Seat 6F is on the window, up front in coach, a step behind the curtain that separates first class from the cheap seats. Surprisingly and happily, at almost 10 AM on a swarming Saturday, the AA Airbus wasn’t at capacity. Then, in the rarest of circumstances, seats 6D & 6E were still vacant when the doors were shut and locked down. Heavenly day. You could put up the seat arms and stretch out for the 4+ hour cruise to Los Cabos International, the 6th busiest airport in Mexico. Lucky you. But as Flight 836 taxied, an uneasy feeling — a premonition — rolled in. Somehow, you knew you would pay for the exclusive use of D,E & F. The thought wasn’t unduly pessimistic — simply an acknowledgment of something called the Universal Law of Equal Compensation. Payback was swift. It came first from 7F. He couldn’t have been more than eight, but his cough belonged in a seventy-year-old chest — deep and raspy, promising nothing less than contagion. You began counting the seconds between his eruptions to predict when you should cover your face with the airsick bag. Briefly, you considered retrieving the life vest as a more impressive barrier but the female flight attendant already had you in her crosshairs, pegged as a nutcase. Thankfully, at least little Johnny was consistent. Every two minutes, give or take the count of ten, he distributed a cloud of pathogens for your consumption. You did the quick math. Thirty coughs per hour times 4.5 hours equals 135. At least you had the good sense to pack a Z-pack. When the 250+ pound husband in 5F put his seat back and began twisting and rocking his blubber back and forth, you were sorry you couldn’t have packed your Ruger 380. The hulk had spacious bulkhead room but that wasn’t good enough. No, he couldn’t stop tossing about. Neither could your laptop. It danced precariously on the seat-back tray table as you held it under one thumb. You would have used two thumbs; but your left hand was compelled to keep the ubiquitous airsick bag poised for action — every flippin’ two minutes. Unfortunately, Tubby’s movements were not as predictable. When he lurched out of his seat for a trip to the head, his sleeping wife in 5D would never see you drop a double dose of Ambien powder into his drink. You wish. Fantasies helped cope with the stress. You imagined Mrs. Tubby wouldn’t have cared anyway. You imagined that hubby’s restlessness drove her from the marital bed a long time ago. Meanwhile, Johnny Boy and Mr. Tubby had a competitor on your nuisance scale. She sat in 7A. You heard her piercing, irritating voice for 20 minutes before turning to see the person who owned it. She was a millennial, apparently connected to Skype — fixated on her device — oblivious to anything that approaches manners — delivering a tiresome monologue. The experienced guy next to her in 7C, likely her significant other, came prepared. He crashed early. Maybe her unending prattle bothered no one but you; however, four hours of chatter added to four hours of hacking added to four hours of human turbulence, added up to a type of human bondage. Please God, you could not wait to touch down and get out — you thought. You should have guessed this flight was only  prologue to a new, more horrifying experience — a look at utter chaos. When the airline staff announced they had no immigration or custom forms, your antenna should have vibrated. When a city bus showed up at the south forty tarmac, the term “gridlock” should have been at least a whisper. When you finally entered the main entry of the main building, the crush of people could mean only one thing — you were now a refugee and you were being processed for internment to a prisoner of war camp. Inch by interminable inch, you and thousands of other passengers — schlepping baggage — were funneled down two stairwells into a massive assembly hall already filled with a sea of humanity. Half the hall was divided by crowd control line barriers — perhaps 25-30 of them, parallel lines 75 yards long. You would creep every step of the way. Back and forth, like sheep to slaughter. Immediately, therefore, you weighed priorities. Absent facilities, would your bladder persevere? Would you be trapped with hundreds of people whose bladders collapse? You had a random thought that someone selling Adult Depends could make a fortune. Stumbling along, the mob resembled a scene from The Walking Dead. Only 10 immigration officers were positioned to process thousands. They were in no hurry, chatting among themselves. Then it hit you — this was Mexico’s revenge for Trump’s promised wall. Two hours after debarking, you retrieved a checked bag and made a beeline for the sun and ground transportation. It was then, in a guilty flashback, you thought about little Johnny. That cough wasn’t trivial. He needed to have it looked after. You worried that Mr, and Mrs. Tubby would suffer in the mile long queue. Maybe he suffered debilitating back pain. Ms. Millennial was probably traveling alone, nervous, without family. They each had their story to tell. Could it be you were in them? Most likely not.