I sidestepped my way down the aisle, dragging my suitcase behind me to Row 21. The plane smelled like wet wool and sweat. Outside, hail drummed on the 747. As I shoved my case into an overhead bin, a fullback-sized man pushed past, almost knocking me into the man seated in 21C. "Sorry," I said to the top of his shiny brown hair. He glanced up with an expression that was half smile, half grimace. His teeth, too, were shiny and very white. He immediately returned his attention to his laptop.

     "This is my seat," I said.

     He glanced up again through long, almost feminine lashes, this time giving me the full benefit of his smile. He was handsome and he knew it, with a light golden tan that could not come from working in a San Francisco office. He was wearing a suit of fine black worsted, a teal green shirt and a big gold Rolex. The shirt matched his eyes exactly.

     "Would you mind if I kept this seat?" he asked. "I’ve got long legs and there’s not much space."

     I looked down at his legs and his tasseled Gucci loafers. "This is my seat," I said again. I should explain I use this technique every day with the children in the Rincon Middle School where I'm the principal. Don’t argue, don’t waste words.

     It was bad enough I was going to New York to settle my mother’s estate, which meant disposing of a co-op apartment filled with 40 years worth of old clothes and memories. And it was bad enough we were crowded like chickens in cages awaiting slaughter. I wasn’t about to relinquish the chance to stretch my own legs into the aisle.

     He snapped his laptop shut and shifted to the window seat. I had just reached for my novel when the seat in front dropped back, knocking against my knees. A boy with blond dread locks and a headset that emitted a persistent boom da boom was making himself more comfortable. Then our third seatmate appeared, pink-faced and breathless, clutching shopping bags in both hands.

     "So sorry," she said as her red Christmas bell earrings tinkled. She had a sweet round face and exuded a cloying jasmine scent combined with something else . . . cinnamon? "I have the window seat," she said in a timid voice, as I stepped into the aisle. I could hear her wheezing slightly.

     Head down, Mr. Cool tapped on his laptop. "She has the window seat," I repeated more loudly. He looked up, a frown marring his handsome face, then flashed his gleaming teeth at her. "Why don’t you sit beside me? You can still see out the window."

     At that moment the flight attendant commanded: "Please clear the aisles," as she slammed overhead bins shut.

     "But I like the window," our prospective seatmate said softly, shaking her head in dismay. Her bells tinkled again. He had returned to his important work, ignoring us both. Technically, this wasn’t my business, but his arrogance was insufferable. "Shall I ask the flight attendant to resolve this?" I asked in my sternest voice.

    Again he snapped his laptop shut, flashed a teal green venomous look and slid over and into the aisle. The seat back in front of me was still tilted way back. Ms. Christmas Bells was quite plump, and I could see she would have trouble fitting through the narrowed space. So I waved my hand in front of the dread lock boy’s face till he pulled off his headset and agreed to move his seat forward for a minute.

     As she plopped down into her seat and began arranging her shopping bags, I promised myself not to interfere again. I was weary of being the negotiator at school among bickering teachers, of being the referee in New York, where my two brothers were fighting over various bits of my mother’s tattered belongings. And now here on this jam-packed plane I had taken charge once more.

    I smiled at the little boy in seat 22A who scowled back at me with his lower lip stuck way out. Next to him his mother offered a sip of juice. "No!" he yelled and kicked the seat back. "Brandon, we have to use our inside voices," she said loudly and then smiled with pride at her parenting skills.

     We all buckled ourselves into place. My handsome friend commandeered both armrests. As I reached for my book, the pilot announced a short delay due to the weather. Cell phones snapped open and half the passengers spoke urgently to whoever might be interested in this fascinating development.

     "I always bring some goodies for my trip," said our window seatmate. "I picked these up at the Heavenly Bakery in the mall twenty minutes ago," she said, offering us both warm cinnamon buns. Mr. Cool barely shook his head "no." I heard my stomach rumble and realized it could be a long time until we got whatever passed for breakfast these days. She handed me a sticky bun on a paper napkin, after saying, "excuse me" to our man in the middle. It was delicious.

     As I licked my fingers clean of icing, Mr. Cool began talking to someone named Sandy, presumably his wife. Since his cell phone was an inch from my left ear, I could hear her clearly. She was getting a migraine, she complained. "Remember that I want light starch in my shirts," he said. "And we’re running out of scotch."

     Now I was able to place the unpleasant smell -- alcohol residue -- that his lime/leather cologne didn’t quite mask. While he stared up at the ceiling and muttered in exasperation at Sandy, I tilted my head toward my novel. My eyes sort of drifted to the left. His laptop had shifted in my direction. I just happened to notice what was on his computer screen. He was instant-messaging someone named Amber, saying how much he loved it when she greeted him at the door wearing "that wispy black thing." Yes, I could picture Amber with lustrous tawny skin and flowing honey-colored hair. How nice that he had such a lovely companion awaiting him.

     "Wa-ter," said the flight attendant, coming down the aisle with a tray. Her smile flashed on and off like a neon sign as she handed out plastic glasses with generous four-ounce servings. She was younger and prettier than most flight attendants, with red hair that might have been natural and clear ivory skin. I was thirsty after the cinnamon bun and nodded at her as she approached, but she had already noticed him.

     "Would you like some wa-ter?" she asked sweetly.

     "Of course I care about your migraine," he was snarling into his cell phone. "Hold on a minute, Sandy," he said, switching his phone to his left hand and pressing it against his left thigh.

     The flight attendant had eyes that were too green to be real. Maybe they have a bond, the same brand of contacts, I thought, as she leaned toward him, taking a deep breath so her ample breasts strained against her white polyester blouse. I tried to press back against my headrest to avoid coming into intimate contact with them. As she handed him the glass, their fingers touched. "I couldn’t get a seat in business class," he said.

     "I’m sorry. You must be so uncomfortable," she said with sincere concern.

     "Do you live in Manhattan?" he asked, moving right along.

     "On East 71^st Street," she answered, checking to see if he was wearing a wedding ring, though she was old enough to know that wouldn’t mean anything.

     "I’d like some wa-ter," I interrupted. I figured their conversation would continue in private very soon.

     As I returned to my book, I heard indignant sounds from his cell phone. "Of course I’m concerned, Amber darling," he said, and then froze. His hand clenched around the plastic glass, shattering it. Some of the water squirted in an arc onto the dread lock boy’s head. The rest splashed onto his keyboard. It zapped out.

     Outwardly I didn’t laugh, or even smile . . . but my delayed flight had just become much more enjoyable.