I've never minded travelling, whether I'm engaged in a cross-country road trip or a 30-minute subway commute to work. I've never minded, that is, as long as I have the proper means for mind-drifting, whether it's a newspaper or a good book, or most commonly, my Discman and a dope album to absorb.

And if my voyage doesn't demand alertness, I can always rely on my unfailing ability to fall asleep faster than a piss drunk narcoleptic. On this particular afternoon, I was ready for a relaxing rest 35,000 feet above ground level. The flight from La Guardia to Charlotte wasn't all that rocky and I'd gotten a nice hour of sleep interrupted only by the Cordial Beverage Lady and the occasional nudge from Wandering Elbow Man next to me.

It was nearing takeoff time, and I took advantage of my window seat to gaze out into the yonder. I contemplated whether Charlotte was just another endless sprawl of strip malls and apartment complexes—like today's destination, Phoenix. My state of solitude was interrupted when a middle-aged woman squeezed by Wrinkles on the aisle and into the middle seat. She wasn't too shabby for a woman who had to be approaching 40. She said "Hi." I nodded. I like to nod.

I also like to listen to my Discman, which I was about to do when my new neighbor pulled a package of crackers out of her suitcase-sized purse. "Would you like a cracker?" she offered. I shook my head. I like to shake my head, too, but not as much as nodding it (that's probably because I'm more likely to accept food from you than refuse it). As I inserted a disc, my attention was diverted by her monstrous hot pink nails, which were about as real as my skyscraper-scaling skills. I wondered if she ever bit one off when putting a cracker in her mouth.

Just a few minutes later we were taxiing, in line for takeoff. Out of the corner of my eye I could tell she was getting testy. "Come on!" she pleaded shrilly. She reminded me of a third grader minutes before recess, using her outside voice inside the closed corridors of an aircraft. I suppose she wanted the pilot to lay on the horn and tell the other planes to fuck off.

Thirty minutes later the ground was no longer visible. Pink Pincers was awfully mobile, shifting about in her seat like she was giving it a lap dance. She glanced down at her watch about 30 times within a minute's span, often looking over at me in between what I figured were nervous ticks. Finally, she said something. I took my headphones off.

"You know what time it's gonna be when we land?" she asked. Again, I'm not sure why, but it took the two of us approximately ten minutes to figure out how shifting a couple time zones would effect us. That's why I blame the state of Arizona and the stubborn legislative powers that be for the encounter that followed. Why they don't practice daylight savings incenses me and stumped our attempts to agree on just what time it would be when we touched down.

But I probably should've been suspicious of this woman. Now it seems she was only using the matter of time as a launch pad for conversation. We introduced ourselves. "I'm Blabbermouth Barbara," she said. "I'm Kevlar," I told her. "Would you like some Cheez-Its?" she offered as she pulled a small package of the cheeziest of cheese snacks out of her purse. I declined.

And then the floodgates opened.

She asked me where I was from, why I was heading to Phoenix, why I'd go back to visit college, what kind of music I liked, why my parents named me after a brand fiber. I attempted to keep my replies brief. She was flabbergasted by the eerie coincidence that I lived in Brooklyn—the same borough where some of her cousins once lived. Small fucking world.

A package of Cheez-Its already nearing digestion, she pulled out a miniature canister of Pringles. She offered. I refused. I obviously wasn't thinking straight. The blunder didn't stop there.

I asked her a question.
I forget what exactly I asked her, but she blatantly misinterpreted it. I think she thought I said, "So tell me your life story."

She had no qualms about filling me in. She told me about her boyfriend, a landscaper in Georgia. She told me about her son, a 12-year-old who never leaves the house because he's addicted to some computer game I'd never heard of it. She told me about her obsession with the folk rock remake of N.W.A.'s "Boyz in the Hood" by a moderately untalented but gimmick-wise band called Dynamite Hack.

Finally, I interrupted: "Listen," I told her, "you're a very nice woman and that's cool that you'd like to bond with me our on flight here but in all honesty I don't really give a shit about you, or you're dirt-shoveling boyfriend, or your loser son. And that song fucking sucks."

Well, that's what I would've said. If only I had balls…
Instead I sat still and marveled at her unparalleled ability to make one sentence run 8 minutes. I swear she wasn't even breathing. She stopped, temporarily, to grab some more food out of her pantry—er, purse. At this point I expected to be offered a rack of lamb.

I know some people get nervous when they fly, and they probably use conversation as a mechanism to avoid fear. But I'd had enough. The only positive that'd come from the first hour of her rambling was a minor stroke of enlightenment on my part—I'd met the type of person whose support widens the wallets of the producers of reality television shows.

And then I hit a wall. I couldn't take it anymore. I wasn't saying a word, but she was still talking. Blah, blah, blah. So I did what any righteous, well-mannered person would do. I closed my eyes and pretended I'd fallen asleep.

It worked. Eventually she stopped talking, and I even fell asleep after nine or ten minutes. I awoke as we descended toward the Phoenix airport. She was engaged in a conversation with Wrinkles, as the two of them shared what looked and smelled like homemade cookies.

I was free. Blabbermouths, Kevlar says, are bad.

Kevlar