.

A burst of sulphuric, rotten eggish flatulence. One that chose to savor the moment, and linger overly long, like two lovers at an outdoor restaurant, lingering over wine and moonlight.

They'd be an "awwww" moment. This was an "ack phooey" one.

The woman seated next to me gave me a "Was that YOU?!!??", almost accusatory stare. Attempting not to lose what stomach contents I had at the time, I managed one of those "It wasn't me" shrugs. I don't think she believed me, but the damning glare shifted away from me and resumed burning holes through the nearest flight attendant for not managing to upgrade her.

Mercifully, 'it' finally dissipated into the forgiving atmosphere, and I was able to wipe the involuntary tears from my eyes and resume my book.

About ten minutes later....it was baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack. As stark, pungent, and lingering as before.

I wasn't at first sure where 'it' was launching its hit and linger attacks from, but I was slowly beginning to focus on the seat ahead of me as the likely source. At the same time I started to wonder if perhaps the 'Bard was punishing me for having made fun of his writings in my junior high and high school days. My seatmate's glare took on a more viral, menacing radiance. Had it been a laser, I would have vaporized.

Again, I gave with a "it wasn't me, Ma'am", and watched as that penetrating glare was almost overcome by eyes rolling back in the head from the persistent, potent miasma.

And, once again, after an unmerciful minute or so, 'it' dissipated.

But like a bad re-gift for the holidays, it came back yet again. And again. And again. Always at about ten minute intervals.

I knew there was someone sitting in the seat directly in front of me. I began to wish I'd paid attention to what they looked like. I might have been able to arrange for another seat if I'd known I would be sitting behind one half of the future Terrence & Philip fart team from South Park fame.

When the attendants were bringing the beverage cart by and were serving me and Ms LaserEyes, another 'it' emerged from deep from within the depths of methanic Hell. The look on the face of the flight attendant -- trained to handle a plethora of aerial emergencies -- was priceless. A heart-felt "are you F***ing KIDDING ME?", to which both I and Ms. LaserEyes responded with "nuh uh, not me" looks, and I suggestively nodded to the seat ahead of me.

My complimentary pack of peanuts pried its way into my briefcase, which was trying to flee down the aisle from the persistent, lethal miasma. Even characters from the book I was reading were changing the book font into capital letters spelling out "DUDE!" The USS Caine's stack gas wasn't this bad. My fresh cup of coffee never had a chance; it chose instant evaporation over trying to mask the miasma with a more pleasant aroma of 100% Columbian.

Both Juan Valdez and his mule were laid waste.

I kept trying to read a book that was trying to mutiny along with all the characters therein, but with the every ten minute assault on my olfactories, I was finding myself trying to concentrate more on taking a deep 'hold it' breath just ahead of the next miasmic assault. I never quite got the timing down. Meanwhile, there was a growing concern that with each new 'it', the lift was pushing us past the certified top 'ceiling' of a 737. I could have sworn at one point we were pacing a satellite out my window. After another 'it', the satellite fell into the atmosphere and mercifully burned up.

I didn't mourn it; it was free. We still weren't.

There was always the chance that some measure of manners would overcome the engine of a farter planet, and whatever was sitting in the seat ahead of me would go pay a visit to the on-board outhouse and relieve us of that engine of methanic Hell. But the mystery occupant of '1B' never left his/her/its seat to avail itself of the minature flying outhouse on this becoming cursed 737.

And the ten minute intervalled miasmic paint peelers continued, right into O'Hare. I never thought I'd be so happy to take on Chicago rush hour traffic.

What brought this starkly to my memory fore, you ask? It was a recent workplace reference by a coworker of mine, after some unnamed soul therein had unleashed an atmospheric 'adjustment' that was, on a scale of 0-10 (with 10 being an Extinction Level Event), a 100.99. After picking himself up off the floor from where that particular olfactoric 'haymake' had planted him, he poignantly demanded to know "Dang, dudes...who's crop dusting?"

No one spoke. But someone 'giggled'. Or maybe it was....some'thing'.