Boomer, Bitch

“You a Sooner?” a woman said.

God, why’d I decide to wear this shirt? I thought. Sure, everything else was dirty and smelled like whiskey cologne, but at least I could’ve avoided a conversation with this… this… I struggled to pull the paper thin, red airplane blanket off of my head. Oh, fuck… This sweet little old grandma. Even I couldn’t be a dick and avoid her.

I looked at her and half smiled. She pointed to my shirt. Apparently the blanket over my head and the headphones on my ears and the fact that my eyes were so bloodshot from last night’s escapades that it looked like I had chronic pink eye did nothing to deter her.

I took the headphones off and squinted until a clearer picture of her face came into view. She looked like someone you see Willard Scott wish Happy Birthday to on the Today Show. Time and gravity had taken their toll on everything but her youthful green eyes.

“I said, ‘Are you a Sooner?’” she said as she reached over and delicately plucked a piece of leftover lint from the blanket off of my forehead. She reminded me of my own grandma and I felt instantly at ease.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said before clearing my throat.

She reached her hand over again. This time she made a fist by grasping a handful of my shirt, then pointed to her own. I glanced down. I didn’t even have to squint to make out the putrid color of burnt orange.

“Hook ‘em Horns,” she said with a hatred in her eyes that I imagined was barely seen outside of a battlefield.

I formed a set of horns with my hand, then promptly turned them upside down.

“Boomer, bitch.”

I pulled the blanket back over my head pretending to go back to sleep. We didn’t talk the rest of the flight.

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