Little Remus

I don't consider myself a magnet for the kind of strangers that one wouldn't consider "normal.' My husband has a personality doppleganger in England, and just because that English oddball draws in his fellow oddballs every now and then, such as the guy who randomly woofed in his ear or the guy who bit a chunk out of his girlfriend's neck, presumably as a silent compliment, doesn't mean oddballs come to our neck of the woods to wait until he arrives to show their true colors.

Out of all the strangers I've come across in my life, however, I would never easily forget this father, aged 30, who got on the plane; seemed pessimistic, but a handsome man, nonetheless, slim and well-built, beautiful face covered by bangs, yet still showed black eyeshadow, messy purple hair that still remained tame, casual clothing with a mix of black and purple, skull rings on his fingers, and he had with him... little Remus. Remus is four years old. I know that because, once the notice was given, Remus kept walking around the plane and, regardless of who somebody was, he would just say to them, "I'm four years old. Yea, yea, I'm four years old. I used to be three, but now I'm four years old". That little Remus. I remember his name not because he proclaimed to me, "I'm four years old," but because Remus's father kept screaming his name all 4300 miles of the trip.

Barely anyone in first class could sleep because the section was bombarded with:

"Remus, will you get down?"

"Remus, stop!"

"Remus don't do that!"

"Remus keep it to yourself!"

"Now, look at what you've done, Remus!"

"Keep your sash on!"

"Slow down, Remus!"

"Remus!"

And Remus would stand in an empty seat and look at an unsuspecting person behind it

"I'm four years old!"

And no one could sleep, we just had to go through with Hurricane Remus causing havoc on the plane, and if his father finally held him, Remus would pull out and run around. His father could barely keep up. Remus would run around, rub deodorant on his hand, and slap it on your trousers.

"I'm 4 years old."

"Remus! Get back here! Don't you see what you've done to the man?"

"Remus!"

"Remus!"

"Remus, keep it down!"

"Remus get back in your seat!"

"Remus!"

"Remus!"

And he'd hold him down, higher and higher, he'd lift him and hold him and let him drop!

BOOM!

"Remus!"

"Remus!"

"Remus!"

"Remus!"

"WHAAAAAAAWHAAADADAWHAA!"

"Remus! Keep it down!"

"WHAAADADAWHAA!"

And then Remus would cough

"Kha kha kha!"

The passengers began to hate Remus! One fella suggested Remus play hide-and-seek within the other bags. Emotionally speaking, people began to fear Remus. No one slept, and there were whispers about people wishing they had video cameras.

Five minutes before the plane reached Florida, Remus fell asleep and grown passengers in first class felt deep satisfaction, once they walked out, from startling Remus awake.

"GOODBYE, REMUS!"

"AHHH!"

And they'd laugh.

"Haha haha haha!"

Sounding like Goofy.

"Hicyuk hicyuk hicyuk!"

And Remus's father, his hair less tame, looking like it was dragged against a wall, foundation and eyeshadow running down from tears and sweat caused by his anger revealing natural bags under his eyes, looked older, he looked exhausted; he picked Remus up, Remus's little, limp, sleeping body that twitched; he carried the boy off. Waiting at the end of the runway for both of them was Remus's pops, well-tanned, white denim pants on, gold-colored tank top, red jacket wrapped around his waist. Remus's father handed Remus to the smiling partner and punched him square in the jaw.

No one knows why. Remus is such a lovely child.