Gucci Mane might not have a pristine background – he’s had afew run-ins with the law during the past decade – but if you want a model seatmate on a long flight, he’s your guy.
Atlanta’s Mr. “Trap God” (born Radric Davis), sat next to me on the five-hour flight to Los Angeles on Friday morning, on his way to a pre-Grammy show at The Observatory in Orange County. We were in business class (no, the AJC does not pay for reporters to fly business class – it was a free upgrade for being an Air Tran elite member), while the rest of his crew sat in coach.
Mane, clad in black sweatshirt and jeans and bright orange Nike sneakers, kept his hoodie up, his window shade down and slept the entire flight, awakening only briefly to eat some airline-proffered stem ginger cookies and drink a Coke.
The only other time he stirred was during our descent, when a burst of violent turbulence tossed the plane around like a rubber duck in the Pacific Ocean for several minutes that felt like a month. I, ridiculously fearful flier that I am, was a millisecond away from grabbing his hand in fright when he looked out the window to see what was causing this roller coaster ride. After noticing my color-drained face, he smiled and said, “Aw, it’s just clouds.”