Zen and the Art of War

I found a seat far from the gate. I am always most comfortable when remote and obscure. I tried to study the travelers and guess at their lives, their troubles. The masses mesmerize me. All different colors and shapes and movement. A carousel. God, that nailed it. That was life, I thought, round and round. At first glance, all glitter, variation and noise. But then, when the ride lasts too long for the spectator, they see. They see the perfect unison of step and motion, the conformity. And then the dreaded truth. Round and round, no end. Moving so much the same, looking so much the same. Dull incarnate. Between brief interludes of passing hot flight attendants my mind drifted back to my Coast Guard unit at Kodiak Island, Alaska. The analogy seemed to have no end for me. That was my last station and it rained over 300 days a year there. But never really rained. Sprinkled, misted, annoyed with wetness. Relentless was this abuse, that ever dripping faucet.
I was trying this new cheap airline that handed me a plastic card with a number. One guy caught my eye. He was bald and wearing an orange sheet. Asian looking, a Buddhist. He wasn’t watching anyone. He just stared out into the post in front of him. He was wearing one of those Mona Lisa smiles. Was he smiling or wasn’t he? At first I was intent on catching him at his game, you know, like you hear tourists doing with the guards at Buckingham Palace. No go, he was a pro. Eventually I just started emulating him and drew my focus onto him. I thought I knew the game, empty yourself. I almost had a little chant coming on when another hot flight attendant passed by. She had legs up to there, you know.
They were loading the plane but I learned early that I didn’t have to jump when my number was called. Why stand in line when you already have a seat. This guy was good, real good. He also waited pleasantly while the very important people lined up like preschool kids leaving recess. Finally, it was just the two of us. This was my game now and I was ready. He looked over to me and our eyes locked. Bring it on, I thought, bring it on. He gave in, picked up his little canvas satchel and floated off to the ramp. I was so happy when I got to the gate but for some reason the ticket lady seemed to miss the showdown. I have met few people in my life less impressed with me.
“Um, excuse me,” I asked, “this card doesn’t have my seat number on it.”
“It’s first come, first on.” She replied.
“Yeah.” I said authoritatively like an undercover official. Just checking, got my eyes on you kind of thing. Again with the unusual disinterest from her. She was good.
The ride from O’Hare to Milwaukee was just long enough for me to bare. But no more. The man in the back of the plane next to me had this uncanny power to keep conversation at bay. He didn’t even pick up a book or barf bag to read.
"Sucks back here, huh."
Nothing
"You know, I could ask them to bring you a pillow to go with that orange sheet."
Nothing. A smile...I think.