The dream had been a recurring one. He knew for a fact, recalling portions, but could never get it quite right. At least not right enough to recant the dream. It made him smile, but at this time, it was interrupted by a shrill cry of exasperation from first class. His seat was two rows behind the first class section of the aircraft and occasionally one could hear sounds from there. With the constant drone of the engines, only the louder sounds seemed to make it back to economy class.<br/><br/>He woke with a start smelling baked chicken. It was a pleasant odor. Looking about the cabin, Hamza noticed the stewardesses preparing to serve a meal. Hamza did feel hunger and welcomed the prospective meal. He glanced at his watch.<span style="font-style: italic">23.42. A quarter to midnight,'</span>he thought to himself.<span style="font-style: italic">'Sure, now is as good a time as any to eat a meal.'</span>He switched the overhead light on. A young tow-headed boy about eight or nine sat in the seat next to him. The boy was asleep and his father, a man maybe in his late thirties with graying temples, soft mid section and eyeglasses kept his attention focused on the clouds outside the window. This bespectacled gentleman in 23K turned and looked at his son, then up at Hamza and smiled. Hamza knew the standard American response to this situation was to return the smile. It told the man, that he understood his son looked<span style="font-style: italic">cute</span>asleep on the plane. Frankly, Hamza didn't give a shit about the man or the boy, but was willing to play the game. He was a good actor. He smiled and then just as quickly, looked away.<br/><br/>Within several minutes, the food served, the boy awake and the three<span style="font-style: italic">men</span>on the starboard side of row 23 tolerated baked chicken with gravy, boiled potatoes and roasted summer squash. Hamza had no intention of engaging the man in small talk. He avoided eye contact through the meal, catching glimpses of the<span style="font-style: italic">entitled few</span>who occupied the first class section of the aircraft.<br/><br/>How they were able to ride in a seat wider than his own with room to stretch out one's legs, roiled Hamza. It made him agitated how good people, forced to live in impoverished slums, like the Palestinians in Gaza while these arrogant useless<span style="font-style: italic">Westerners</span>were pampered for every desire. One woman, who may have been about Hamza's age was relentless in her consumption of alcoholic beverages. These infidels have no self-control; the depravity disgusted the Irani news reporter. Pardon, Irani warehouse manager.