What we endure by Neil C Weiner, Blue Bazar

 I board my flight out of Mobile, still vibrating from three days with my mother and sister. Old grievances clawed back to the surface, things I had spent years burying. All I want is altitude, silence, and the mercy of sleep. I slide into my usual window seat.

The captain’s voice crackles overhead, announcing a full flight. I observe the restless choreography of strangers stowing bags, and a baby crying in the seat in front of me. The only empty seats left are the two beside me.

As the door is about to close, a large man lumbers down the aisle, flushed and breathing hard, dragging a carry-on that bangs every seat it passes. The overhead bins are jammed. The plane waits while attendants check his bags. A murmur of irritation ripples through the cabin.

He drops into the seat beside me like a collapsing wall.

I’m petite. The instant he sits, his shoulder spills over the armrest, pinning me toward the window. One long leg crowds into my space, trapping my knees. Then the smell reaches me, stale cigarettes and sweat.

My chest tightens.

Cigarettes and leaving.

My father’s smell the night he walked out when I was eight years old, saying he was going for cigarettes and never coming back.

Why doesn’t he take the aisle seat? It would give his shoulders room, his legs somewhere to go. Doesn’t he realize half his body is already in my seat, that each breath presses me harder against the plane’s curved wall?

I study him from the corner of my eye. Thick through the chest and stomach. A neck swollen above a wilted collar. Damp gray curls pasted to his temples. His face shines with sweat.

I want to say something simple: Sir, could you move over? Could you take the aisle seat?
The words stall in my throat.

My mother’s voice lives there. Be pleasant. Be gracious. Don’t make a scene.

I smile. Reflex.

I live now in New York City, where women speak up, where no one apologizes for taking space. But the old Southern stitching holds. Manners sewn into the skin don’t come out easily.

He turns toward me, cheerful and winded, as if we are beginning a pleasant trip together.

“I’m Dr. Richard Gumm. Phew. Didn’t think I was going to make this flight. I bought two seats. I hate inconveniencing people with my size.”

He hands me a business card: DR. RICHARD GUMM, Oral Surgeon.

I take a breath. Count to three. Three hours. I survived a weekend of family interrogation and casseroles; I can survive this. I arrange my face into neutrality and practice being unbothered.

The captain’s voice returns.

“Folks, we’re delayed. A severe thunderstorm has veered into town. We’ll be waiting on the tarmac.”

My stomach drops. A short flight could stretch into hours of being trapped

Patience. A book. A song. Wait it out.

“Hope you don’t mind me talking. You look like a good listener. I’ve been trapped in a conference for three days, nothing but room service and boring talks.”

Every instinct screams no.

I nod anyway.

“You have no idea—no idea at all—what I paid for this excursion into this backwater city. Mobile. Nothing here but a submarine and a lot of ghetto. Food’s terrible…”

He doesn’t stop.

The words pour out in a steady stream. Hotels. Towels. Waiters. Food. Prices. Everything wrong. Each complaint another drop, another torturing drip

I hover at the edge of listening. My mouth produces the right sounds. Wow. That’s crazy. That must be hard. My fingers curl into my skirt.

His cheerfulness is its own violence. A bright, oblivious rain that drowns everything.

Outside, lightning splits the sky. Rain hammers the fuselage. Inside, his voice is a buzz saw.

Each remark lands, ripples outward. My father, my hometown, the weekend I just endured.

“Sorry folks. Sit tight. Still waiting for clearance.”

The captain tries to soothe. It lands like a match.

I stare at the rain-streaked window. The pressure builds.

For a moment, he pauses. Pulls out pictures of his wife, his children. A brief, fragile quiet moment.

I compliment them. A small reprieve.

Then—

“I just trained in robot-assisted oral surgery. Incredible system. Cost me a fortune, so I’ll have to charge more…”

And we’re off again.

He drinks the complimentary liquor. With each swallow he grows louder, looser, more certain of his grievances. Soon I know far more than I want about crowns, lasers, and incompetent colleagues.

I would happily rearrange his teeth myself.

I smile anyway.

Three hours pass.

The storm clears, but the cabin resentment is growing. Babies cry. Seatbelts click. Voices rise.

At last, the captain again:

“We’ve been cleared for takeoff. However, there are sixteen planes ahead of us.”

A collective groan.

He seizes it.

“You can’t trust anybody. Patients cancel. They ghost. They don’t pay. Insurance is legalized theft—”

He rants himself empty. Mid-sentence, his head falls back. Mouth open. A wet, grinding snore.

Silence.

I stare ahead. Jaw tight.

For a moment, I think I’ve been spared.

Then—

His hand drifts across the armrest and settles on my thigh. Casual. Certain. As if it belongs there.

Something breaks.

Years of being agreeable collapse in a single instant. Every silence mistaken for consent. Every polite laugh. Every swallowed word.

Gone.

My pulse hammers. I slap his hand off me. Hard. The crack echoes.

“I was sleeping!” he snaps, eyes flying open. “Why would you do that?”

I’m on my feet, forcing past him into the aisle. I turning back.

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not your listener, your armrest, or the silence you’ve been talking into for three hours. I should have stopped you an hour ago.”

He stares, stunned into silence.

The baby screams. Call buttons flare across the cabin. Flight attendants rush forward.

At the jet bridge, airport police meet me and snap cuffs around my wrists.

For the first time that day, I smile and mean it.

Bio:

Dr. Weiner has published a variety of professional articles and fiction in magazines. His psychology books include Shattered Innocence and the Curio Shop. Non-psychology publications are Across the Borderline and The Art of Fine Whining.

 

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