A few months ago, we went to Mexico City. We loved it. The weather was mild, the people were warm, and the tacos were fire. We soaked in the city’s culture, learned about its history, and practiced our Spanish. Our only mistake was coming back to Los Angeles. Which brings me to today’s story.

When we arrived at Mexico City’s Benito Juárez airport, we learned that Aeroméxico, an airline we’d never flown before, had upgraded us to first class for our return flight.

“They must know that I’m a baller and a shot caller,” I told Christina.

“Sorry to burst your bubble, babe, but I think it’s because we paid with our American Express card, and we have a lot of points. Also, this flight is half-empty.”

“Bubble intact, babe. Ballers and shot callers the world over use AMEX.”

After we finished checking in, we did what all ballers and shot callers do and headed for the first-class lounge. I expected champagne and cocaine, but what I found was agua fresca and mediocre WiFi.

“This is bullshit,” I said. “If this is how they treat the elite, I don’t want to know how they treat the peasants.”

“This upgrade is going to your head, babe.”

Christina had a point. Less than an hour ago, I was one of those peasants. All it took was a complimentary agua fresca and mediocre WiFi to turn me into an entitled asshole.

After an hour in the lounge, we went to the gate. Over the PA system, the gate agent announced that they’d be boarding the plane by group, starting with first class. That made me feel like a billion bucks, which is how a million bucks felt before inflation. But the next thing I knew, a mob of economy passengers — eww — rushed the gate.

“We should’ve flown private,” I said.

“We can’t afford private,” Christina said.

“Look at this riff-raff, babe. We can’t afford not to fly private.”

Eventually, we boarded the plane. I took the window seat, Christina took the aisle. She accepted a pre-flight glass of water, because hydration is key. I asked for a glass of champagne, even though I don’t drink, because that’s how ballers and shot callers roll.

As soon as we were in the air, I checked out the menu. It was printed on thick white paper with gold lettering. That was a nice touch the Hoi polloi in steerage would never know about. I ordered the chicken instead of the fish, because I’d seen Airplane! enough times to know that the fish will fuck you up.

Next, I perused my entertainment options. Usually, I watch Argo on international flights, since that’s a movie where the flight home is the finale. But on this flight, I selected Trading Places, because our unexpected upgrade felt like a Billy Ray Valentine situation.

I was watching the scene where Clarence Beeks frames Winthorpe at The Heritage Club and thinking about how I needed to join an exclusive club that wouldn’t have me as a member, when disaster struck. The man in the seat in front of me reclined so far back that he was practically in my lap. I asked him to adjust his seat, but he was already asleep.

“Do you believe this fucking guy?” I asked Christina. “He paid for one first-class seat, now he’s taking two!”

When the flight attendant arrived with my food, I had trouble opening my tray table. The reclined seat in front of me didn’t leave enough room for my table.

“I think his seat must be broken,” I told the flight attendant. “It shouldn’t be able to go back this far.”

She smiled. I thought maybe there was a language barrier, so I tried again in my broken Spanish. This time, I pointed to the seat in front of me. Again, she smiled, then handed me my meal. I ate my chicken ravioli and stewed. Instead of watching Trading Places at a very awkward angle, I fixated on the man’s head and dreamed of his demise.

After two hours of sitting in the world’s most cramped first-class seat, I needed to go to the bathroom. I nudged the seat to see if the man would let me out, but I couldn’t wake him. Somehow, I slithered out of my first-class trap and climbed over the armrest. After I used the bathroom, I performed the same maneuver in reverse.

An hour later, the pilot announced that it was time to prepare for landing. Everyone returned their seat to the full upright position — everyone except for the man in front of me. Eventually, two flight attendants approached the sleeping man. I didn’t know why they needed two people to wake up one man, and I wasn’t sure why they were both smiling from ear to ear, but I didn’t care. That bastard had ruined my upgrade. Gently, they woke him up, and he returned his seat to the full upright position.

After we landed and taxied to our gate, it was time to deplane. I was sitting on three hours of entitled rage, and I was keen to give the fucker in seat 3A a piece of my mind. But as we got off the plane, I noticed something weird. Everyone was smiling at him. Not just smiling. They were oohing and awing over the man. He was taking in stride, as if being envied by strangers was his birthright. He was even handing out glossy eight by ten photos of himself to the flight attendants, pilots, and passengers.

“What a first-class asshole,” I said to Christina. “I need to say something. This dude’s ego is writing checks my body had to cash.”

Christina rolled her eyes, then reminded me that the world’s most cramped first-class seat is a mansion, compared to an economy seat. Once again, she made a good point. But I was still annoyed. As I followed the fucker in seat 3A from the gate to customs, I fantasied about confronting him. I was in the right. Only a first-class asshole could be so clueless and inconsiderate.

As it turned out, I never got my George Costanza moment. But I did figure out why everyone was treating the fucker in seat 3A like royalty. In the thicket of LAX customs, a man and his son who had been sitting across the aisles from us chased him down. It was a brief encounter, but I noticed that father and son were practically giddy. So I channeled my inner Jerry Seinfeld and asked, “What’s the deal with that guy?”

“Do you follow football?” the father asked me.

I knew he meant soccer, and I knew that to call the beautiful game anything other than football, or fútbol, was sacrilege.

“Not really.”

“He’s the most famous Mexican football player ever. He played for Real Madrid. He was my hero when I was his age.”

The man pointed to his son, who looked to be about nine or ten.

“Hugo Sánchez was practically laying in your lap! I wish I’d been in your seat. Everyone on the plane was jealous. You had the best seat on the plane.”

“That’s because he’s a baller and a shot caller,” Christina said.

I wrote a novel called Not Safe for Work. Like everything you read here, it’s based on my personal experience and funny as hell. If you love Situation Normal, there’s an 11 in 10 chance you’ll laugh your butt off reading Not Safe for Work — a slacker noir murder mystery set against the backdrop of the porn industry at the dawn of Web 2.0.

Not Safe for Work is available at Amazon and all the other book places.

*The ebook is .99, so you can’t go too far wrong. Just sayin’.

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Am I the asshole? Be honest.

Would you have recognized Hugo Sánchez? Lie to me, but make it good!

Have you ever been upgraded? Tell your story.

Will you have the chicken, or the fish? Choose wisely.

What’s your go-to in-flight entertainment?

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