As the plane reached cruising altitude, the flight attendant who had intercepted me earlier strolled by my private, three-seat sanctuary. She paused, looking back toward row 4, and let out a delighted snort.
“I see what you did there,” she whispered, handing me a glass of champagne smuggled straight from the first-class galley. “The husband just asked if we could reboot the plane’s electrical system because his screen is blinding him, and the wife is currently asking if we can duct-tape the child behind her to the wing.”
“Did they ask for their old seats back?” I asked, taking a sip.
“They did,” the flight attendant smirked. “But I told them those seats were already taken, and airline policy strictly forbids ‘seat-hopping’ once the cabin doors are closed. They have to stay exactly where they are for the next six hours.”
I spent the rest of the flight stretched out like royalty, drifting into a peaceful sleep. Occasionally, I’d wake up to the distant, muffled sound of a child shrieking, followed by the heavy, defeated sighs of a couple who had played themselves perfectly.
When we finally landed, I gathered my bags and strolled past Row 4. The husband looked exhausted, his eyes bloodshot from the glaring screen, while the wife was furiously rubbing her lower back, a smear of unidentified sticky candy stuck to the shoulder of her designer blouse.
I gave them a polite, beaming smile as I walked off the plane. Sometimes, the best way to deal with entitlement isn’t to fight it—it’s to let them have exactly what they ask for.
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