What's your airport class?

Bad news, you booked a basic economy fare and now you’re staring down the barrel of 32B.

Bad news, that basic economy fare to Rome didn’t come with seats, and now you’re staring down the barrel of 32B. What’s your number - $50? $75? You’ll probably pony up $200 to feel your legs when you land and they know it.

Now it’s 6 am and you’re wiping the crusts out of your eyes. What’s that, regret? You’re going to call a $100 Uber, any thoughts of taking public transportation were aspirational at best. Good thing you saved $50 by taking the earlier flight. That’s big brain math right there. Anyway, that $15 AMEX credit isn’t going to spend itself.

You walk past the check-in counter, wondering why those still exist. People are checking bags anyway. Fools. Why would you risk sending your luggage on its own odyssey.

You glide through security, shoes on and toiletries tucked away because you have TSA Pre-Check, of course. But your bag is taking an eerily long time to emerge from the x-ray machine. You watch other travelers fumble through behind you, letting out a quiet chuckle when someone has to take their shoes off and go back through. Petty, sure, but it makes you feel good.

Then your bag stops short. Heart rate rising. Fuck. Why is it in bag jail? Do these things scan for weed?

Is this your bag?

Uh, yes, sir. You always go polite in these situations. Obedience. Does it help? No idea, but here you are. As they tug on the zipper, you remember the Jenga masterpiece you assembled the night before. Pour one out because that shit isn’t getting put back together.

You pass inspection. Next up: the Duty-Free Store, your next litmus test. But you’ve never purchased cologne in your life, so why start now. Good man. Plus, those lounge mimosas aren’t going to drink themselves.

Are you flying first class? Elite member? Oh, you’re not rich rich? Sorry, lounge is full. Peasant. Instead you spend the next two hours slamming $30 mimosas, glancing at the departure board between sips.

The gate is a clusterfuck without a semblance of a line. Is this everyone’s first day on earth? Idiots. The plane’s been “boarding” for thirty minutes now and nobody’s moved. Eventually a voice comes on the loudspeaker, but you can’t hear it over the louder loudspeaker the next gate over.

The crowd murmurs as the public sorting ceremony begins. Are you a Group A kind of guy? How about Group B? Didn’t think so, step aside, pauper.

Why are you nervous? You always put yourself between them and your carry-on. Can’t risk any size queens giving your backpack the eye. Nothing to see here. You hand over your boarding pass. They look at you. You look back. They know. They know you know. You know they know you know.

They scan your boarding pass anyway.

You saunter down the jet bridge, glancing at your boarding pass for the hundredth time. 32B. Right. Middle seat. Damn it. You step onto the plane, past the smug lie-flat passengers already in slippers working on their champagne. Bourgeois fucks, you mutter.

Your row is empty. For a moment you let yourself believe. Then you see it peering over the seat in front of you - a chubby-cheeked infant. It smiles. Devious little thing. It knows exactly what it’s about to do.

Eventually you’re in the air and the flight attendant draws that little curtain. Hear that? A few rows behind you the meal trolley squeaks to life.