Row 17, row 18, row 19. I walked down the aisle of the plane ducking beneath backpacks and briefcases being stuffed into overhead compartments and waited as young men approached the gray haired or hunch-backed elderly who needed help finding his seat or who couldn’t lift her own oversized paisley carry-on bag. Where is my seat? 27. 28. It just figured; my seat had to be in the very last row. This was the row where there was no such thing as the layback position because the wall off the plane was located directly behind the seat, forcing whoever sat there into an eternal—in this instance thirteen hours—upright position. To make matters worse I had no window and no aisle, I was stuck in seat ‘B’, the dreaded middle. Could it get any worse? “Oh, hello there,” a woman said. “Looks like we get to be neighbors for a little while, huh.” She showed me her ticket, as if I might brand her an intruder, and then before I even had a chance to stand and get out of her way, she squeezed herself between me and the row of seats in front of us, shimmying her behind closer than I’d rather say to my face. “So my dear,” she said spreading a gray airline blanket over her lap and buckling her seatbelt on top. “What’s your name?” Oh please, oh please, oh please don’t talk to me the entire trip. I knew if I got friendly with her now she might take that as an invitation to chitchat throughout the flight. Soon she’d be reaching under her seat for her big quilted bag where she’d pull out pictures of her children and grandchildren. She’d talk about little Lucy and how at only fifteen her youngest granddaughter got pregnant and fat. Lucy, who lived in a trailer park in southern Wisconsin, had given the baby up for adoption, but couldn’t lose the weight for years and years. Now though, after starting her own business by joining into a vitamin and supplement pyramid scheme, Lucy’s skinny as a stick and rents out her very own apartment just and hour outside Milwaukee. “I’m Jamie,” I said. And I was ready to tell her that, even though it was very nice to meet her, I didn’t get much sleep last night—it wasn’t a lie—and that I might just need to sleep for the entire flight. But then along came my neighbor to the right, Mr. aisle seat. At first, I couldn’t believe my bad luck. I not only had a chatterbox granny to the left (I have to admit I am at fault for cruelty here, for she was kinder to me than I’m sure I deserved), and on my other side, a punk kid with black spiky hair and jeans and tight as spandex. “Hi,” I said as he sat down. Immediately after I said it I kicked myself. Why am I talking to this kid? I blamed the granny’s hospitality rubbing off on me. Even worse, I felt internally aggravated by this skinny punk—who by the way had a distinct body odor that was rapidly lingering beneath my nostrils—for not saying hello back. He didn’t even acknowledge me. Little did I know though that an hour later, after listening to story after story told by Granny, after feeling nauseous from the stench of the toilets wafting our way from directly behind our row, and after having to put away my movie headphones because Granny wanted to talk some more, little did I know that this slick-haired kid would become my savior.