Trivial? Hardly!

As I slid into my seat, the guy next to me immediately starting joking about how huge he was and telling me that if he bumped me in any way to just slug him.
This is always the way coming back to Salt Lake from New York. Friendly.
Going out is a different story. Everyone has on their game face, their “I live in New York” face. Their “I’ve got a great haircut and I have no intention of letting you into my space ever” face.
On the way back the passengers are over-friendly. Maybe it’s the relief of getting to be yourself again after four days of people running into you and acting like it’s your fault. All the couples returning to Salt Lake have kids, dirty blonde hair, and knee-length Bermudas. We export these wholesome types as our way of obeying the commandment to be leavening in the world. And then when they get back on the mother ship to go home and we send out a fresh batch. You want to ask them immediately what ward they’re in.
The man next to me on my flight from New York was a huge human being. Not fat huge, football huge. Fully a fourth of his body hung over me, but his back muscles were so big he didn’t run into me. It was like being under a cliff overhang. Hiding from the robbers.
Ha! HE turned out to be the robber.
Casually he asked me if I played trivial pursuit. I don’t know, I guess so. Not the first thing I think of when I get on a plane. I’m usually wondering if it would be okay if I got up and used the restroom before we take off and would it be okay to ask the flight attendant for a whole can of Diet Coke.
He really liked to play trivial pursuit. He was “pretty good” at it, in fact.
Well, I’m pretty good at trivia too, buddy. Just how good are you, you porcine hunk of overgrown lat tissue?
He told me he wasn’t just good at knowing the answers, he was good at figuring out the “algorithm” of the questions. What the h&*ll is that supposed to mean? According to Wikipedia, the word “algorithm” means “a sequence of finite instructions.” Yeah, that’s what I thought he meant.
On screens in front of each individual seat, you can buy movies and HBO for $6 a pop; or TV and games, or track your flight on a map. Tracking is my OCD favorite.
I hate playing the trivial pursuit game. I get upset when I miss things. I really and truly believe I know everything.
Okay, typical question: What airplane device was first developed in 1942: a) automatic pilot; b) radio communication; c) something else; d) ejection seats? The answer is ejection seats.
Who knows that? “Lefty,” hunk-o’s game ID, didn’t.
Who wrote “Portnoy’s Complaint?” I knew the answer was Philip Roth but I accidentally hit John Updike. Really. The stupid game registered the wrong answer.
But all the way through bands from the fifties and sixties, obscure quotes, things that are just on the tip of your tongue, Lefty was right-y. Occasionally I would move up pretty close, but never even.
I was seat 32 E, he was 32 D. “Don” in 23 C sent a message back with the stewardess saying Lefty better not quit because he was out to get him.
I slipped into another seat and took a nap. When I opened my eyes, he was still playing.
I logged on under a different name and, wow! I was moving up. I was at 18,000 points to his 24,000. Within striking range!
Then the pilot was announcing our approach into Salt Lake City. I needed to move back to my seat to collect my purse.
I re-booted fast. Two thousand, five, ten, eleven thousand. Lefty was at 35,000. Eighteen plus eleven was…. eight plus one is nine, carry the one,….28? He was missing stuff I was getting right. I was closing in. If you hit your answer right away you got more points. This was where I was losing. But even with his steroid-enhanced athleticism, I was there. And even though it would never count because of the seat change, I needed to know I’d beaten him. And then….
Then the game was over. And I’d lost again. Lefty had 50,000 points. Curse you, Red Baron! (Incidentally, the Red Baron flew a ‘Fokker, an answer that Lefty missed that you-know-who didn’t.)
I will never see Lefty again. I will never beat him at trivial pursuit. Some things must be accepted.
Trivial? I think not.