TheBanyanTree: Flying to Insanity

[Monique Colver]

(Written on the plane. Currently between destinations at an unnamed
airport.)

We stand in first class, the proverbial sardines in a tin can, except we
aren’t sardines, not quite, just people attempting to find our seats on an
overbooked, overstuffed plane, where only one of the indignities is standing
in the aisle of first class while we wait.

The first class passengers regard us with disdain, if they were to regard us
at all, though mostly they pretend we aren’t there. They do important first
class passenger things, such as talk on their phones, sip their drinks, look
at their laptops. To them, we don’t exist, except as temporary nuisances
cluttering their aisle.

We are coach, we ride in the back, and we’re allowed on only once first
class is safely settled and attended to. Never let it be said that money
can’t buy happiness, for if a few extra inches of space, no waiting, and a
drink aren’t happiness, I don’t know what is. Perhaps it’s not the
conventional definition of happiness, but what is? When one’s playing a
sardine, happiness is simple.

We do eventually find our seats, all of us, despite the lack of overheard
space. Everyone tried to carry on their baggage since it costs $25 for each
bag checked, at least, and so the overheads fill quickly, and people stand
in line and they wait and they look in full overheads and wonder how to get
their own bag in when there’s obviously no room

We sit six across, with an aisle down the middle, in a space that can
comfortably seat four across. Our knees graze the seat backs of the seats in
front of us, and we fear to move, for we may dislodge someone next to us, or
in front of us, or two rows back. There is no privacy in coach, not so much
as a sigh goes unnoticed, and unlike first class, we must stay quiet and
still.

A baby cries as we take off, loud and shrill, and I, for one, can feel my
brain curdling inside my head as if filled with milk that’s spoiling. The
crying doesn’t cease and gets worse, if such a thing can be possible, but in
coach we stay quiet, despite a common wish to shout out to said baby, “Hush
up back there! I can’t think!” Or is it just me?

People get up and walk up and down the aisle, and I’m amazed at the seeming
ease with which they do this. I cannot, for I would have to inconvenience
far too many people, and it’s only 2 hours and 20 minutes until Phoenix,
surely whatever it is I need to do can wait, can’t it?

Two hours and twenty minutes to Phoenix and it’s not even Phoenix I want to
go to, but Irvine, California. Who decided Phoenix was on the way to Irvin
from Seattle? Obviously no one asked my opinion before scheduling this
flight.

I am in the middle, because I bought my tickets late. My charming husband is
on the other side of the aisle, also in the middle. Surely this plane was
not made for six across, it can’t have been. Unless people were smaller  then,
miniature humans who could three across without their thighs touching the
thighs of strangers.

Not that I have anything against strangers. I just prefer my thighs to be
untouched. Call me quirky.

We try to pass the time without disturbing our neighbors, which means
singing loudly is out, as is dancing, even quiet dancing that involves
little movement. We read, or we knit, or we play on our computers, though,
due to the seat in front of me being right in front of my face I can’t see
my screen at this angle.

Fortunately I type by touch, and don’t need to see what I’m typing.

I once met a man on a plane who had one arm, but not the other. He engaged
me in conversation, and when one is captive, one pretends to a semblance of
civility. Not that I’m opposed to people with one arm, but this particular
gentleman began to ask personal questions, and when we disembarked he
followed me to the baggage claim, and then followed me until I made my
escape with a waiting relative. If I hadn’t had a waiting relative but
instead rented a car he most likely would have invited himself along for the
ride.

Not that I can’t use more friends, but I try not to pick them up randomly.
Normally there’s a vetting process involving an application and a background
check.

I ramble on planes. What else is there to do?

I wonder how much time has passed. Has it been enough time to start
screaming for someone to put this damn plane down on the ground? I fear not.
I used to semi-regularly fly long distances, here and there and over the
Atlantic and back again, but that was when space was a little less valuable,
and one could actually breathe while flying. Those days are long gone, at
least for those of us in coach, and those of us without the wherewithal to
have private jets.

There are more of us out here than you might suspect, you with your private
jet. You know who I mean.

We are the dregs of society, we with our frequent flying requirements. The
objective is to fit as many dregs into one small space as humanly possible,
without smothering anyone. We have reached that fine line that divides the
civilized from the uncivilized, and if one more person were squeezed in,
we’d likely begin to riot, but since we’re so tight on space our rioting
would have to consist of groaning. Anything more than that and someone’s
likely to get hurt.

Self-preservation at all costs.

Are we there yet?

-- 
Monique Colver