So this pretty much stems from boredom and pointlessness. I found "I am Alex Wukman" on a lighter and wondered why a lighter might say that. Who knows.

I grimaced when I saw the wreck of a man approaching through the narrow plane aisle ahead. He staggered and stumbled over his leather sandals. His eyes were glazed over and his tanned face cracked with a grin you couldn’t slap away. The enormous maroon rolling bag skidded across bare ankles, knocked at elbows and knees, as he dragged it behind him carelessly. “Sorry ‘bout that, sorry ‘bout that,” he kept muttering. He came to a sudden stop rows ahead of my seat at B16, and brought his ticket up to his nose. A blond woman chewing gum and blabbing away on her cell phone bumped into him and glared at the back of his neck. He stuffed the ticket into his forest green button-up shirt, and tottered a few steps forward before saying, “Wait,” and bringing the ticket to his nose once again. The growing line of irritated passengers had no choice but to wait. He glanced up from his ticket and winked at me.

Gag. I felt nauseous. He wasn’t bad-looking. Couldn’t have been older than twenty-five. He had messy brown hair, a nice natural tan, large green eyes. But I couldn’t stand the thought of having to small talk with a too-eager seat partner and no doubt sit through spiels about trips to Reno, or ex-wifes’ defects and qualms, or about mile-high affairs with flight attendants the world over. One time, on the way to visit my then-boyfriend in Simi Valley, I found myself sitting next to a tall, dark, chatty guy. Who spoke in whole paragraphs of his Native American heritage, his grandfather’s casinos, and his reservation without, I swear, taking so much as a breath or two the entire time. He gave me several glossy brochures of Native American reservations, clubs, organizations, as if he had been trying to convert my ethnicity, or something.

Call me cold, but I’d rather stare out the window at the wispy clouds so close yet unreachable and daydream, or read to take me anywhere else. I had a feeling I wouldn’t be getting much of either done on this flight.

The man lugged his bag into the overhead compartment, struggling, and plopped down in the aisle seat next to me. The unmistakable scent of alcohol wafted from his open mouth, from which he breathed heavily. He turned to me with the same shit-eating grin on his face and stared without reservation. I tried to ignore him and leafed through the SkyMall catalogue with feigned interest.

“Alex Wukman!” he said after a moment, still staring at me. I slowly lowered the catalogue from my face and furrowed my eyebrows at him. Here we go, I thought and sighed silently in my mind.

“Excuse me?” I asked, to make absolute sure he was talking to me, and to make sure I’d heard correctly. He spoke quickly and with a slight slur.

“My name. It’s Alex. Alex Wukman,” he said, and shot his rough hand out at me. “Hi.”

I stared at it hesitantly for a second as if it were a small strange animal, and decided I should probably shake it. He shook my hand for longer than necessary. I pulled away and said, “I’m Eloise.” I regretted telling him right away.

“Eloise, huh? Strange name. You know, I think you may be more of a ‘Nicole.’” He continued to stare at me, without blinking very much, as he fumbled for his seatbelt underneath him.

“I’m pretty sure I’m more of an ‘Eloise,’ thanks.” I turned my attention back to the catalogue. What gave people the nerve to think that personal comfort spheres didn’t exist on airplanes? What gave them the nerve to act familiar, give advice, exchange opinions, preferences, life stories? I thought briefly of digging through my messy bag for my iPod before it all began. Instead, I added after a pause, “Anyway. What kind of name is ‘Wukman’?”