The Veep

The Veep

When I was last flying back home, I had one of those conversations that seem to only take place within the cramped confines of an airline coach seat and the forced intimacy that seems to result.

My seat companion nodded to me cordially as I squeezed past him to my window seat, so we exchanged the ceremonial greetings and self-introductions common to the traveling business public.

It turned out that he worked for a large automotive company. When I asked what he did there, he replied, with not a little justifiable pride, "I'm an executive Vice President in the Jeep Division."

"Oh," I said, "so you're a Jeep Veep!"

"Y-e-e-s-s," he drawled unenthusiastically, as if such informality were foreign to his experience.

"Well, then," I asked, "Why are you flying back here in coach?"

"The company does not feel," he recited solemnly, "That the utilitarian image of 'the Jeep', which we have gone to some lengths to acquire, is properly embellished by flying First Class -- that is, it would have an appearance that belies our corporate culture."

"Oh," I said again, "So you're a cheap Jeep Veep?"

Though it appeared he might not take my repartee for the harmless jibe I'd intended, he eventually replied, evenly enough, "Well, I must say, that a little economy never hurt anyone, and that, moreover, a little harmless deprivation is good for the soul."

"Oh," I said, as if a light-bulb had gone on, "So you're a deep cheap Jeep Veep!"

There was definitely a chill in the air, now, and he turned away, as far as one can turn away in a coach seat, and said, "I hope you'll excuse me, I must rest, now."

"Of course," I said, "Peace and Quiet for the sleepy deep cheap Jeep Veep!"

"Do you mind?" he retorted sharply, "I wouldn't want to have to call for the attendant."

"I don't mind," I said, "And I would certainly want to accommodate the sleepy and creepy deep cheap Jeep Veep." I have to admit that I was bothering him on purpose, now, close to an outright guffaw.

"I need my rest!" he announced, sounding closer to desperation than before, "I can't have any mistakes at work because I'm tired. . ."

"Of course, of course," I soothed him, "Peace and quiet for the sleepy and creepy, slap-happy, deep cheap Jeep Veep."

"Look you," he growled, "I'm good at my job, and I don't need . . ."

"Certainly, not," I agreed, "Not a sleepy and creepy, slap-happy and crappy, deep, cheap Jeep Veep, such as yourself!"

"You bastard," he moaned, as he collapsed onto his fold-out tray.

I rang for the attendant, myself. "I think," I told her, "that the weepy, sleepy and creepy, slap-happy and crappy, deep cheap Jeep Veep, needs assistance." And she led him away, wracking sobs and all, to where I do not not know. But I had enough room to stretch out for the rest of the flight.