Out of all the places to be, seat 36B on a Spirit Airlines flight is one of the more unpleasant.
There are other contributing factors which could increase this displeasure. Say, for example, if said flight was to take off from Fort Lauderdale, Florida. And if the flight followed a seven-hour layover in a Starbucks-void terminal. But to truly maximize displeasure, this flight would have to follow a 48-day bender of action-packed Mardi Gras events in New Orleans. The flyer would have to be fatigued and filled with greasy foods and dreading their upcoming finance exam.
By the time I arrived at seat 36B, it was already taken … by a Hawaiian print duffel bag.
The woman in seat 36C gave me a once-over and said, “Darn.” Then she added, “It’s nothing against you, hon. I just thought we were gonna get lucky, Stan.”
Stan, who stuffing his mouth full of Steak ‘n Shake fries in seat 36A, let out a disappointed grunt. Then he laughed — a large, dopey laugh which was not at all appropriate for the slight chuckle-deserving joke just told.
I put my bag above us and scooted in between the couple. The woman (Jodi) leaned forward to ask Stan a question, and he leaned back. I leaned forward, and they leaned forward too. They were both yelling much louder than two people sitting with only seat 36B between them needed to yell. “Russ is gonna pick us up,” Stan shouted across my seat to Jodi. As he did, a large clump of his fries shot out of his mouth and onto my leggings. “Oh, did I do that?” Stan asked very loudly. He reached forward to wipe it off my thigh, but then considered otherwise and just grinned at me awkwardly.
Stan and Jodi were in their seventies. I guessed they were from Fort Lauderdale instead of Chicago. I guessed wrong. They met in the Windy City twenty-eight years ago and now resided in a suburb. Stan played the ukulele and drove a Harley. Jodi had a pink loofa she used as a neck pillow. She was afraid of flights and covered her ears every time we hit a patch of turbulence. Stan reassured her: “Don’t worry, hon — a landing is just a controlled crash.”
I asked them how they met. They told me a thug introduced them. They told me there were about twenty-something kids who called them “grandma” and “grandpa,” but only 14 they really liked to claim. They told me they’d been in Fort Lauderdale for a Willie Nelson concert, the same man whose autobiography Stan was reading (“Roll Me Up and Smoke Me When I Die” — which I really should give a read, considering Stan guffawed at every other page).
Stan and Jodi told me a lot of things. I told them a good amount too. We chatted and laughed and swapped stories, because they’re the type of couple who like to talk on airplane rides, and I’m the type of girl who likes to listen.
If my sister had her way, every Uber driver would go silent when she entered the car. She’d avoid the dreaded “So where are you headed?” because she hates small talk. It’s awkward and inconvenient and futile.
Which is precisely why I love it. Small talk with strangers is awkward, yes, but discomfort often fades into humor. Perhaps it’s inconvenient, though I’d call it entertainment. And it is most definitely futile, which makes it alluring. The promise of never having to see the Macy’s cashier or the woman you’re pressed up against on the metro means the stakes are low and the gains are high.
My eagerness to engage in conversation, however, has proved itself unappetizing to some. I have the lowest passenger Uber rating out of any of my friends at 4.87 stars. “Leave your driver alone. The key to a 5-star review is to just not say anything,” a friend instructed me.
But what’s the fun in silence?
I can recall the specific ride which first dragged my rating down. He was picking up my friends and me from a dinner off campus. I asked him if he believed in love. He said he did, up until Tuesday, when his wife filed for a divorce.
But back in seat 36B, my desire to make small talk was paying off. What could have been perhaps one of the most unpleasant experiences of my life transformed into a fun conversation with a pair of new friends. I quickly learned the reason why Stan laughed so much and the reason why he loved Willie Nelson were attributable to the same phenomenon — smoking pot. Stan gave me a bit of advice too: when driving high, “if you see triple, always pick the middle one.”
Small talk with strangers often makes people annoyed, but sometimes makes a good story. So I’ll take the risk of dropping below 5 stars on my passenger Uber rating if it means I’m not sitting bored in silence.
When we landed in Chicago, Stan got his hat out from his overhead bin and placed it over his silvery hair. “I’ll always remember you as French Fry Girl,” he told me.
“Well, I think you should probably be known as French Fry Guy,” I said as I stood from seat 36B.
He laughed. It wasn’t really that funny, but I laughed too.
Gracie Eppler is a junior business analytics and English major from St. Louis, MO. Her three top three things ever to exist are 70’s music, Nutella and Smith Studio 3, where she can be found dancing. Reach her at geppler@nd.edu.
