This past spring break, I found myself once again flying on the great spectacle that is Southwest Airlines. The tickets were cheap, which harmonizes well with my philosophy of “cheapest is always best.” But for those of you not in the know, Southwest is a little bit different.

The biggest, and perhaps the only, difference is that unlike other airlines, Southwest does not bother with assigned seating. Instead of 26A (which for some reason happens to be my assigned seat on almost every airline that deals in seat assignments and always happens to be the seat near the wing of the plane), your ticket has a marker of where you are to stand in line before entering the plane. And once you enter the plane, you are free to sit wherever you choose. The dynamics this creates, however, speaks unfortunate volumes about what it means to be human.

Unassigned seating brings out the inversion of all that is and should be. A man in the aisle is greeted with a quaint and cheery, “My, you’re fat.” Ordinary phrases, such as “How’s the weather?” are left out of everyday tactful airline passenger communication in the rush to find and secure a preferable seat.

As passengers file through the plane doors, they enter the cold and unforgiving wilderness. The free-for-all seating, though designed for passenger convenience, brings out in man his most carnal sensibilities. Devolving to the likes of some early hominid, his seating decision reflects a hard-line, utilitarian survivalist urge. Decisions are made after one look in the eye of your fellow cavemen — crying baby, dirty hippy, unkempt octogenarian. For every seat left empty there is a story, of which the key to understanding is the simple casting aside of all good taste.

Ordinarily, an attractive female sitting alone near the aisle? Must have some communicable illness. Alternatively, she must have a hoard of insatiable crying children in the seats behind her. Bright-eyed college youngster? Must smell bad. Older woman reading a romance novel? Must be an older woman reading a romance novel.

Of course, the order in which you enter is of utmost importance. As in the wilderness, the first of the flock gets best pick of his domain. The all-powerful lion wisely chooses his stomping grounds, and the gazelle is forced into his clutches by cruel Fate. Those unfortunate enough to lie far enough down the food chain, forced to enter late, are most certainly destined for the intestinal tract of a hungry predator.

The clear solution here is to pick as your seatmates the towering personages of the emergency exit aisle. These are the self-righteous heroes of our age, the selfless and dedicated stalwart champions of the modern airline. Unlike other airlines, in which inhabitation of this coveted aisle is a mandatory consequence of a computer algorithm, Southwest’s emergency exit aisle is populated by the brave, the proud, the few. Having taken upon themselves the welfare of an entire plane of individuals, they have proven their outstanding worth as human beings. Their sophisticated sense of civic duty is a welcome contrast to the jungle around them. As the flight attendant approaches to ask if they are aware of the responsibilities required by law of those in this seat, her words are patently unnecessary. No matter the fact that they might very well have wanted the extra legroom, these men and women are American heroes in their own right.

Given that I was one of the last to board the plane, my choices were extremely limited. I ended up in front of two young children and next to an older woman reading romance novels. My seatmate to the other side (for, predictably, I had been relegated to the feared Middle Seat) was a businessman who extolled the virtues of a life of entrepreneurialism. He recommended that I drop out of school and use my parents’ money to instead invest in Coca Cola stock.

I escaped from my stay on the Serengeti that is Southwest Airlines, but not before I had seen the darker side of human nature, the inevitable consequence of non-assigned seating.

Nat believes that the same is true for all free-for-all situations. Email him with stories of similar brutalisms, selfishisms and cannibalisms, at nat.hillard "at" stanford.edu.