Turbulence and Justice

A story of airplane etiquette, entitled passengers, and the art of creative problem-solving

The departure gate at Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport buzzed with the familiar energy of Sunday evening travelers—business people heading home from weekend conferences, families returning from visits with relatives, and couples like Alton and me wrapping up what had been simultaneously the most relaxing and most exhausting week of our year.

“I swear, if I have to hear one more story about the neighbor’s prize-winning roses, I might lose my mind,” I whispered to my husband as we waited in the boarding area, watching our fellow passengers queue up with varying degrees of patience and organization.

Alton chuckled, adjusting his reading glasses as he scrolled through emails on his phone. “Come on, Sarah. My mother’s garden stories aren’t that bad. Besides, you have to admit her apple pie made up for a lot of repetitive horticultural commentary.”

He wasn’t wrong. Dolores Chen had many wonderful qualities as a mother-in-law, but her ability to turn a five-minute conversation about watering schedules into a forty-five-minute dissertation on soil pH levels was legendary. The week we’d spent at their retirement community in Scottsdale had been lovely—full of good food, comfortable accommodations, and quality time with Alton’s parents—but I was ready to return to our own space, our own routines, and our own blessed silence.

“What I’m really looking forward to,” Alton said, lowering his voice as he leaned closer to me, “is our shower. Mom and Dad’s guest bathroom is nice enough, but the water pressure is terrible. I feel like I’ve been rinsing off with a garden sprinkler all week.”

I laughed, remembering my own struggles with their antique showerhead. “I was thinking the same thing. First thing I’m doing when we get home is taking a proper shower with actual water pressure.”

“Second thing,” Alton corrected with a grin. “First thing is ordering pizza. I love my mother’s cooking, but I need something that doesn’t involve seventeen different vegetables and a lecture about the nutritional benefits of each one.”

Our flight—Southwest 2847 to Chicago—was called for boarding, and we joined the organized chaos of passengers jockeying for position in the appropriate boarding groups. As frequent travelers, we had learned to navigate the airline’s unique seating system with reasonable efficiency, though it never failed to amuse us how seriously some people took the process of securing the perfect seat.

“Boarding Group B, positions 31 through 45,” the gate agent announced over the intercom, and we gathered our carry-on luggage and made our way toward the jet bridge.

Finding Our Seats

Southwest’s open seating policy meant that choosing seats was a combination of strategy, luck, and the ability to make quick decisions while walking down a narrow airplane aisle with dozens of other people doing the same thing. Alton and I had developed a system over our years of traveling together—he would scout potential seat combinations while I managed our bags, and we would communicate through subtle hand signals and meaningful glances.

The Boeing 737 was about half full when we boarded, which meant we had decent options for seating arrangements. Alton spotted two seats together about halfway back—13E and 13F, on the right side of the plane with no one directly in front of us. It wasn’t first class, but it was perfectly adequate for our three-hour flight home.

“These look good,” Alton said, gesturing toward the empty row. “Window or aisle?”

“Aisle, please,” I replied, stowing my bag in the overhead compartment. “I’ll probably need to get up at least once, and I don’t want to climb over you.”

We settled into our seats with the satisfied efficiency of people who had managed to secure exactly what they wanted without having to negotiate with other passengers or make uncomfortable compromises. Alton pulled out his Kindle, I retrieved my crossword puzzle book, and we both prepared for what we hoped would be an uneventful flight home.

The plane continued to fill with passengers, and I found myself engaging in the subtle people-watching that always accompanied air travel. There was the anxious first-time flyer clutching her boarding pass and checking her seat number repeatedly, the business traveler who had clearly made this journey hundreds of times and moved with practiced precision, and the family with three young children who were already negotiating complex seating arrangements to minimize potential conflicts.

It was during this casual observation that I first noticed the woman who would soon become the central figure in our in-flight drama.

She appeared to be in her early forties, with platinum blonde hair styled in beachy waves and wearing what I recognized as expensive athleisure wear—the kind of coordinated outfit that suggested she either taught high-end fitness classes or had enough disposable income to dress like she did. She carried a large designer tote bag and moved down the aisle with the confident stride of someone accustomed to getting what she wanted without having to ask for it.

The woman paused at the row directly behind us—14E and 14F—and began the process of settling in. I heard her speaking loudly into her phone, apparently continuing a conversation that had begun before boarding.

“No, Jessica, I told you I can’t make it to the yoga retreat next weekend,” she was saying, her voice carrying clearly through the thin airplane seat dividers. “I have the charity luncheon on Saturday, and Marcus wants to go to Napa on Sunday. You know how he gets when I change our plans.”

The Intrusion Begins

The first sign of trouble came about twenty minutes after takeoff, once the seatbelt sign had been turned off and passengers were settling in for the duration of the flight. Alton had opened his Kindle and was reading what appeared to be a thriller novel, while I was working on a particularly challenging Sunday crossword puzzle that required more concentration than usual.

I was struggling with 23-across (“Botanical term for leaf arrangement,” seven letters) when I felt a subtle but unmistakable vibration against my seat back. At first, I assumed it was just the normal turbulence that comes with flying, but the rhythm was too regular and too deliberate to be atmospheric.

I glanced over at Alton and saw that he was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, his reading clearly being disrupted by whatever was happening behind us.

“Do you feel that?” I asked quietly.

“Feel what?” he replied, though his expression suggested he knew exactly what I was talking about.

The vibration came again, this time more pronounced, and I realized what was happening. The woman behind us had removed her shoes and was using Alton’s seat back as a footrest, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a human being on the other side of the fabric she was treating like personal furniture.

I turned slightly in my seat and caught a glimpse of bare feet with bright red pedicured toenails pressed against the back of Alton’s headrest. The woman was chatting animatedly with what appeared to be her traveling companion—a man about her age who was listening with the patient expression of someone who had heard this particular conversation many times before.

“The problem with the contractors,” she was saying, her feet casually flexing against Alton’s seat as she spoke, “is that they don’t understand my vision. I keep telling them I want the bathroom to feel like a spa, but they keep showing me these basic tile options that look like something you’d find at a Holiday Inn.”

Each time she emphasized a point in her monologue, her feet would press more firmly against Alton’s seat, causing him to lurch forward slightly. I could see his jaw tightening with irritation, and I knew he was trying to decide how to address the situation diplomatically.

Alton was not a confrontational person by nature. In our fifteen years of marriage, I had rarely seen him raise his voice or directly challenge someone’s behavior, even when that behavior was clearly inappropriate. He preferred to give people the benefit of the doubt and assumed that most inconsiderate actions were the result of thoughtlessness rather than malice.

But I could see that this woman’s casual use of his seat as a footrest was pushing him toward the limits of his patience.

The First Request

After about ten minutes of this treatment, Alton closed his Kindle and turned around to face the woman behind us. His expression was polite but firm, and his voice carried the tone of someone trying to resolve a problem reasonably.

“Excuse me,” he said, making eye contact with the woman. “I’m sorry to bother you, but would you mind not putting your feet against my seat? It’s making it difficult for me to read.”

The woman looked at him with the kind of expression typically reserved for small children who have interrupted adult conversations with trivial concerns. She glanced down at her feet as if she had only just realized where they were positioned, then looked back at Alton with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, her tone suggesting that this was the most minor of inconveniences. “Sure, no problem.”

She pulled her feet back and repositioned herself in her seat, and Alton turned around with visible relief. He reopened his Kindle and attempted to return to his reading, while I went back to my crossword puzzle, hoping that the issue had been resolved with minimal drama.

The peace lasted approximately fifteen minutes.

I was making progress on the botanical crossword clue (the answer was “phyllotaxis,” which I only knew because of a gardening phase I’d gone through the previous summer) when the familiar vibration resumed against our seat backs.

This time, the woman seemed to have forgotten their previous interaction entirely. Her feet were not only pressed against Alton’s seat but were moving rhythmically as she gestured with her hands while continuing her conversation about home renovation challenges.

“The problem with interior designers,” she was explaining to her companion, “is that they don’t understand that I have very specific ideas about what I want. I don’t need them to tell me what’s trendy—I need them to execute my vision.”

I looked over at Alton and saw that his knuckles were white where he was gripping his e-reader. He was clearly struggling with whether to address the situation again, probably questioning whether he had been clear enough in his first request or whether the woman was simply ignoring his previous communication.

“Maybe she forgot,” I whispered, though privately I suspected that no one could unconsciously use someone else’s seat as a footrest to this degree.

Alton sighed and turned around again, this time with slightly less patience in his voice.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you’re doing it again. Could you please keep your feet off my seat?”

The woman looked genuinely surprised, as if this was the first time the issue had been raised. “Oh, right. Sorry about that.”

Again, she pulled her feet back, and again, Alton attempted to return to his reading. But this time, I could see the tension in his shoulders and the way he was holding his Kindle just a little too tightly. This woman was pushing my husband’s buttons in a way that few people managed to do, and I was beginning to feel protective instincts that I typically reserved for more serious situations.

The Escalation

The third repetition of this cycle occurred just as the flight attendant was beginning the beverage service. The drink cart was slowly making its way down the aisle, and passengers were beginning to consider their refreshment options for the remainder of the flight.

I had just decided that I wanted water and maybe some pretzels when the now-familiar pressure against our seats began again. But this time, the woman seemed to have escalated her behavior. Not only were her feet pressed against Alton’s seat, but she was also lightly kicking it in rhythm with her conversation.

“The thing about granite countertops,” she was saying, punctuating each word with a little kick, “is that everyone thinks they’re still impressive, but I’ve moved on to quartz. It’s more durable and doesn’t require the same level of maintenance.”

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Alton’s patience finally reached its breaking point. He turned around with an expression I had rarely seen on his face—polite but clearly frustrated, the look of someone who had tried to be reasonable and was now being forced to be more direct.

“Ma’am,” he said, his voice carrying more authority than before, “I’ve asked you twice to stop putting your feet on my seat. I need you to keep them down.”

The woman stared at him for a moment, then rolled her eyes in the most dismissive gesture I had witnessed in recent memory.

“It’s not a big deal,” she said, waving her hand as if shooing away an annoying insect. “I’m not hurting anything.”

“You’re making it impossible for me to sit comfortably,” Alton replied. “I’m trying to read, and you’re constantly kicking my seat.”

“I’m barely touching it,” she said, though even as she spoke, her feet remained firmly planted against his headrest. “You’re being way too sensitive about this.”

It was at this moment that I realized we were dealing with someone who was not simply thoughtless or forgetful, but genuinely entitled—the kind of person who believed that her comfort and convenience took precedence over everyone else’s, and who became defensive and dismissive when asked to modify her behavior.

“You know what,” I said, leaning into the conversation for the first time, “why don’t we get a flight attendant to help sort this out?”

The woman looked at me with obvious irritation. “That’s completely unnecessary. We can handle this ourselves.”

“Apparently we can’t,” I replied evenly, “since you keep doing the same thing after being asked to stop.”

Alton flagged down one of the flight attendants who was preparing the beverage cart. She was a woman in her fifties with the patient demeanor of someone who had dealt with every possible form of passenger behavior during her career.

“Can I help you with something?” she asked, approaching our row with professional concern.

“Yes,” Alton said, “the passenger behind me keeps putting her feet on my seat despite being asked to stop. Could you please speak with her about it?”

The flight attendant glanced at the woman behind us, who had finally removed her feet and was now sitting with exaggerated propriety, as if she had never done anything inappropriate in her life.

“Ma’am,” the flight attendant said politely but firmly, “airline policy requires that passengers keep their feet in their own seating area. I need to ask you not to put your feet on other passengers’ seats.”

“Of course,” the woman replied with saccharine sweetness. “I understand completely. I apologize if there was any misunderstanding.”

The flight attendant smiled and moved on with her service, apparently satisfied that the issue had been resolved. Alton turned back around with visible relief, and I felt hopeful that we could finally enjoy the remainder of our flight in peace.

That hope lasted exactly long enough for the flight attendant to move three rows forward with the beverage cart.

The Return of the Feet

As soon as the flight attendant was out of visual range, the woman’s feet returned to their position against Alton’s seat, this time with what seemed like deliberate defiance. Not only were they back, but she was now pressing them more firmly against his headrest and moving them in a way that suggested she was intentionally trying to annoy him.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered under my breath.

Alton turned around once more, but this time his approach was different. His voice was louder, carrying enough volume that nearby passengers would be able to hear the conversation.

“I’ve asked you three times to stop putting your feet on my seat,” he said clearly. “The flight attendant just told you it was against airline policy. What is it going to take for you to respect other passengers’ space?”

The woman’s response was to laugh—not a polite chuckle or an embarrassed giggle, but a full, dismissive laugh that suggested she found his frustration amusing rather than legitimate.

“You need to relax,” she said, loud enough for half the plane to hear. “It’s just a seat. You’re acting like I’m doing something terrible.”

“You are doing something terrible,” I said, surprising myself with the sharpness of my own voice. “You’re being incredibly rude and selfish.”

“Excuse me?” she said, her voice rising to match mine. “I don’t think I was talking to you.”

“You are now,” I replied. “You’re disrupting my husband’s ability to sit comfortably in the seat he paid for, and you’re ignoring requests from both passengers and crew to stop your inappropriate behavior.”

Several passengers in nearby rows were now openly watching our exchange, and I could see a few of them nodding in agreement with my assessment of the situation.

The woman’s traveling companion—who had been quietly observing this entire exchange—finally spoke up.

“Maybe you should just keep your feet down, Karen,” he said quietly. “It’s not worth the drama.”

Karen. Of course her name was Karen.

“Don’t tell me what to do, Marcus,” she snapped at him. “These people are being completely unreasonable.”

It was at this moment that I realized we were dealing with someone who was so accustomed to getting her way that she literally could not comprehend why anyone would object to her behavior. In her mind, her comfort and convenience were the primary considerations, and anyone who disagreed with that assessment was being unreasonable.

I also realized that traditional approaches to conflict resolution were not going to work with someone like this. She had demonstrated that she would ignore polite requests, disregard direct confrontation, and even defy explicit instructions from airline staff.

What she needed was a consequence that would make her behavior uncomfortable for her rather than for us.

And as the beverage cart approached our row, I began to formulate a plan.

The Beverage Service

“What can I get for you folks today?” the flight attendant asked as she reached our row, apparently unaware that the passenger conflict she had just mediated was continuing behind her back.

“I’ll have a water, please,” I said, accepting the small plastic bottle and cup of ice she handed me.

“I’ll take a gin and tonic,” Alton said, though he seemed distracted by the continued pressure against his seat.

As we received our beverages, I could hear Karen behind us placing her own order in a voice that was just slightly too loud and overly friendly, as if she was performing her politeness for the benefit of anyone who might have overheard our previous exchange.

“I’ll have a white wine, please,” she said sweetly. “And could I get some extra peanuts? I’m absolutely starving.”

The flight attendant moved on to the next row, and I settled back in my seat with my water bottle, taking a moment to observe the situation from a strategic perspective. Karen’s feet were firmly planted against Alton’s headrest, and she was now gently rocking them back and forth while she chatted with Marcus about their upcoming dinner plans.

I opened my water bottle and took a sip, letting the cool liquid calm my nerves while I considered my options. I could call the flight attendant back and escalate the situation further, but that would likely result in more drama and potentially involve other passengers in ways that might make the situation worse for everyone.

Or I could take a more direct approach to solving the problem.

I glanced around the cabin and noted that we were at cruising altitude with minimal turbulence. The seatbelt sign was off, and passengers were moving around freely. The lighting was dim enough that small actions might go unnoticed by anyone who wasn’t paying close attention.

Most importantly, Karen had positioned her designer tote bag in the narrow space between our seats and hers, where it would be easily accessible to someone sitting in front of her.

I took another sip of my water and made my decision.

The Implementation

What happened next required timing, subtlety, and a certain amount of theatrical skill. I waited until Karen was deeply engaged in conversation with Marcus, gesturing animatedly with her hands while her feet continued their rhythmic pressure against Alton’s seat.

“The problem with the restaurant scene in Phoenix,” she was saying, “is that everyone thinks they’re a foodie now, but they don’t really understand fine dining. I mean, just because you serve small portions on large plates doesn’t make you sophisticated.”

It was during this particular monologue that I made my move.

I shifted slightly in my seat and carefully poured approximately half of my water bottle onto Karen’s tote bag, which was positioned perfectly to receive the liquid without the spillage being immediately obvious to its owner. The bag was made of expensive-looking leather with fabric lining, exactly the kind of material that would absorb water quickly and potentially sustain lasting damage.

The water disappeared into the bag’s interior, and I sat back in my seat with my heart racing slightly from the adrenaline of having committed this small act of sabotage.

But I wasn’t finished.

I waited another few minutes, until Karen had moved on to a detailed critique of her yoga instructor’s teaching methods, before implementing the second phase of my plan.

This part required more precision, since it involved targeting a moving object. I carefully lifted Alton’s gin and tonic—a drink he had barely touched—and waited for the right moment to make my move.

Karen’s feet were pressed against Alton’s seat, her toes wiggling slightly as she spoke. She was completely absorbed in her conversation and entirely unaware that she was about to experience a consequence for her behavior.

With a movement that I hoped would appear accidental to any casual observer, I tipped Alton’s gin and tonic backward, allowing the cold, alcoholic liquid to splash directly onto Karen’s bare feet.

The reaction was immediate and dramatic.

“AHHHHH!” Karen screamed, jerking her feet back so quickly that she kicked the seat in front of her with considerable force. “What the hell?!”

The gin and tonic was cold, sticky, and probably quite unpleasant when applied directly to bare skin. Karen was frantically wiping her feet with airline napkins while staring at me with an expression of pure fury.

“Oh my goodness!” I exclaimed, putting on my most concerned and apologetic voice. “I’m so sorry! We must have hit some turbulence—the drink just flew right out of my hand!”

I began dabbing at the spilled liquid with my own napkins, making a great show of trying to clean up the mess while secretly feeling quite satisfied with the results of my intervention.

“Turbulence?” Karen sputtered, clearly not believing my explanation but unable to prove otherwise. “Are you kidding me right now?”

“I feel terrible,” I continued, maintaining my innocent expression. “Let me call the flight attendant and see if we can get some towels to help clean this up.”

Karen was now sitting with her feet firmly planted on the floor of her own seating area, glaring at me with undisguised hostility while she attempted to dry her gin-soaked toes.

“This is ridiculous,” she muttered to Marcus, who was trying very hard to pretend he hadn’t witnessed the entire exchange.

I flagged down a flight attendant and explained that there had been a “beverage accident” due to turbulence, and requested additional napkins and cleaning supplies. The flight attendant was perfectly helpful and professional, though I thought I detected a slight twinkle in her eye that suggested she might have a pretty good idea of what had actually transpired.

The Aftermath

The remainder of the flight passed in blissful peace. Karen kept her feet firmly planted in her own seating area, and her conversation with Marcus became noticeably quieter and less animated. Occasionally, she would catch my eye and shoot me a look of pure venom, but I responded each time with my sweetest smile and most innocent expression.

During the meal service, when a flight attendant accidentally brushed against Karen’s seat while serving beverages to other passengers, Karen immediately pulled her feet back and apologized profusely for any inconvenience she might have caused.

“So sorry,” she said quickly, “I didn’t mean to be in the way.”

The transformation was remarkable. The woman who had been so dismissive of other passengers’ comfort and airline policies was now hyperaware of her own behavior and eager to avoid any situation that might result in another “accident.”

Alton was finally able to read his book in peace, and I completed my crossword puzzle without any further disturbances. The gin and tonic incident had apparently sent a clear message about the consequences of continued inappropriate behavior.

As we began our descent into Chicago, I reflected on what had just occurred. Had my response been petty? Absolutely. Had it been somewhat underhanded? Probably. But had it been effective in solving a problem that traditional conflict resolution methods had failed to address? Unquestionably.

Sometimes, when dealing with people who are determined to prioritize their own comfort over everyone else’s, you have to speak their language. Karen understood consequences in a way that she didn’t understand requests or rules. The cold, sticky gin and tonic had communicated more effectively than three polite conversations and an intervention by airline staff.

The Discovery

As passengers began gathering their belongings and preparing to disembark, Karen reached for her designer tote bag and immediately discovered the water damage I had inflicted earlier in the flight.

“Oh no,” she said, her voice rising with distress as she examined the bag’s interior. “My bag is soaked! Everything in here is wet!”

She pulled out what appeared to be an expensive makeup case, several soggy papers, and a small electronic device that had clearly been affected by the water damage.

“How did this happen?” she demanded, looking around as if expecting someone to confess to sabotaging her belongings.

I maintained my expression of polite concern while internally celebrating the success of my two-pronged revenge strategy.

“Oh my,” I said sympathetically, “that’s terrible. I wonder if there was a leak in the overhead compartment? You should definitely report that to the airline.”

Karen stared at me for a long moment, and I could see her trying to determine whether I was responsible for her misfortune. But since she couldn’t prove anything, and since I was offering helpful suggestions about how to address the problem, she had no choice but to accept my apparent sympathy at face value.

“This bag cost eight hundred dollars,” she muttered to Marcus as they prepared to leave the plane.

“Maybe insurance will cover it,” he replied wearily, clearly exhausted by what had been a challenging flight for their relationship as well as their travel experience.

As we waited for our turn to exit the aircraft, Karen shot me one final look of suspicion and hostility. I responded with a warm smile and a friendly wave.

“Have a wonderful rest of your trip,” I said cheerfully.

She didn’t respond.

The Debrief

During our taxi ride home from O’Hare, Alton and I processed what had been one of the most memorable flights of our marriage.

“I can’t believe you did that,” he said, though his tone suggested admiration rather than criticism. “The gin and tonic thing was genius.”

“I tried the diplomatic approach first,” I replied. “When someone demonstrates that they’re not going to respond to reasonable requests, you have to get creative.”

“What about the water in her bag? Was that planned from the beginning?”

I considered this question carefully. “Let’s just say I believe in having multiple strategies available for dealing with difficult situations.”

Alton laughed, shaking his head with amazement. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. You’re more devious than I realized.”

“I prefer ‘strategically creative,'” I corrected. “And I only use my powers for good.”

“Is petty revenge really ‘good’ though?”

I thought about this as we drove through the familiar streets of our neighborhood, past the restaurants and shops we frequented, toward the home we had missed during our week away.

“I think,” I said finally, “that sometimes people need to experience consequences for their behavior in order to understand why that behavior is problematic. Karen wasn’t going to change her actions based on polite requests or even official airline policies. But a little cold gin on her toes? That got her attention.”

“And taught her that there might be costs associated with being inconsiderate to other people,” Alton added.

“Exactly. Sometimes the most effective teaching tool is a well-timed consequence that makes someone’s poor behavior uncomfortable for them instead of for everyone else.”

The Lesson

As we finally walked through our front door and dropped our luggage in the hallway, I reflected on the broader implications of the day’s events. We live in a society where many people seem to have lost sight of basic courtesy and consideration for others, particularly in public spaces like airplanes where we’re all forced to share limited resources and deal with uncomfortable conditions.

Karen represented a type of person I had encountered many times before—someone so focused on their own comfort and convenience that they were genuinely unable to understand why their behavior might negatively affect others. In her mind, using Alton’s seat as a footrest was a minor issue that shouldn’t have bothered anyone, and our objections to her behavior were unreasonable rather than legitimate.

But the reality is that shared public spaces require a certain level of mutual respect and consideration in order to function properly for everyone. When someone chooses to prioritize their own comfort over everyone else’s, they create problems that affect the entire community of travelers.

Traditional conflict resolution methods—polite requests, direct communication, appeals to authority—work well with people who are simply thoughtless or who made honest mistakes. But they’re less effective with people who are fundamentally self-centered and who view any request to modify their behavior as an unreasonable imposition.

For those individuals, sometimes a more creative approach is required.

The Epilogue

Six months later, Alton and I were on another flight, this time heading to Denver for a long weekend of skiing. As we settled into our seats, I noticed a familiar dynamic unfolding in the row behind us—a passenger was using the seat in front of them as a footrest, despite obvious discomfort from the person being affected.

Without hesitation, I turned around and addressed the situation directly.

“Excuse me,” I said politely but firmly, “would you mind keeping your feet off that passenger’s seat? I’m sure you wouldn’t want someone doing that to you.”

The passenger—a young man who looked like he was probably in college—immediately pulled his feet back and apologized.

“Sorry, I didn’t realize I was bothering anyone,” he said genuinely. “Thanks for letting me know.”

The passenger in front of him turned around and mouthed “thank you” with obvious relief.

“See?” Alton said quietly as I settled back into my seat. “Sometimes people just need a gentle reminder about appropriate behavior.”

“True,” I agreed. “But it’s good to have backup strategies available for the ones who don’t respond to gentle reminders.”

I patted my water bottle and smiled, secure in the knowledge that I was prepared for whatever challenges this flight might bring.

After all, as my grandmother used to say, it’s always better to have tools you don’t need than to need tools you don’t have. And sometimes, the most effective tools come in the form of strategically applied beverages and well-timed accidents.

The flight to Denver was blissfully uneventful, but I remained vigilant throughout, ready to deploy my particular brand of justice if the situation called for it. Because while I always prefer to solve problems through communication and mutual respect, I’ve learned that some people only understand consequences.

And I’m perfectly willing to provide those consequences when necessary.