The disheveled old man grimaced while pointing towards the window seat, “I said, ’That’s my seat.’”
As I rubbed the tiredness from my eyes, I rose up and stumbled out onto the aisle. The old man stepped into the row and slumped down onto his seat. He looked like he hadn’t shaved in a week and smelled vaguely of scotch. I might have assumed him to be a vagrant if I hadn’t recognized the smell of a very fine Laphroaig.