Flight of anxiety in coach class

I was flying back from New York when I read the following note in the bathroom: “Discarding anything other than toilet tissue in the toilet can cause external leaks and create a safety hazard.” And I began to worry.

I returned to my cramped, economy-class seat next to a man of enormous size and thought to myself:

What would happen if a terrorist, perhaps a suicidal old lady agent of a Jihad Brigade, boarded the Boeing 767 with nothing more than a purse and dropped it into the toilet in order to please Allah?

Or if a little girl with a teddy bear decided, when Mama turned away to wash her hands, that it would be fun to give her bear a swim in the bowl and tossed it in?

Would the plane, toilet water streaming from its bulging sides, suddenly burst open at 30,000 feet and strew us like confetti over the fertile cornfields of Oklahoma?

I could see myself spinning slowly to Earth, wondering if Cinelli would realize it wasn’t my fault, that I didn’t throw anything into the toilet and was, in fact, afraid of even using the toilet after reading the sign.

Would I be remembered as “beloved,” which is a term I dislike intensely, or as someone who filled a nice space over so many years and didn’t cause a lot of trouble except some of the time back in the days when he was slugging down martinis like they were strawberry Snapples?

After pondering my fate next to the sumo wrestler who busied himself reading a sports section, his lips moving and his elbow overlapping into my turf, I leaned over to the flight attendant who was serving what he called a “chicken thing” for lunch.

“Excuse me,” I said, deliberately keeping my voice low, “I wanted to ask you about a sign in the bathroom.”

“WHAT ABOUT THE SIGN IN THE BATHROOM?” he said, the roar of his voice rattling off the bulkhead of the plane, causing it to wobble. Heads turned.

I quietly read him the words on the sign, which I had written down, and he said, “THE TOILET IS STUFFED UP?”

I replied in my whispery little voice, “What I’m saying is, could something other than, well, toilet paper in the toilet cause the plane to, well, be in trouble?”

“YOU WANT THE CHICKEN THING OR NOT?” he said.

He had chosen to ignore the question, frowning as he walked away serving more chicken things. Perhaps he would report me to the captain and I would spend the remainder of the flight in chains and be met at LAX by an FBI SWAT team backed by members of the LAPD (Oh, God, not them), the CHP, the CIA, the AFT and the BSA, their weapons aimed menacingly at me as cameras pointed my way and young girl TV reporters shouted, “What are you feeling?” and “What did you throw in the toilet?”

My seat, fortunately or not, was in sight of the toilet door, so I could watch carefully who, on my side of the plane, was lined up to use the facilities and what they were carrying.

I took special note to be sure that what they went in with they came out with. But then there was the other side of the plane and no one was watching there. More to worry about. Why is it always up to me?

We didn’t crash, I am pleased to say, and I departed the plane sweaty but whole, leaving the toilet, the sumo wrestler and the chicken thing behind.

When I reached home I telephoned a friend who happens to be a senior pilot for American Airlines.

He is a wise and steady man, and I expected him to dismiss my toilet fears with a chuckle and a wave of his hand. Instead, he said, “You’re talking about the P-ball,” he said, indicating a sphere composed primarily of urine.

He went on to explain that a foreign object in the toilet could clog the septic system, which, over a period of time, could cause a leak. At high altitudes, it would form an ice ball of, er, toilet substance, that could break off and hit parts of the plane.

While it probably wouldn’t cause a crash, he added thoughtfully, it might damage the aircraft. He could recall a Boeing 727 years ago losing an engine when it was hit by one of those ice balls. The engine vibrated and fell off in the desert.

I mentioned this to Barry Schiff, a retired airline pilot and aviation safety consultant, who, thank God, referred to the aforementioned P-ball as a blue ball of Paradise, which is considerably more exotic.

He’s heard of blue balls falling from a plane through a roof but never endangering the aircraft itself, which relieved me. And, he added for my further comfort, “it’s not exactly a terrorist weapon either.”

I’m more at ease now and will feel free to relax aboard a plane, eat my chicken thing and ignore those who come and go to the toilet, even when the blue ball of Paradise floats by.

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Al Martinez’s column appears Mondays and Fridays. He can be reached at al.martinez@latimes.com.