The Spaghetti Chronicles

The Spaghetti Chronicles is based on a true story…

While the taxi arrived at the airport, an apparently ordinary businessman became caught up in a sequence of extraordinary and life-altering occurrences, each one more incredible than the previous.

You ever feel like those TSA folks should at least buy you a drink or give you a little smooch after they've spent all that time feeling' you up and down? I mean, it's not like I'm some secret agent or anything. It's just a regular old trip to the airport.

Flying as much as I have, I have seen the changes from meals to nuts; man, have things changed.

It was bad enough when that lady in the x-ray booth smiled at me like I was some prize-winning pig at the county fair. But then they had to go and have me felt up by some stranger, just to make sure I wasn't packing' any hidden weapons or contraband. I mean, I'm just trying' to get on a plane here, not rob a bank or join the Mafia. It's just a little too much if you ask me. I can't help it if God blessed me.

I mean, I was heading to Manhattan to represent my company, not Hollywood, to star in some skin flick for crying out loud! I'm just a regular guy trying to make a living, and I don't think I've ever felt so embarrassed or violated in my entire life. It's like they think I'm some pervert or something. I just want to fly, man, without all the unnecessary groping and harassment. Maybe these new porn scanners are a little too invasive.

During my experience in aviation, it was customary to wear formal attire. The ladies were clad in fashionable dresses, while the children were dressed impeccably in their Sunday best. What happened?

It wasn't me who changed, it was the world.

You know, if you get on a plane and you hear some kid screaming' like they're being' tortured in a dark, dank dungeon, that's probably where your seat is. Or maybe your seat will be where a seat kicker will be behind you taking out their aggression on your seat.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's the person who feels the need to talk your ear off about nothing but a bunch of stupid, useless shit that you couldn't care less about. Either way, you're screwed.

I have found that attempting to read a book will not even dissuade a Chatty Kathy. If you have ever been next to one, you know what I am talking about.

No subjects are off the table either. If they start out with, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but…You’re screwed.

How many people want to hear about your experience with hemorrhoid surgery?

What about that briefing before the flight takes off?

If the plane falls out of the sky, your seat is also a floatation device. Yeah, because that's exactly what I want to think about when I'm sitting in a metal tube flying thousands of feet above the ground: whether my seat will help me float when it inevitably crashes into the ocean. And let's not forget about that fancy little mask that's supposed to save your life, but only if you put it on before you start screaming like a banshee. It's like they're just asking for a heart attack or a panic attack or something.

I got the million-mile card in my wallet, meaning I've been flying for a long time, man. And you know what? I remember when flying used to be fun, back when they didn't treat you like some criminal just for wanting to get on a plane and go somewhere. But now, it scares the living' daylights out of me every single time I have to fly. It's like they've taken all the joy and excitement out of it and replaced it with fear, anxiety, and a lot of unnecessary hassle.

So, I'm wearing my fancy suit, white shirt, and shiny tie, ready for this big, important business meeting' in Manhattan. I'm just trying to remember all the right words and phrases for my sales pitch like a magician trying to pull a million-dollar rabbit out of my hat. This was a day trip, no overnight stay. Fly in, make the sale, and catch the red eye back home. No time for any shenanigans, you know what I mean?

I'm saying' this because I didn't have a single change of clothes, man, not even a toothbrush to freshen up with after a long day of traveling.

You remember when you used to get a real, honest-to-goodness meal on a plane, right? Before they started taking out the olives, just to save a few pennies. I mean, I've heard of these "bean counters," but "olive counters"? That's a whole new level of cheapness!

What the hell is a salad without olives, anyway? It's like a day without sunshine, or a morning without coffee. It just doesn't make any sense.

Somewhere over Arkansas, they brought out lunch—spaghetti, no less! Remember what I said about the freshly pressed white shirt and silk tie?

When they placed the tray in front of the guy next to me, I knew I was in trouble. His hands shook so much that he could have made pizza dough without trying. These two were escapees from a retirement home. To give some credit, these folks were dressed like some sort of nuclear family from the good ol' 50s, man.

So, there I was, just minding my own business, trying to enjoy a nice little meal of noodles.

But, oh no, the zombie next to me flipped his meal off the tray, landing in my lap. Suddenly it was like a scene from a horror movie. The sauce went everywhere, like a mass murderer on a rampage. I swear, I thought I would have to throw on a disguise like I was in a witness protection program. And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, the plane hits a little bump and suddenly, my shirt looks like it's been attacked by a swarm of tiny, red-sauce-covered mosquitoes.

Man, like a hot summer day, I could feel that sauce sticking' to my skin like glue. And then, as if things couldn't get any worse, his old lady comes along, waving' her napkin around like she's trying to wave away a swarm of bees. And you know what happens when you try to clean up a little sauce spot? It just gets bigger, like a never-ending puddle of red goo.

The plane didn't leave the gate on time, it didn't arrive on time, and I had to find new clothes in that big crazy place they call The City.

Where I live, I shop at these huge mart stores, man. I can buy a white shirt for less than twenty bucks. My fancy suit cost me about $250. Clothes are just clothes to me, man. I don't need to wear fancy designer threads to show people who I am or what I stand for.

This taxi driver can tell I'm in a pickle, and even though he doesn't speak a lick of English, he takes me to a store.

While this sales guy notices I'm in a bit of a fix, he also sees an opportunity to sell me some expensive clothes that'll fit me just right. Meanwhile, I'm on the phone with the client, telling them there might be a minor delay.

The only way they can accommodate this delay would be by having dinner together that night. Crap! So much for not spending the night there.

Five hundred bucks later and a bag for my current clothes, I try to find a hotel and a place to buy some essentials.

After I clean up, I find myself once again at the mercy of a taxi driver, who takes me to some fancy-schmancy place in SOHO. I gotta meet this big shot at his company and his crew of important people.

Walking in, I'm hit with the smell of garlic, like I'm in a scene from "The Godfather." I'm led to a big ol' room in the back of this place.

I take a look around the room, and two guys at the door show me to my seat. From an entrance in the back of the room, two old folks walk in. Yep, it's that guy who dumped his lunch on me during the flight and his wife. What a shock!

They both look at me, smirked, and sat.

“Mr. Swift, we meet again,” He finally said.

My mouth opened, and no words came out.

“First impressions can be so damning; maybe we should try this again,” he said.

Nobody in that room knew about how we met other than the three of us. They were on a connecting flight from a vacation, and that is what I remembered from our conversations.

The corporation planned the meal. Yeah, they served spaghetti, among other things. You know, what was supposed to be a quick little hour-long meeting turned into a late-night party. Yeah, that's right, a meeting that morphed into a booze fest and then, surprise, surprise, another meeting the next day. But hey, we got the contract. I mean, who wouldn't want to do business with a guy wearing a marinara-stained suit? And just like that, I became pals with The Walking Dead. You know, those prune-faced geezers who turned my lap into a spaghetti crime scene.

So now it looks like I'll be making a million more trips to the Big Apple. Yeah, because nothing screams "success" quite like constantly flying to a city that never sleeps just so you can get felt up by TSA agents who act like they're auditioning for a role in an adult film.

Fast forward a few months, and guess what? I get an invite to Bora Bora with these folks. Yeah, Bora Bora. The place sounds like a bouncy castle, but it's paradise with a price tag. Amazing how a little kindness in the face of adversity can turn into an all-expenses-paid vacation. Who knew that not losing your cool when you're covered in Italian dinner could lead to sipping cocktails on a beach?

Moral of the story, folks: Be nice, because you never know when the universe is going to serve you a heaping plate of irony with a side of karma. And remember, always carry a spare shirt and a toothbrush. Because shit happens, and it's usually when you're least prepared.