The importance of being shameless

To be specific: a free upgrade.

She was under the impression, apparently, that the way to get an upgrade to first class was to demand it and, when refused, to call someone named Nigel on her cellphone and complain loudly. Nigel, it seemed, was no help. She hung up, sighed petulantly, and then said in a voice loud enough for all of us to hear, “I’m actually quite well known.”

If you have to tell the guy behind the counter that you’re famous, you probably won’t get the free upgrade.

For the record, I’m not actually quite well known, and I have a simple rule about air travel: If it’s on me, it’s very much a coach situation. If it’s on anyone else — and I mean, anyone else, even if for some reason impoverished third-world orphans want me to come and tell them stories about Hollywood — they’re paying, and it’s business class or better. Nobody gets a discount.

The passenger, who was unknown to me or the check-in agent but was, nevertheless, actually quite well known, had a ticket for something called “economy plus,” which they try to trick you into thinking is just like business class. But trust me, I’ve flown it, and it’s impossible to detect exactly what’s so “plus” about it. Better to save your money, make up a playlist called “Ambien Airplane,” wash down a sleeping pill with three glasses of red wine, fold yourself into a coach seat, and sleep, snore, and drool your way to your destination.

The woman demanding the upgrade, who insisted that she was actually quite well known, might, in a general sense, have been telling the truth. But fame is a specific thing. Her problem was that she was not known, well or otherwise, to the person in power behind the desk.

It’s sort of like what happened to me a few years ago when I was out to dinner and the legendary French rock ‘n’ roll star Johnny Hallyday was seated next to us.

He was a giant star in France, but at this swank hotel on Sunset Boulevard, not so much. On the outdoor patio, the place positively buzzed with the excitement of having a reality television star on the terrace. Inside, where Johnny and I sat at adjacent tables, we were both ignored nobodies.

But maybe that’s what drew Hallyday to Hollywood in the first place. Maybe he liked the relative anonymity of the palm trees and the Pacific sun. Maybe the indifference of the idiot actor/surfer/waiter was a welcome change from the ceaseless attention of his Francophone fans.

Being a French rock star in Los Angeles is a little like having a hit television show on a niche streaming service. You’re famous, yes, but only to a select group of folks in that key demographic, which means you can eat dinner with your friends in perfect privacy.

Unless you’re followed into the men’s room by a devoted fan, as Johnny was that night, who stood awkwardly next to him and finally blurted out, “Johnny, I’m a big fan. Saw you live in Paris on the Champs de Mars in 2000.”

(It was me, by the way. But I think you knew that.)

But here’s why the story about the actually quite well known passenger haunts me:

She did, somehow, get her upgrade. I know because I boarded the plane right behind her and she turned left and I turned right, and the curtain swished closed between us. And as I crammed my carry-on into the shoebox-sized space underneath the seat in front of me and shifted and twisted myself into a sad little coil, I caught myself thinking, “Maybe she really is famous. Or maybe she’s just shameless and brazen. Either way, she’s up there extending her footrest, and I’m back here fighting a quiet cold war for the middle armrest.”

Maybe, I thought to myself, I need to learn how to be shameless, how to make outrageous demands, and how to yell at someone named Nigel. Maybe that’s the smart move.

And then the wine kicked in, and I drooled my way back home.

Rob Long is a television writer and producer and the co-founder of Ricochet.com.