The Inevitable Journey and Unwelcome Company
As a 35-year-old marketing consultant, frequent business travel was an unavoidable part of my life. My routine of navigating airport security, mastering flight logistics, and securing the perfect aisle seat for quick exits was honed to perfection. This particular journey was from New York to Los Angeles, a crucial leg before a tight connection to San Diego for a vital pre-conference meeting. My schedule was meticulously planned, with zero room for unexpected travel delays.
Settling into my aisle seat, I glanced at my window-seat companion. He was in his early 40s, exuding an almost palpable air of self-importance. His crisp button-down shirt, tailored slacks, and gleaming shoes were a uniform of quiet arrogance. He continuously checked an expensive watch, subtly communicating his perceived superiority and demanding schedule, barely acknowledging my presence. No problem, I thought, just give me a quiet flight to review my notes and perhaps grab a quick nap. Little did I know, this mundane airline experience was about to transform into a memorable, infuriating incident.
The Unthinkable Meal Theft
Halfway through the transcontinental flight, the welcome aroma of dinner service filled the cabin. I hadn't eaten all day, my focus entirely consumed by conference preparation. My stomach growled a noisy protest, reminding me of my profound hunger. Anticipating my meal, a productive work session, and a brief nap before landing, I felt a fleeting sense of relief.
But nature, as it often does, had other plans. A quick glance revealed the food cart was still a few rows away. Perfect, I thought, just enough time for a quick restroom break. I politely excused myself, attempting to minimize disturbance to Mr. Self-Important, and made my way to the back of the plane. To my dismay, a small queue had already formed. Anxiously, I watched the minutes tick by, the line moving with excruciating slowness. By the time it was finally my turn, I was practically vibrating with impatience, keenly aware that meal service was well underway.
Upon my return to my seat, the sight that greeted me was almost beyond belief: my meal tray was gone. And the man next to me, Mr. Self-Important, was not only finished with his own meal but was now happily, shamelessly, devouring my dinner!
"Uh, did they bring my meal while I was gone?" I asked, though the answer was sickeningly obvious.
He looked up, a smug, unapologetic smile spreading across his face. "Oh, yeah. You were taking a while, so I figured you didn't want it. Didn't want it to go to waste."
I stared at him, utterly dumbfounded. "You ate my meal?"
"Yeah," he replied, still chewing. "I was still hungry after mine, and you weren't here. You can just grab something at the airport when we land." The sheer audacity left me speechless. Who, in their right mind, commits such an act of travel etiquette violation?
"Are you serious right now?" I managed to stammer, clinging to the fading hope that this was some bizarre, elaborate joke. He simply shrugged, completely unfazed. "Relax, it's just airplane food."
Feeling a potent mix of incandescent anger and disbelief, I pressed the flight attendant call button. The attendant, though sympathetic, delivered the crushing news: "I'm so sorry, but we've run out of meals. Would you like some pretzels instead?" Pretzels. A pathetic substitute for a missed meal. Defeated, I accepted the tiny bag, my annoyance at my seatmate’s gall intensifying with every passing minute. Mr. Self-Important, meanwhile, finished both meals, leaned back, and promptly fell asleep, a picture of blissful, well-fed contentment.
The Descent and the Revelation
I tried to regain my focus, nibbling the meager pretzels and occasionally glaring at the man snoring beside me. My stomach rumbled in protest, but I forced myself to review my notes for the crucial San Diego meeting, determined not to let this entitled jerk derail my professional day. I meticulously tracked the minutes until our descent into LAX.
As the plane began its final approach, the usual announcements about landing and connecting flights began. The mention of tight connections snapped me back into full work mode. I glanced at my seatmate; he was still utterly oblivious, deeply asleep. The plane touched down, and the moment it did, I grabbed my carry-on, ready for my customary dash to the next gate. Just then, a flight attendant made a critical announcement: "Attention, passengers connecting to San Diego. There's been a last-minute gate change. You'll need to head to Terminal 4, Gate 45, as quickly as possible."
Great, I thought, a surprise gate change! I turned to leave, but my gaze snagged on Mr. Self-Important, still snoring. A fleeting thought crossed my mind: should I wake him up? He was a complete jerk who'd stolen my meal, but did that warrant allowing him to miss his connection? As I reached for my bag, I gave him a light, almost perfunctory nudge. "Hey, we've landed," I said, quietly. Nothing. Not even a stir. I nudged him harder. "You might want to wake up; we've landed, and there's a gate change." He mumbled something unintelligible, rolled over, and plunged back into slumber. Figuring the general commotion of deplaning would eventually rouse him, and acutely aware of my own tight schedule, I left him there, fast asleep, and hurried off the plane.
Karma's Sweet Landing in San Diego
The terminal was a maelstrom of rushing travelers, and I navigated the crowds with practiced efficiency to reach my new gate. I made it just in time for final boarding, collapsing into my seat with a profound wave of relief. My San Diego trip was back on track.
It wasn’t until I arrived in San Diego and met up with my colleagues that I received the full, satisfying conclusion to my inflight drama. As we chatted about our respective journeys, my coworker, Lisa, described a particularly disoriented passenger she'd witnessed at LAX.
"I swear, there was this guy at LAX who looked like he'd just woken up from a coma," Lisa recounted, laughing. "He was stumbling off the plane, completely disoriented, arguing with a gate agent because he'd missed his flight connection. Apparently, he was asleep when they announced the gate change, and by the time he woke up, it was too late."
I couldn't help but grin. "What did he look like?"
Lisa's description was exact: a man in his early 40s, a slightly wrinkled button-down, slacks, polished shoes, an expensive watch he kept checking, and a frazzled, furious expression. There was no doubt—it was him.
"Oh, that guy!" I exclaimed, barely containing my satisfaction. "Yeah, he was sitting next to me. Can you believe he ate my meal while I was in the restroom, then fell asleep? I tried to wake him, but he didn't budge."
Lisa's eyes widened. "No way! That's karma in action right there."
I wholeheartedly agreed. As frustrating as the entire ordeal had been, there was an undeniable, deep satisfaction in knowing that the universe had subtly intervened. While I made it to my meeting on time, Mr. Self-Important was stranded in LA, undoubtedly regretting his decision to double-down on airplane food—and his subsequent nap.
Sometimes, what goes around really does come around. And in this case, travel karma delivered its poetic justice, 30,000 feet up and thousands of miles away.
