I don’t have an explanation, but it is too consistent to be coincidental. I fly a great deal. With Bruce I use the private jet, but the rest of the time I am on the airlines, and what is inescapable is that the passengers in first class are cross, curt, frazzled, short with the flight attendants, and frequently downright rude, as though the pressure of maintaining their status has become too much to bear. Alternatively, the masses who are granted permission to board only after we have settled disagreeably into our seats are almost always greatly spirited, engaged in pleasant conversation, and occasionally even laughing. “What row are we in, Daddy?” a little girl will ask, wheeling a knapsack, a stuffed animal in the crook of her elbow. “Thirty-four,” her father replies. “All the way in the back.” Nine out of ten times, that father’s disposition is markedly more pleasant than that of the businessman seated beside me, nose buried in his e-mail, entire presence emitting the unmistakable vibe that if you want to have a friendly conversation you have come to the wrong place.
