
Binney Bincent The place was packed with irritated and salty, wet bodies. There was barely enough open space to breathe. I was very lucky to have scored an end seat several hours earlier. I always try for the end seat to minimize public contact. As I was sweating and waiting uncomfortably in a hard, sticky plastic seat, this proudly over fed Cuban guy unrolled something in tinfoil. He was jammed into the seat right next to me and he started eating a greasy pork sandwich; a Media Noche to be exact. He kept wiping pools of oil from his face with his hands. No napkin, just hands. I couldn't stop looking as he then rubbed his buttery paws on his legs. The smell of the Cuban eating a Cuban was confusing me. Was I hungry or sick? He finished the meal and then stared at his empty, shinny hands. He started to attempt to stand up, but his bulgy legs were trapped by the arms of the seat. As if he had Mission Impossible Tom Cruise foresight, the grease on his legs kicked in and a...