Meth Mouth

I'm referring to the guy who sat across the aisle next to me on the plane ride from Dallas to New Orleans yesterday. I had just made it to the last leg of my trip back to NOLA after 4 long hours of delay at SFO, followed by a long hungry flight to Dallas and another two-hour layover. My dog and I had both visited the powder room, we had refueled, and were reinvigorated for our 1-hour flight back to New Orleans. I had reached the tail-end of a great PD James mystery novel and was very much looking forward to utilizing that hour to finish my book. Much to my chagrin, I never had a chance. We hadn't even taken off when the anorexic-looking, fidgety guy with hugely dialated pupils and facial scabs who reeked of wine sat down in the seat next to me across the aisle sat down and turned his body so that his legs were in the aisle and he was squarely facing me (it wasn't until later that I noticed his really bad teeth). As an attorney, I pride myself on the art of conversation -- and the artful tactics of avoiding it or ending it if absolutely necessary. I was totally out of my league with this guy. He had decided he was going to talk to me and there was no way out. The lady in the window seat on the other side of him periodically looked over his shoulder at me as if to communicate a silent pity for me (as well as a silent relief that she wasn't the one being held hostage by Meth Mouth). He clearly was high on crystal meth. I know this for several reasons, including drug ed from 4th-6th grade and having watched multiple episodes of Intervention. While I do have empathy for individuals who are fighting such demons (we all have them in our own ways), I have a particular disdain for adult men with children who are drug addicts because of the effect that it had on my own family. But I digress...

I have been known to dominate conversations and have an unfortunate habit of interrupting people -- I wasn't able to get a word in edgewise with Meth Mouth. He started off by telling me about the past several days he spent in Las Vegas (including details of the nudity in Cirque du Soleil's "Zoomanity", the play-by-play on his poker experiences at Caesar's, MGM Grand, and Mandalay Bay, and the literal blow-by-blow of his attendance at a UFC event). At some point Meth Mouth asked me what I did for a living -- I told him I was an attorney -- BIG MISTAKE. His follow up was, "Oh, well, you're going to love this story..." He then proceeded to tell me a story involving a construction job, his wife's sudden death, the full-faith and credit clause of the constitution, organ donation, a house in Katy, Texas, life insurance, discrimination, his 5 kids, an employment lawsuit, a medical condition that makes it difficult for him to sit for long periods of time, and the three-pronged test for common law marriage. I spoke not a word -- it was like he was talking at warp speed -- with hands flailing in between itches and fidgets -- I was trapped. My dog had taken the easy way out and had curled up in his carrier for a nap -- apparently even dogs have limits to their loyalty. I did feel bad that his wife had suddenly died -- he clearly was distraught and I had empathy for his loss. However, when he went on to describe his sudden 40-pound weight loss and his inability to sleep, his chronic broken bones, and lamented going to Vegas as a single guy with those nasty meth face sores that he claimed were caused by an eye infection (?! HELP!), I wanted to say, "Well, if you lay off of the meth, you might find that it will help all of those issues." When we finally arrived in New Orleans after what seemed like an interminably long time, I knew this guy's entire story, gratuitous medical details and all. And he wasn't finished yet. He followed me out of the plane and continued his ramblings until I finally was able to excuse myself to duck into the nearest ladies room. I would not have been surprised if he had followed me in, or had waited for me outside. Thankfully my tactic had worked -- I had found freedom. Never has an airport lavatory been so appealing. After boiling my hands and chafing them with soapy water to remove any residual Meth Mouth funk (his animated story-telling had included occasional dry-heave inducing physical contact), my dog and I went out to greet my husband (who had flown back the previous day) at baggage claim. As tired as I was when I got home that night, the physical contact with Meth Mouth left me feeling semi-violated so I took an extra long shower which included a full-body exfoliation. I even flossed my teeth twice.