I forgot where I was heading, but I remember this one red-eye I was taking. Wait- yes- it was the last leg of my eighth grade school trip to Washington D.C. Yes, that’s what it was. A red-eye with a bunch of kids I think I wanted to be friends with, however, would only end up approving their Facebook requests. Anyways, I had just loaded my Sony Discman up with the latest in rock-rap, Linkin Park’s “Hybrid Theory”. With a free can of soda, courtesy of Southwest airlines, and a king-sized Snickers I had nicked from my sister, I was set.
And then the sugar kicked in.
I was a mess; I couldn’t stop moving my legs, my hands were all fidgety. I was energy-incarnate. Upside: I had the row to myself. Downside: I had nothing to do, no one to talk to. The rest of my family was scattered about the cabin for the flight, and when the emergency seat freed up, I snagged the hell out of it. I was the king of my domain, all three seats belonged to me and it was worthless. Before I knew it, I was digging through the bag, stored properly under the seat in front of me. There had to be something within the zipped-up confines of my back pack, something to keep me occupied.
Fuck magazines, I found a roll of duct tape. So I decided to make a wallet. Yes, in this crowded and (mostly) sleeping airplane, flying thousands of miles above the earth’s surface, I began ripping and tearing my heart out. Chester Bennington drowned out any moans I may have heard from disgruntled passengers, and my perfectionist attitude provided me ample tunnel vision from the hateful glares of my classmates.
Fuck scissors. I ripped strip, after strip, after strip to make the right width for at least four cards on each side. Lay one piece of tape sticky-side up, lay another on top in the same way, sticky-side up, only halfway on, halfway off. This allowed me to build height for the bills. When width and height taken care of, I could apply sticky-side to sticky-side, build one side of the wallet. I didn’t dare mess this up, ‘cause then I would have to pray that I could separate the sides without having to start over. I didn’t. After that, I repeated the process. Same measurements, same everything, in order to make the other side of the wallet. Once this was done, I could close the sides and bottom with strips of gloried tape and move onto making credit card slots. And boy, could I make credit card slots.
As far as I could tell, I was doing a good enough job of utilizing the “slow-pull” of tape off the roll that no one felt compelled to smack me upside the head. Unfortunately, I didn’t receive any more assistance from the stewardess. It was years later that I realized they were completely justified in not giving me any more soda.
By the time we landed, I had played my cd at least three times, ran out of tape, and needed to pee. I also had a new wallet, which no one else did. They all disembarked from the flight with everything they buckled in with. Me? I had a new wallet.