Search Salon

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Recently in Salon Travel

Conquering Half Dome -- and the fear of falling
When a simple hike turns into a paralyzing ascent, a father has to overcome his terror.
By Don George
[07/31/99]

Wanderlust
Thais that bind
One minute she's giving me a mean massage, the next she wants to steal me away on her motor scooter.
By Zona Sage
[07/30/99]

Travel Advisor
I'm going to Disney World
Our expert advises readers on the best Disney packages, the cheapest Tokyo-London flights and finding that authentic tamale south of the border.
By Donald D. Groff
[07/29/99]

Out of Africa
Why do so many travel books about the continent start the same way?
By Wendy Belcher
[07/28/99]

Vagabonding
The Barbecue Jesus and other epiphanies
Wandering off the Vietnamese budget travel trail in search of authenticity, our correspondent finds that authenticity isn't all it's cracked up to be.
By Rolf Potts
[07/27/99]

Complete archives for Travel

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

I was standing at the rear of the airplane, about 25 feet away from the hat man, when a heavyset gentleman plopped into the last row of seats. His eyes were red. He stank of liquor. He was sweating and panting and seemed on the verge of collapse. Still, he looked up at me and smiled. "Psssssst, psssssst ... mira," he said. "Yo necesito un vaso con hielo." ("I need a glass with ice.") He opened his jacket, pointing somewhat stealthily to a fifth of rum tucked in his breast pocket. "Yo necesito un vaso con hielo. Ahhh, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha ..." This was the kind of passenger we often greeted on the Saturday Night Special -- a drunken fat guy who packed his own party.

As the final passengers squeezed into the crowded cabin, I noticed a man dragging a heavy carry-on bag along the right-hand aisle of the aircraft. He hurled repeated insults at his wife, who, though she was half the size of her husband, was dragging a carry-on that seemed twice as heavy as his. His wife snapped back at him, delivering a retort in Spanish that sent ripples of laughter through the crowd of nearby passengers. Embarrassed by this public display of female disobedience, the husband flew into a frenzy. He yelled and cursed, berating her with a volley of conjugated verbs that drew ice-cold stares from passengers. In the midst of his tirade, the husband threw open an overhead bin. In one blind movement, he picked up his massive carry-on bag and slammed it in the overhead bin -- directly on top of the precious Panama hat.

The hat man sat still in his seat, frozen momentarily by the grim ramifications. Suddenly, he leapt to his feet. He cursed the assailant, then reached beneath the bag to extract what was left of his hat. To his extreme displeasure, the crown had been completely crushed so that now it was level to the brim. It looked like a broken Frisbee, like a nest built by druggie sparrows.

The hat man's jaw came unhinged. He began to tremble. His eyes filled with something more complex than rage. Without taking a breath, the hat man spat a fusillade of insults in rapid-fire Spanish. The husband responded with a foul-mouthed blast of his own. Their shouts attracted the attention of everyone on board, including first-class passengers who were poking their heads in the aisle, trying to get a glimpse of the ruckus in the back of the plane.

I threaded my way through the crowded aisle, hoping to intervene before things got out of hand. But by the time I reached the two shouting men, the first punch had already been thrown. The hat man had been leveled by a vicious right cross.

A collective gasp seemed to suck the air out of the cavernous DC-10 cabin. All 295 passengers and 10 crew members froze in their places. There was no sound. The seconds floated by like Goodyear blimps. Like a heavyweight champion refusing to be beaten by a 10-count, the hat man rose slowly from the floor. He massaged his chin for a moment, grinned sardonically, then let loose an ear-piercing battle cry: "Hyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyaaaaaaa!"

That's when all hell broke loose.

To the best of my recollection, the full-scale brawl broke out as the husband prepared to defend himself against the hat man. When hubby cocked his arm to throw another punch, his elbow inadvertently whacked the head of a seated passenger. Infuriated by this unprovoked assault, the man jumped to his feet and pushed the husband, who then fell atop a fourth man who proceeded to push the husband upon a fifth. Like the climactic scene in a Chuck Norris movie, fists were suddenly flying everywhere. Stranger battled stranger in an aircraft skirmish fueled purely by angst and testosterone.

Not to be outdone by the guys, some of the tougher-looking female passengers joined in. I ducked beneath a misguided left hook thrown by a 30-year-old woman in a tank top. I glared at my foe, thought briefly about pummeling her with a series of jabs to the ribs, but then remembered I was at work and in uniform. Instead of punches, I threw her a nasty look and retreated to the rear of the aircraft.

Unfortunately, my escape was blocked by a massive presence in the aisle. It was the drunken fat guy. The one who had asked for un vaso con hielo. He stood there, wobbling, a sudden sense of purpose gleaming in his bloodshot eyes.

Until then, I hadn't appreciated the mammoth proportions of the man. He stood well over six feet and must have weighed in at no less than 350 pounds. Amid the shouts and screams of the escalating brawl, the fat man gathered his considerable voice and yelled something in Spanish. Something cruel and daunting and suicidal. He charged up the aisle, slamming into the fray with a fearlessness instilled by the makers of Bacardi. Had I not slid into a row of seats, he would have bowled me over like a cricket wicket.

The captain's voice soon came over the P.A. system, announcing the arrival of security forces. But the escalating clamor made his warning difficult to hear. Cheering sections had formed on the opposite side of the airplane. When a favorite brawler connected a punch, one group would yell "Whoooaaaaa!" while the other group sighed "Ooooooh." From a protected position near the aft bulkhead, I watched an entire family -- mother, father and three kids -- applauding and throwing phantom punches, like spectators at a Tyson fight. I'm certain that in some hidden corner of the aircraft, someone was placing five-to-one odds on the fat man.

As law enforcement officers stormed the airplane, as punches froze in mid-arc and pugilists suddenly became pacifists, the fat man moved to the back of the airplane and looked me dead in the eye.

"Pssssst, pssssst..." he said. "Yo necesito un vaso con hielo. Ahhhh, ha, ha, ha, ha ..."
salon.com | August 3, 1999

- - - - - - - - - - - -

- - - - - - - - - - - -

  Get a printer-friendly version

  E-mail a friend about this article

  Backflip this article to find it again

- - - - - - - - - - - -

Search Salon