Riding the Vomit Comet

WARNING: This next story is gross. Seriously. If you have a weak stomach, think twice about reading it. But if you enjoy stories about bodily fluids and tight spaces, carry on. CONSIDER YOURSELF WARNED.

So we’re aboard a Quantas jumbo jet, midway between London, England and Singapore.

The in-flight meal has been served and it was actually pretty good.

I had the lamb.

The lights have been dimmed and everyone is trying to get a little bit of sleep.

There are three people in our row.

I’m by the window, Robyn is in the middle and some other lady is in the aisle seat. We didn’t really talk to her. She seemed nice, but who knows? Maybe she eats puppies or something. All I’m saying is I don’t like to judge.

We have our pillows, our blankets and our sleeping pills and we’re happily drifting away into la-la-land.

And then it happens.

It starts with a loud, bubbly, hiss.

And then I feel little drops of some liquid hitting the back of my head and shoulders.

Hmmm… what could it be?

Now denial is an amazing, but often unappreciated, defense mechanism.

For instance, when you’re camping and you hear a really loud thump in the bushes, denial is that little voice that says “Oh that’s not a bear. It’s a chipmunk.”

Or let’s say you accidentally call your girlfriend by the wrong name, denial is the one saying “Oh, she’s not going to throw that frying pan at you. She knows it was an accident and to show you there are no hard feelings, she’s going to make you an omelette. But since you may be out of eggs, why don’t you go to the store and get some RIGHT NOW!!!”

So as all this is happening, denial is right there by my side, calmly whispering in my ear “Don’t worry about that. It was just a can of Coke that exploded. Now go back to sleep.”

And when the commotion starts up behind me and someone begins frantically asking the flight attendant for a lot of tissues, denial carries on in his soothing voice, “Shhhh… there there. Actually, it was a really loud sneeze. But don’t get up. You’re just fine.”

It isn’t until that delightfully smelling blend of airline food and stomach acid starts wafting around, that I realize what’s happened.

Some old lady sitting behind us has blown chunks.

Big time.

And because her reflexes probably weren’t what they used to be, she didn’t have time to get the air sickness bag.

So instead, she did the most logical thing. She tried to stop it with her hands, which is great in theory but poor in practice.

Have you ever tried to stop a garden hose with your thumb, but you couldn’t quite make a complete seal?

Yeah – the same thing happens with a mouth and two frail, little hands.

Apparently, it fanned out like a fire sprinkler system. The ceiling got hit. The windows got hit. People got hit.

But somehow, Robyn was left completely untouched. She had curled up in a little ball to go to sleep and was able to stay out of the blast radius.

The old woman is horrified and embarrassed. The flight crew is extremely apologetic and very efficient. And the couple sitting beside her is extremely composed and very understanding.

After a few minutes and about forty hot towels, the situation is clear. The panic has subsided and the next round of mini-liquor bottles is courtesy of a little, old woman, passed out from half a Gravol.

And for the record, I think she had the chicken.