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A 6-year-old child, seeing as how fate has brought us
together here, in the crowded coach section of this expensive airplane, I
thought I should introduce myself. My name is Amy, and I’m an adult. I suspect
that you’re too young to understand what “adult” means, so let me explain. It
means that I’m taller than you, and smarter, and that I get to do lots of
awesome things, like smoke cigarettes and ovulate. It also means that I like to
take naps on airplanes and read my newspaper in silence. These things seem to
be very different from the things that you like to do. I’ve gleaned from its
near-constant utterance by the woman sitting next to you—your mother, I
suppose, or perhaps a social worker or a federal prisoner who’s being paid to
spend time with you—that your name is Timmy. It’s probably Timothy, actually,
but people call you Timmy because it’s cuter. Which is appropriate, Timmy,
because you’re very cute, you really are.
burberry outlet store I’m going to drink this cup of coffee—would you like some? I didn’t
think so. You’re more of a juice-box man, from what I gather. The way I gather
this is by looking at the stain on my ninety-eight-dollar pants, the one you
made when you put your juice box there. If I touched your pants, Timmy, I would
probably be sent to jail. There are lots of differences between you and me, but
that’s one of the big ones: the quality and the seriousness of what happens
when we touch other people’s pants. You’re not much of a sleeper, are you,
Timmy? We’ve just met, but it seems to me like maybe you don’t really enjoy
sleeping all that much. In fact, it seems to me that one of your greatest joys
in life is wakefulness—and not simply passive wakefulness but the kind of
vigorous wakefulness that makes a person like me start to question the very
possibility of silence as a condition that can exist in the universe. I can see
that I’ve confused you, Timmy, and I apologize; I was only trying to point out
that you really seem to enjoy being awake. Let me make it up to you by giving
you this modest dose of Ambien. It’s a kind of candy for your soul. Your soul
is a kind of mouth that’s inside your brain.
Here comes the nice stewardess lady with a bag for
collecting people’s garbage. Would you like me to give her some of the garbage
that’s strewn all over your seat, and if we’re being perfectly honest here,
Timmy, all over my seat as well? And, while we’re at it, maybe I could give her
this talking doll—the one that sings songs, very loud songs, songs of
terrifying and ungodly volume, from that animated movie about adventurous
insects. It’s not that I don’t love the doll; it’s just that I’m pretty sure
it’s illegal for children to carry such things on airplanes. Have you heard of
terrorism, Timothy? That’s why it’s illegal for you to have this doll. Your whimpering
and your dripping facial parts suggest that perhaps this conversation has run
its course, so I’ll let you get back to your finger painting, your fidgeting,
and your wanton, inexplicable shredding of the in-flight magazine. I’ll be here
in my seat, fantasizing about hurtling my childless adult body out of the
airplane and into the sky. Enjoy the rest of the flight, Timmy. I’ve really
enjoyed sitting next to you. It’s fun to make new friends.