I fly frequently enough on United Airlines that I qualify as a “Premier” passenger. As a reward for my brand loyalty—to the extent anyone can be loyal to any airline these days–I get to be among the first to board the plane, which we all know usually means having enough room in the overhead bin to stow your carry-on bag. It also usually means I get to sit toward the front of the plane in what United calls “Economy Plus”. It’s where there’s a bit more legroom and where you don’t feel quite like those other poor wretches way back in the back packed in like sardines in a can—except sardines at least have the dignity of being packed in oil, not in some stranger’s armpit, which is often the case these days flying commercially.  

I’m old enough to remember when airline travel was luxurious, even for those of us who could never begin to afford flying first class. Delicious meals were served piping hot on real china plates with real silverware by flight attendants who all looked like Miss America contestants or like they’d just stepped off the cover of Vogue magazine.  Those days, of course, are but a distant memory. Today we’re crammed into passenger cabins that always seem too hot or too cold, assigned thinly padded seats inspired by the Marquis de Sade, even in Economy Plus, and made to endure a veritable aluminum torture chamber of body odors, screaming infants, and flight attendants who exude all the charm of DMV employees working their last shifts before retirement. But, hey, at least those little bags of pretzels are free!

Not long ago, I had to fly on short notice from California to Washington, D.C. Every flight unfortunately was full by the time I booked my reservation. The only seat I could snag was a middle seat near the tail, where you’re allowed just enough room to remind you that you have two knees, but not enough room to use them. To make matters worse, by the time I boarded, the overhead bins were already filled, requiring me to stuff my backpack under the seat in front of me, reducing my leg room even further. The guys to my left and right were both big enough that in a fair and just world, each of them would have been required to pay for a second seat instead of absorbing part of mine. I quickly realized that for the next four hours and change, the notion of personal space would be but a mere concept. We were no sooner airborne when the middle-aged woman sitting in front of me reclined her seat all the way back. Suddenly, what little breathing room I had was gone. Her seatback was now inches from my face, so close that I could count the stray gray hairs clinging to her headrest. My tray table was practically embedded in my stomach, and any hope of finding a position that would ensure continuous blood flow to my legs was officially dashed. I was stuck.

This, of course, raises one of the most contentious debates in modern air travel: Is it ever acceptable to recline your seat on a crowded airplane?

Ask ten travelers, and you’ll get ten different answers, ranging from, “It’s my right!” to, “Only inconsiderate jerks do that!” The airlines conveniently provide the recline function but offer no guidelines on when, or if, it should be used. It’s like giving Elon Musk a chainsaw without directions.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand the impulse to claim a little more territory in the pursuit of personal comfort on these increasingly uncomfortable, glorified Greyhound buses. The problem is that in today’s economy class, reclining isn’t so much about enhancing your comfort as it is about obliterating someone else’s.

Take my situation on this particular flight: My knees were already pressed against the seat in front of me before the woman sitting in said seat reclined. Once she leaned back, I had two choices—sit there, locked in some bizarro yoga position hardly of my choosing, or become one of those individuals who passive-aggressively knee the seat in front of them in protest. I chose the former, mainly because I still clung to a shred of human decency, and also because I was concerned about the possibility of any mid-air altercations making Instagram or TikTok.

As I sat there, contemplating my life choices, I wondered was she even aware of the havoc she had unleashed? Did she assume that because her seat had a recline button, it was her obligation to use it to its full potential? Or was she simply one of those people who exist in their own oblivious, situationally unaware bubble?

I fantasized about gently tapping her shoulder and explaining that, in recognition of the Geneva Convention and fundamental human decency, perhaps we could negotiate a compromise—say, a slight recline, rather than going full La-Z-Boy. I also wondered what wiseguy flight instructor and former government assassin Cordell Logan would do under similar circumstances. Logan, for those of you who’ve read Deep Fury, Flat Spin, Voodoo Ridge, or any of the other of my books, know that he probably would’ve been more confrontational in a glib, persuasive kind of way, before resorting to any hands-on remedy. But I’m not Logan, even if I did conceive him. Instead, I stewed in silence at 33,000 feet, trying to distract myself with the book I’d brought along–Rachel Maddow’s excellent Prequel, a detailed, investigative account of German propaganda efforts and America’s pro-Nazi movement in the runup to World War II. Time slowed to nothing as I read and our plane crept along at what felt like a glacial pace. Every few minutes, the flight attendants would stroll by with their beverage cart, yelling, “Watch your knees and elbows!” while banging into various knees and elbows. Cocooned as I was between my two fat seatmates, at least I didn’t have to worry about that.

As we began our descent into Washington, the guy on the aisle—who had, by this point, encroached so far into my space that we were practically dating—nudged me. “You gonna say something?” he asked, nodding toward the woman in front of me. I shook my head. What was the point? Soon, she’d be ordered to return her seatback to its full and upright position, we’d touch down, then all of us would go scurrying off into the terminal like POWs from The Great Escape. All I could do was marvel at how someone could so completely ignore another human being suffering directly behind them. But then, that’s air travel these days. It’s everybody for themselves.

So, where do I stand on the great seat-reclining debate? Here’s my take: Reclining your seat all the way on a crowded plane is like using a megaphone to order a cheese omelet in a coffee shop—it’s technically allowed, but only an asshole would do it without considering the impact it might have on their fellow diners. If you’re on a long-haul, overnight flight and everybody’s trying to sleep? Sure. If you’re in an empty row? Go for it. But if you’re on a packed daytime flight and your seat already is practically in the lap of the guy behind you? Maybe, just maybe, show a little restraint.

At the end of the day, commercial air travel is no longer about comfort; it’s about survival. And surviving with your dignity intact means acknowledging that just because you can do something doesn’t always mean you should.