No Joy, Some Joy, Joy

No joy.
A military term meaning missing your target.
Found this out at the airport while tuning into a nearby conversation. Clearly this couple was in the early dating stage, striking casually elegant poses as they went.
This was his offering, his nugget of male wisdom, though he did not appear a military type, but more of a scruffy hipster, probably a hiker. She was blonde and hikerish too.

I was still recovering from my encounter with security- more horrible than ever and making me feel very insecure; baggage thrown askew, out of sight, heart racing with lost/stolen luggage anxiety as they patted, swatted and x-rayed one and all, shoeless-  the huddled masses some of whom will no doubt be missing their flights.
No joy there.

Needless to say I am an aisle person. The window guy arrived and suggested tentatively, might we not both have been assigned the same seat? But in the same breath, almost apologetically, he also says he will be happy to take the window and hopes they don't make him move. He flashes his ticket at me, which at quick glance appears to have my seat number, but he seems happy with the window arrangement; nonetheless he repeats he hopes they don't make him move. Maybe they double booked he says, but he does not look all that worried. He does worry about his gardener back in LA ,where we are headed, wonders if the plants were watered. He tells me he saw a great Broadway show last night and stayed up too late. He's a talker this guy, gay, somewhat rotund in the middle, bermuda shorts reminiscent of the fifties, playful. I may be forced to reveal my entire life story since that is how I usually react to talkers but am not in the mood this day. In truth, he's downright jolly.
Worried about moving yet not worried. Can't quite figure this out.

Sure enough, two ultra competent early thirties-somethings show up and then totally and competently tell Mr. Jolly that his seat just may indeed be one of theirs. He mumbles to me that he is sure he will have to move. Why him? Moments later the flight attendant arrives and whisks away all four of our boarding passes. I do not wish to move.

She returns a few agonizing minutes later but now there is some joy, at least, for me, as it is Mr. Jolly who will be evicted- apparently he belongs in another seat farther back, and not at all in a far, far better place. He leaves without a fuss. His "ticket"- the one he flashed- was for another flight, an earlier flight on another day long done and gone, but of course he knew that. Joy! I didn't have to move. How did he have the balls to try this, I wonder. A risk taker!

The jolly ticket swindler soon was replaced by the seat's rightful owner, a young and well-behaved alcoholic with truly impeccable manners. Two and a half hours into the flight it's only 11:30 a.m. and he's already onto his third Bloody Mary. Mid to late thirties, suit minus the jacket, white shirt and laptop, he surreptitiously sips away to placidity while trying to concentrate on a movie. Once or twice he politely excuses himself and wriggles out of the seat without even nudging my bad toe as he so politely makes his way to the bathroom. He's much too well behaved, but he's managed to attain a quiet if brief joy, at least on flights. 

In the meanwhile I've decided to watch someone else's movie on a screen in front of me and across the aisle- without the sound. The only actor I recognize is Robert De Niro, and he looks really old. Soundlessly the rest of the cast- mainly the women- seem to deliver a series of lengthy pouts, inter-dispersed with back of the head shots. The acting is insufferably bad. When the credits come on, the title appears:

Joy