Memories of Flight

I used to fly much more frequently than I do now. My less-frequent forays into the sky do not make me long for more air travel. Quite the opposite, they make me appreciate how much of a pain the ass travel has always been for me and they make me appreciate a schedule and a set of responsibilities that keep me grounded.

Let me tell you a brief story of how it was for me, braving the crowds of travelers and the people who, to misuse a word, served them.

I make my way through the plane to my seat, as always, near the rear of the aircraft. Along the way, I encounter a dozen or so people who apparently have never flown before and who do not realize that there is not sufficient room in the overhead compartments to stow their steamer trunks and baby grand pianos. These are the same people who express dismay that the airline did not plan for stowage of carry-on essentials such as skis, fishing poles, step-ladders, sofa-beds, and strollers designed for fourteen year-old quintuplets. Personally, I would like to see the airline escort these people off the airplane and out to the tarmac where they and their belongings would be bulldozed into a waiting compost pit, but the airlines have never asked my opinion on the matter.

Why I allow myself to be persuaded it is safe to enter a massive steel tube that will, shortly, be launched into the skies by massive engines powered by highly explosive fuel that flows through tubes in the wings just a few feet from me I will never know. It is an act of blind faith that all of us, my fellow travelers and I, entrust our safety to the ability of this huge hunk of heavy steel to rise into the heavens and stay there and to someone in a tiny room at the front of the plane. As we’ve all heard, there are times when occupants of that little room decide to ingest massive amounts of alcohol before they fly. That always frightens me, but I fly nonetheless.

What I do know is that there is no point in worrying, once the plane pulls away from the gate. At that point, I no longer have any control. If the drunken pilot decides to do cartwheels in the sky, then I will simply have to cope with it. If a wing rips off and flames rush through the open gash in the sides of the jet, I can only hope the pain is brief.

One thing I can look forward to when the doors shut and the engines rev is the interactions among passengers with the flight attendants. Increasingly over the years, I’ve noticed that flight attendants are tending to be older, their faces harder, and their attitudes more and more surly. My guess is that they have finally come to the realization that they have dedicated the bulk of their careers to being airborne waitresses and they have become quite unhappy with their career choices. Now before you misunderstand, I do value flight attendants’ role in passenger safety…but I cannot understand why the airlines have turned them into the flying equivalent of burger joint car-hops. At any rate, their interactions with other passengers is entertaining, in an ugly and sordid sort of way.

“Sir, please take your seat,” the flight attendant whose name badge reads “Ms. Carson” says to a 30-something guy who, before boarding the plane drank the equivalent of a quart of scotch for breakfast and who is busy entertaining his buddies with loud, crude, and abrasive racist jokes. He turns to her and says, “Yes maam!” and reaches around behind him with his hands open wide and grabs his butt cheeks. “Sir,” the flight attendant says, “I’m not joking. Either sit down or I’ll have you removed from the plane!” The drunken target of her ire makes it worse: “You and who else? I’d love to wrestle with you!” Ms. Carson apparently had a bad night, because she is not finding the humor in the morning drunk. She strides toward him at almost full run, her eyes wide open and the veins in her neck bulging and pumping. “Sir! Don’t make me say it again. Take your seat or I will have you removed!” Drunk didn’t quite understand that she was serious, so he smiled broadly and said, “Say ‘please!’” Ms. Carson disappeared toward the front of the plane and, in a nanosecond, was back, this time escorted by what looked to be two football players and the pilot.

Never willing to fly with an empty seat when not absolutely necessary, the airline escorted someone else on-board to fill the seat formerly belonging to a now ground-bound drunk.

After the mass of steel was well beyond the safety of the ground, Ms. Carson announced that the flight had been delayed due to an uncooperative passenger who had to be removed. “And I’d like you to know that I’m not beyond having any other uncooperative passengers ejected en route, so if you’d like to arrive safely at your destination, I will appreciate your cooperation.” She then informed us that the result of the delay would be that there would be no in-flight service.

A passenger in first-class, obviously the only one who actually paid for the seat with money instead of miles, complained to Ms. Carson that it would take the same amount of time to get to the destination whether or not there had been a disruptive passenger. Ms. Carson’s eyes grew wide and her vein bulged again as she scowled at the impudent flyer and said, “Sir, you can take that up with the airline after we land!” and stormed away, her frizzled hair looking for all the world like rusty steel springs sprouting from her head, all jumbled and bouncing and dangerously sharp.

After we landed, the flight attendants walked off the plane first, leaving a bewildered ground crewman at the door of the aircraft, mumbling “bye-bye, bye-bye” to the passengers as they exited the plane. Of course, it took me 35 minutes to get off, because a number of people in front of me had to call for assistance to remove their luggage from the overhead wracks, frequently requiring the jaws of life to extract the larger pieces.

So, on that flight and on many more like it, I was able to soak in the luxury of travel, the beautiful spirit of my fellow travelers, the caring attitudes of the flight attendants.