I must preface this blog by stating that Grayson Kessenich is not a racist.
Grayson thought that a turban-wearing man on our flight from Sacramento to Chicago was conspiring with another passenger on the plane to perform some kind of terrorist attack. After the turban-wearing man got up to use the toilet, Grayson informed me that an olive-skinned gentleman on the other side of the aisle had given Mr. Turban a "thumbs-up" and then began to act fidgety and suspicious, much like a terrorist might act before implementing a sinister plan to end life and freedom as Americans know it, I presume.
Since Grayson had never seen a terrorist up close and personal--much less one about to act out an evil plot--I'm assuming that his growing suspicion was based on a very special ability he has in sensing badness when it's near, and his uneasy demeanor quickly revealed just how bad things were getting on our plane.
Before Mr. Turban's toilet visit, all was peaceful in Grayson's mind, but after that mysterious "thumbs-up" was given, and operation "drop-a-bomb-in-the-john" was underway, he was on pins and needles, watching these potential villains like a freshly recruited Air Marshall bent on earning his stripes.
Grayson justified his suspicion by mentioning a few facts:
1. These men sat on opposite sides of the plane although there were open seats available next to both of them.
2. They sat at the back of the plane closest to the bathroom.
3. They never spoke to each other.
4. They only communicated via text messaging (which is pure speculation).
5. After exiting the toilet, Mr. Turban struck up conversation with a flight attendant, which Grayson claims served to distract her from the bomb that had been planted in the toilet only moments before.
6. When asked where he was from the potential terrorist said, "well that's a funny question," took a sinister sip from his cola and continued by saying that he had a home in India.
Obviously, with the facts above as his evidence, Grayson could see right through these guys. They were terrorists, and the clock was ticking.
I can't recall the number of omniscient glances Grayson cast upon the olive-skinned accomplice, but they were many and they were blazing with anxiety. He was visibly stressed and I quickly felt as if I were sitting next to a toddler with an irritable mess in his pants.
We both began to pray, individually, and in our own ways. I told God that I was ready to die, but that I'd really like to have some more time on earth if it wasn't too much trouble. Grayson briefly muttered a similar supplication, but stayed wide-eyed and focused on the threat in the other row while Mr. Turban himself sat to his right.
I blasted the volume on my iPod and decided that I'd get some peace of mind by listening to "Alexander's" self-titled album. If we were going to die, I wanted to die with happy music in my head. I felt peace.
We eventually landed in Chicago with the plane in tact and the potential terrorists grounded.
Grayson was left scratching his head as his adrenaline rush slowly wore off. He turned to me and, in all seriousness, said "maybe that was a dry run, a test, you know, to see what they could get away with."
He warned me that the world is not a friendly place and thought my naivete was sweet.
Whatever the state of the world, we lived to fly another day.