“All the monkeys aren’t in the zoo.”
– Grandma Nims, on the boardwalk, Mission Beach, San Diego, 1990
I’ve been traveling a lot over the past few years. While still employed, my job involved visiting business partners all over the U.S. I drove to some locations, which was cool since I could take along my dog on those trips, but I flew (on an airplane) to most.
Since I’ve been laid off, I’ve still flown a bit: going to job interviews and to visit friends. Enough trips to qualify for Medallion status on Delta again this year. I’m not at a George-Clooney-Up-In-The-Air level, but I’ve logged many miles aloft. My seats are nearly always upgraded to the first class cabin.
Along the way, I’ve concluded that there are basically two categories of seat mates. First, those who hustle on board, take off their shoes, put on their noise-cancelling headphones, buckle in and close their eyes. These folks won’t want to be chatting en route.
Then there are the folks I am always seated by. Usually shorter, older gentlemen with unique hair styles. Their first order of business once on board the plane is to order up a Canadian Club on the rocks, “And keep ‘em coming, Kimberly,” they wink at the flight attendant. As the flight progresses and the whisky flows, they become more gregarious. If I engage in conversation with them, I inevitably regret it.
I’ve taken some business trips with a former coworker, Tom, over the years. We’d hardly ever be seated together, but we would compare notes about our fellow travelers after each flight. Tom’s an engineer, very technical, and several of his family members work in the airline industry; he knows all about optimal cruising altitudes, wing flap positions, air speed and tail winds and such. He likes to drink Budweiser and listen to the channel where you can hear the pilots talking to air traffic control during the flight.
Once on the ground, I’d tell Tom how the fellow next to me asked me how I got such a nice tan (“Why, I work in my garden and I walk my dog every day.”) Or how the gentleman in 2A offered to buy me a drink and asked me if I needed a place to stay while in town - wasn’t that friendly? Tom would shake his head and tell me he knew I was not a stupid woman, but I was clueless on this point. Clearly I didn’t know a pick-up line when I heard one.
I found the prospect hard to believe. I mean, I’m not exactly ugly, but I’m carrying a few extra pounds. Between colorings, my hair is laced with gray and there are plenty of “laugh lines” on my face. I don’t think of myself as “pick-up” material. Tom hypothesized that after my seat mates gulped down three or four generous in-flight servings of Canadian Club, pretty much any woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty would look good. I deferred to him on this point.
On a recent trip, I traveled with some girlfriends on the first leg of the journey, and then we each caught flights to our respective home ports. My pals all departed before me. I had a two-hour layover: plenty of time to stretch my legs, read a book, and people watch. Not too long a wait, I convinced myself. Then, just before we were scheduled to board, an announcement was made: due to mechanical difficulties, my flight was delayed.
90 minutes or so passed and another announcement: the plane at our gate could not be repaired, but an alternate 737 had been identified. Seat assignments would stay the same. The new plane was being readied for flight at the terminal at the other end of the airport; all passengers needed to make their way on down there. 170 folks clapped, then gathered up their children, carryon luggage and half-eaten Big Macs; we moved en masse down the moving sidewalks.
At the new gate, folks with first class seats had begun queuing up for boarding. I staked my place in line; I was looking forward to a nap during the four-hour-long flight. I heard a groan and turned to see a man clutching his abdomen behind me. “Oh no, oh man,” he moaned for the benefit of everyone in line. “I ate something bad here. Really, really bad.”
The fellow reminded me of Woody Allen. Shorter, older, balding on top with a longish fringe of thin curls circling the back of his head. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and every piece of expensive clothing on his body was wrinkled. Not just normal “I’ve had a long day of airline travel” wrinkled: super wrinkled. It looked as if he had wet each article and tied it in knots before throwing it in the dryer. Including his tweed sport coat.
“Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh,” Woody groaned again. I turned quickly to avoid eye contact and faced the front of the line. I knew without a doubt that this guy was going to be seated next to me.
The ground crew scrambled to ready our transport, and eventually the first class cabin passengers were invited to board. Woody had disappeared, still moaning, in the general direction of the men’s room. I pulled out my IPod, a magazine and my reading glasses, then stowed my bag overhead. I sat down in my bulkhead aisle seat, and awaited the inevitable.
The first class cabin filled up, except for the window seat next to me. The coach class passengers boarded. No sign of Woody. The crew made repeated announcements about how to stow carryon luggage for everyone who had never been on a plane before and those who had forgotten: rolling bags in the overhead bins with wheels in to maximize the storage capacity, smaller bags under the seat in front of you. Kimberly and the other flight attendants briskly whisked about the cabin, rearranging overhead bins and magically everyone’s bags were securely tucked away.
Woody appeared at the front of the plane. He gestured to the empty seat next to me. I stood and moved out of his way, and he sank gratefully into his seat. Kimberly asked him if she could take his computer bag, his only carryon, since the bulkhead doesn’t have any seats in front to store bags under. She smiled and asked him if he’d like her to hang up his coat, too. “So it doesn’t get all wrinkled up, it’s a long flight,” she drawled. “Any more wrinkled, at least,” I chuckled to myself as the bag and coat were passed in front of me.
Then I made my mistake. As Woody buckled in and settled down with a ginger ale and Canadian Club, I said, “I hope you are feeling better now!” I wasn’t just being polite: I really did hope so. Air travel can wreak havoc on the healthiest digestive system, much less one suffering from food poisoning. And I was seated between this dude and the restroom. If Woody was ill, there would be no nap for me.
“Oh!” Woody gave me a grin. “Thank you. Did you hear? I ate something back there that was really bad. Really, really bad. But I am feeling much better now. And the ginger ale will help I think.”
I was relieved to hear Woody’s tummy was better. But I had opened the door, and conversation commenced. Woody shook his head and recounted the many inconveniences he had encountered on his trip. Luckily he was on the last leg of his journey now, and would be home when we landed. We commiserated about the trials and tribulations of modern air travel. Woody ordered another drink, and told me all about himself. I found myself mesmerized, both by the calm, relaxing tone of his voice and the size of his tiny teeth. They looked like children’s teeth in an adult mouth, all in the right places but with giant gaps in between.
Woody had worked for years for a regional grocery store chain that flourished and eventually went national; over the years he had risen high in their ranks. He had planned to retire by now, but had been asked to stay on for a few more years, with a compensation package so rich that he couldn’t refuse. He had two adult children residing on the east coast, and one on the west. He traveled a lot. And bad as it was, this was not the worst trip he had ever taken.
Drink number three arrived – straight whisky, no ginger ale from here on out - and Woody told me his “worst trip ever” story. It was to Africa, he said. He and his wife-at-the-time were traveling to Johannesburg via multiple flights and airlines. Delays and cancellations occurred at every step of the journey. Lost luggage, nasty flight attendants, bad food, freezing planes, no Canadian Club. I had to agree it sounded dreadful. Thankfully, when they landed in Johannesburg things took a positive turn.
Their arrival in South Africa was so late, they had missed their next and last connection. The trip organizers were aware of the situation, and a private car met the couple at the baggage claim. Picture a driver in a neat suit with a chauffer’s cap on his head, holding up a white sign: “WOODY.”
Woody and his wife-at-the-time were whisked away in a limo stocked with champagne and, of course, Canadian Club, to the hotel where they would stay for the night at no charge. They would catch a flight to their final destination the next day.
Woody described the hotel as something out of a PBS Masterpiece Theater program like Heat of the Sun or Death on the Nile. Picture avenues of palms leading to deep shady porches, with a snow-capped mountain in the distance and a giraffe or two sauntering past. Hushed, dark-paneled rooms with gently rotating, old-fashioned ceiling fans. Antiques sprinkled throughout. Staff uniformed to resemble British officers at the turn of the century. Free flowing gin-and-tonics. I was captivated. Woody was a great story teller!
“So what were you doing in South Africa? Does your grocery chain have stores there?” I prompted him to keep talking.
Woody waved his empty glass and Kimberly brought the bottle over to refill it. We were about an hour into the flight.
“Well,” Woody said. “I made a big donation to the Jane Goodall Institute a few years ago. So I was invited to visit a research team on a reserve.”
“Wow!” I said. I was impressed. As a freshman at the University of Michigan, I switched majors four times: one of those majors was archaeology and another was anthropology. I had read a bit about Goodall’s pioneering observations of chimps as well as some alleged monkey business between her and Louis Leakey. I casually followed Goodall’s work through the years.
And then there was the Dave Matthews Band connection: as all DMB fans know, they sing about 200 songs that feature monkeys: monkeys in trees, monkeys out of trees, proud monkeys, humble monkeys, shaking monkeys, a monkey man with a plan. Now, I remember my anthropology classes. I know that technically chimps are not monkeys. Both are primates, but monkeys have tails and chimps do not. But close enough.
I remembered that Dave and Tim Reynolds had recently performed at a fundraiser for the Jane Goodall Institute. Woody knows Jane, and Dave knows Jane. If I introduce myself before the end of the flight, I will know Woody. That was just three degrees of separation! Mind you, I’m not a groupie, but I admit I am a huge fan of DMB and I was delighted at this connection, however tenuous.
Lucky me, to be seated by Woody on this flight! I imagined myself attending a fundraiser for Jane and the chimps, wearing a long sparkly gown and sipping Pinot Noir. I would have a job by then, and be in a position to make a hefty donation. I could see myself, sophisticated, witty and wise, talking about monkeys, music and politics with Dave and Stefan and Carter and Boyd. Dave would be nattily attired in the same jeans and dark jacket he wears in publicity photos. Woody will be fetching us wine, wearing a wrinkled tux.
With chimps as his topic, and with Kimberly periodically topping off his whisky, Woody needed no further prompting. He told me about his trek into the jungle, just him and a doctoral candidate. They followed a group of about 30 chimps down the narrow trail beaten through the lush vegetation to a watering hole. Along the way, the chimps poked at an inert boa, the snake lazy and bulging with its breakfast. Baby chimps were carried in arms, the adults taking turns. The chimps used sticks as tools. The primate group fed and drank and frolicked about the rain forest, all for Woody’s benefit. They posed, and he took photos. The Ph.D. candidate told Woody that the chimp birth rate was down and the scientists suspected it was some sort of self-regulation of population size based on their shrinking habitable areas. It was another great story.
At this point, Woody grinned sloppily through a whisky haze at me. It was pretty scary, with those teeth.
“Then I saw the most amazing thing,” he splashed a little Canadian Club my way as he gesticulated. “There was this female chimp in the branch right above my head. She plucked a leaf and waved it at a male. The doctoral student told me to watch because that meant she wanted to mate. Not many people get to see THAT.”
My stomach lurched, and unlike Woody, I hadn’t eaten anything at the airport.
Thoughts raced through my brain.
“Was Woody really going to describe monkey sex?"
"Why did I start talking to him?"
"What should I do?"
"I don’t want to talk about monkey sex with anyone, not even Dave Matthews!"
"Well, maybe with Dave Matthews."
"I’ll escape to the bathroom!"
"No, I can’t, the seatbelt sign is on!”
I frantically grabbed for my IPod and started to unwind the headphones.
Woody continued. “Well,” he said, “That female was ready. She wanted that male. And she was fine, really a desirable girl. He swung from limb to limb to get over to her lickety-split. You should have seen it,” he chortled.
I didn’t know how to respond. Hands shaking, I plugged the headphones into the IPod and put them on.
“Hey,” I said. “Um. I’m feeling pretty tired now.”
“The whole thing was over in just a few minutes,” Woody ignored me. “The male, he got to that branch and then he mounted the female. It was probably just two minutes before she reached orgasm. It was the most amazing thing to see.” He leered. I’ve never seen a leer in person before, only in the movies, but this was definitely a full-on leer. “Wouldn’t you have liked to have seen that?”
“Um. Sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime sight for sure. I’m going to sleep now,” I said. I fumbled with my IPod and closed my eyes.
“What makes a female monkey desirable?” I thought.
“Do monkeys even have orgasms?"
"Is monkey sex an appropriate topic of conversation with complete strangers on planes now?"
"Am I being a prude?"
"Is this one of those occasions when I need Tom to explain things?"
"Should I still introduce myself?"
"Do I want this guy to know my name?"
"He probably doesn’t actually know Jane Goodall herself."
"Waving a leaf is a signal you want to have sex?"
"Does it only work for monkeys? ”
I decided to pretend to nap for the remainder of the flight, keeping my eyes closed for the duration, even if I went to the bathroom.
I know, I was rude. I had encouraged Woody to talk. Another, more quick-thinking woman would have handled it better, differently: maybe making a joke of it (“Two minutes? Sounds like my ex!”) or firmly stopping the discussion (“I’m not comfortable with the direction this is going, can we change the subject?”)
Me, I just hid behind my eyelids and my IPod.
After ten minutes or so, I peeked over at Woody, feeling sheepish. He was sound asleep, leaning against the window and still clutching a half-filled glass of Canadian Club.
Who wants to meet Dave Matthews anyway? I selected an all-U2 playlist on my IPod, turned up the volume and settled back for the rest of the flight.
Are there any monkeys in Ireland?
Copyright © 2010 Donna Nims. All Rights Reserved.
