Karma at 30,000 Feet: A Rotten Surprise in Business Class
I was only two hours into a ten-hour flight from Oslo to New York, and already my neck felt like a frozen popsicle stick.
Economy class on a long-haul flight is its own kind of suffering. My knees were jammed into the seat in front of me, the food was barely food, and the baby two rows back had started crying like a tiny opera singer.
The thin curtain separating business class from us poor souls in the back had been left partly open. I could see through the small gap — wide leather seats, actual legroom, and passengers sipping champagne like it was water.
I wasn’t trying to peek. But when someone suddenly started yelling in business class, I had no choice but to notice.
His voice cut through the peaceful hum of the airplane like a sword slicing through paper.
“Can someone shut that thing up?!” he shouted, pointing toward a tired-looking young woman trying to calm her crying baby.
“Some of us paid extra for peace and quiet!”
Wait. That thing? Did he just call a baby that thing? I twisted in my seat, trying to get a better look.
He was in his mid-50s, wearing a navy cashmere blazer and expensive leather shoes. Every time he moved his hand, a flashy silver watch caught the light. His whole vibe screamed rich and angry.
The baby’s cries were nothing compared to the poison in the man’s voice. The young mother looked terrified. Her hands were shaking as she bounced her baby, her face pale with embarrassment.
The whole cabin suddenly felt tense and silent. It was like we were all holding our breath.
Then a flight attendant appeared. She was small, maybe in her early thirties, with a calm but tired smile.
“Sir, please lower your voice,” she said kindly. “The mother’s doing her best—”
But the man cut her off with a sneer. “You people call this service?” he growled.
And then, like something out of a nightmare, he picked up his tray of food — a plastic container of beef stroganoff — and flung it right at her.
The thick brown sauce hit her square in the chest, splashing across her crisp blue blouse. It stained her collar and sleeve like mud on fresh snow.
Gasps spread through the cabin. The flight attendant stood frozen, sauce dripping from her shirt. Her cheeks turned bright red, and her voice trembled.
“Sir, that’s unacceptable.”
But the man leaned back smugly and said, “Couldn’t help it. Flight attendants like you scare passengers. Get lost — send your pretty coworker instead.”
My fists clenched. My heart was pounding. I felt sick.
The poor flight attendant turned away, shoulders shaking, and walked quickly down the aisle. As she passed me, I saw tears streaming down her face.
No one did anything. No one stood up. Not even me. We all just sat there in awkward, guilty silence, like scared kids in a classroom.
And the man? He kept causing trouble. The flight attendants eventually moved all the other business class passengers away from him, leaving him alone in his row — an island of rudeness surrounded by empty luxury.
I leaned toward the window and muttered, “Can you believe that guy?”
A quiet voice beside me replied, “Yeah. He’s a total jerk.”
I turned in surprise. The boy sitting next to me had been so quiet, I’d almost forgotten he was there. He looked about 14, with messy blond curls, pale skin, and a hoodie two sizes too big.
He took out his earbuds and looked me in the eye.
“Someone should do something,” I said. But it felt weak coming from me. What had I done, really?
The boy nodded slowly. Then, calmly, he stood up.
He didn’t say anything cool like “I got this” or “Watch this.” He just reached up, opened the overhead bin, and pulled down a green hiking backpack.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, stepping past me into the aisle.
I blinked. What is this kid doing?
He walked right through the curtain into business class.
No one stopped him. Everyone just watched, wide-eyed.
He walked up to the rude man and pulled a small glass jar from his backpack. The man looked up, clearly annoyed.
“What are you doing in business class? Go back to your seat!” he snapped.
Then I heard a soft popping sound.
The boy tilted the jar just slightly.
“Oops,” he said casually. “Sorry, sir. You distracted me while I was checking the seal on my grandma’s homemade surströmming. I think I spilled a little of the brine.”
Wait.
Surströmming?!
If you’ve never heard of it, it’s a type of fermented herring from Sweden. It smells so awful, some places have actually banned opening it indoors. It’s like stink in a bottle — weaponized fish.
The man’s expression shifted in an instant — from irritated to horrified.
“GET ME OUT OF HERE!” he shouted, standing up and gagging dramatically.
A different flight attendant — this one in a supervisor uniform — appeared like magic. She looked calm and collected.
“Sir,” she said firmly, “the only available seat is in economy class.”
The man’s jaw dropped. His eyes bulged.
“Where?” he demanded.
“Row 28. Middle seat.”
I turned to look. Row 28 — that was the one surrounded by four moms and six crying babies.
He stomped past me, muttering swear words under his breath. The smell of his fancy cologne mixed with the sour fish stink now soaked into his blazer. It was… a special kind of awful.
He dropped into his new seat like a defeated king thrown off his throne.
And then, from the back of the plane, someone started clapping.
First slow. Then faster.
And soon, the entire economy class joined in. Applause filled the cabin like a wave of fresh air.
The flight attendant with the stained blouse walked by again, now wearing a clean shirt. She gave Elias — the boy — a grateful little smile.
He returned to his seat beside me, cool as ever, and put his backpack away.
“Did you plan that?” I asked, impressed.
He shrugged. “My grandpa always said, don’t let rich jerks ruin your trip. TSA almost took the jar, but it’s under 100 milliliters, so… I got lucky.”
“We all got lucky,” I said with a smile. “What’s your name?”
“Elias.”
“I’m Emily. That was amazing, Elias.”
He smiled — a real one this time.
“The smell lasts for days, you know,” he said. “Even on clothes. Last time I opened a jar at home, my dad made me sleep in the yard.”
“Worth it?” I asked.
He looked toward Row 28, where the rude man was now trapped between wailing babies.
“Definitely worth it.”
A few minutes later, the same flight attendant came by with the drink cart.
“Anything to drink?” she asked, but she was clearly smiling at Elias.
“Apple juice, please.”
She handed him a cup — and slipped him three extra packs of cookies.
She winked at both of us and whispered, “On the house. Best flight I’ve had in years.”
After that, the whole mood of the cabin changed. People started chatting, passing around snacks, even playing card games. Someone pulled out a travel chess board. It felt like we were all friends — united by a beautiful moment of airborne justice served with a splash of rotten fish.
As we started to land, I glanced back at Row 28.
The man looked absolutely miserable. His expensive jacket was rolled into a sad pillow. His mouth hung open as he tried to sleep, surrounded by crying.
“You know what I think?” Elias said.
“What?”
“Some people forget they’re breathing the same air as everyone else. My grandma says sometimes they need a reminder.”
I laughed. “Your grandma makes some strong reminders.”
“You should try her pickled herring.” He grinned.
Note to self: never, ever offend this kid… or his grandma.
And as the wheels touched down in New York, I made another promise to myself: Next time someone needs help, I won’t just sit in silence. I may not have stinky fish in my bag, but I’ll find my own way to stand up.
At the gate, as we got up to leave, I smiled at Elias.
“Have a good trip in New York.”
“You too,” he replied. Then added with a wink, “And remember—”
“Always check the seal on the surströmming?”
“Exactly.”
