Fight and Flight

The world is going crazy. At least, that’s how things look from 30,000 feet in the air. Not that you can tell that from looking down. That’s just the impression I got from my seat in economy.

In the years after 9/11 people seemed to treat air travel with the same reverence they had for going to church. There was a ritual. You took your shoes off before boarding, you even got blessed with a wand sometimes. Everyone got a mid-flight communion of pretzels and soda. It was usually relatively quiet, except for the occasional crying baby. But then, that was church-like, too.

For the most part, everyone did as they were told. I think a lot of people were scared they were going to get tackled by an air marshal if they so much as farted too loud. But most, I think, had a genuine appreciation for the seriousness of flying, and understood that things go a lot smoother if you do as you’re told.

It was about an hour and a half into the flight. I was engaged in a silent war of attrition for my right arm rest. I had recently read in an Instagram post that the window seat gets a view, the aisle seat gets mobility, and the middle seat gets both armrests as compensation for not having either. Apparently, my neighbor in 26C hadn’t seen that post. Judging by his red baseball cap, I’d imagine our social media feeds looked very different.

I had conceded the left armrest at the beginning of the flight out of a sense of chivalry. As a young bachelor I’ve always looked at flying very much the same way I look at most experiences; as an opportunity to meet beautiful women. I think the excitement of the experience opens people up.

The window seat was occupied by a young-looking woman wearing a surgical mask and a hijab. While I wasn't optimistic about my chances, I knew they wouldn’t get better by crowding her. Even just a conversation would’ve been nice. Although, a phone number would’ve been preferred.

I was making progress with the right armrest when one of the flight attendants reached us with the drink cart. I think my neighbor was starting to suspect I was trying to flirt with him rather than establish dominance. To be honest, that had been my strategy.

She was a middle-aged black woman with a southern drawl. She started with the window seat.

“Coffee, tea, or soda?” she asked.

“I’ll have a tea, please,” the woman in the window seat replied.

“Sure, how about you, sugar?” she asked me. I loved that. I was on the verge of ordering a cocktail until it occurred to me that it would pretty much eliminate any hopes of a conversation with my neighbor to the left.

“I’ll have a Coke,” I said.

“You sure you don’t want something stronger? It’s on me. I saw your bag when you boarded, I know you’re a veteran. My son is a Marine.”

“Well then, you got another son right here. We’re one big family. But no, thank you ma’am. Just Coke is fine.”

“I’ll have his! Make it a Jack n Coke, but hold the Coke!” The aisle seat interrupted.

“Were you in the service, too?”

“No, but I fig-”

“That’ll be $7.50, then,” she said, cutting him off this time.

She poured our drinks and moved down the aisle. I sipped on my coke slowly, hoping to save it till I had a snack to go with it. To my right, the aisle seat guy let out an intentionally loud burp. He’d all but finished his whiskey.

On my left, the woman in the window seat had pulled down her mask to blow steam off her tea. She was as pretty as I expected; with a heart shaped face and pouty lips. Her head scarf had slipped back exposing a few inches of her jet black hair. Somehow, that was more enticing than seeing a girl wearing something scandalous.

I was about to break the ice when the aisle seat guy tapped me on the on the arm.

“My name’s Mark,” he said, with his hand outstretched. I paused for a second before replying.

“I’m Dan,” I said, before reaching out my own hand, a little reluctantly.

“Sorry about hogging the armrest. When I saw you wearing your mask I figured…well, I didn’t figure you were a veteran.”

“Oh yeah? Well I just read somewhere that the middle seat gets two armrests. Airplane etiquette. I don’t think it should matter too much whether or not someone’s a veteran.”

“You know, I almost joined the army,” he continued, ignoring the rebuke of his manners.

“Oh yeah?” I said, trying as hard as I could to keep my eyes from rolling to the back of my head.

“Yeah. I was all set to sign the papers. Then an apprenticeship opened up. Couldn’t let that opportunity go, ya know?”

“Yeah, I guess not. What’s your name, miss? Since we’re doing introductions,” I said, turning towards the window.

“Noor,” she replied, somewhat reluctantly herself.

“That’s a pretty name. A very bright name, you might say,” I said with a little grin, knowing that “noor” meant “light” in Arabic.

“You speak Arabic?” She asked, with a slight smile now.

“Just a couple polite phrases. A couple of impolite ones, too, come to think of it.”

“You should learn more. It’s a beautiful language.”

“It is, I agreed.”

“Aww, great,” Mark interrupted. I looked up in time to see a woman walking up the aisle in uniform. “Female pilot!”

He had said it loud enough that she must have heard it. She was looking back in our direction as she scooted past the snack cart. Her eyes settled on me with scorn. I sighed.

“Actually, she’s got four stripes on her sleeve. That means she’s the captain,” I told him.

“Even better!” He said, sarcastically. A few minutes later a male pilot passed on his way back to the bunk room the other had just come from. “And now she’s alone up there!”

“She’s not alone. There’s three pilots on this flight. And I don’t think she made it to captain by being a bad one.”

“Yeah, well either way, I could use another one of these,” Mark said, swirling the ice in his empty cup of whiskey. “Hey, stewardess! Lemme get another drink!”

I looked up to see that the flight attendant he was speaking to now was wearing a male uniform. It looked like they may have been assigned female at birth, but they were now transitioning.

“First of all, this is the snack cart, sir. I don’t have any drinks. Secondly, although you might have just been trying to intentionally misgender me, I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume you didn’t know the masculine form of that word is ‘steward.’ That explanation seems pretty likely too. Either way the correct title for people in my profession is ‘flight attendant.’ Has been since before either of us was born. So it’s pretty clear that you’re just trying to be rude,” they said, with no lack of attitude.

“Alright, flight attendant, lemme get a bag of Cheetos then,” he demanded.

“As you can see, sir, I’ve still got two rows before I get to you. And I’m gonna make sure these folks are just fine before I do, okay?”

I smiled at that, although I was slightly annoyed that my pretzels were going to be delayed. It was satisfying to watch Mark fuming in his seat with his arms crossed. I leaned my right elbow into the armrest.

The flight attendant had just finished with the passengers two rows ahead of us when a bell rang and the “fasten seatbelt” sign came on overhead.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please return your trays to the upright position and fasten your seatbelts. We’re going to be experiencing some turbulence,” came a woman’s voice over the intercom. I slightly suspected that word of this commotion had traveled to the cockpit, and this was all being done to spite Mark.

The flight attendant buttoned up the snack cart and began to push it down the aisle, past our row.

“Hey!” He shouted. “Lemme get those Cheetos!”

“Please stay seated, sir! We’ll resume service once the captain has turned off the light,” the flight attendant responded.

Mark unbuckled and stood up in the aisle. He began to follow the cart.

“Hey, man! Why don’t you sit back down,” I said, beginning to follow him.

“Not until I get my snack!” He said, continuing.

Before I knew it, we were surrounded by every flight attendant on the plane. A couple other passengers looked like they were getting ready to join in. On whose side, I didn’t know, and never found out.

Just then, the plane started to shake. Not spite, apparently. I was being held back by the flight attendant who had called me “sugar” earlier. Overhead bins began to open and then everything went fuzzy.

I came to a couple minutes later, in what had been Mark’s seat. My head was throbbing. I tried to lift my left hand to rub it, only to find that my wrist was now taped to the armrest Mark and I had our little war over. I turned left to see Noor was still sitting there, by the window.

“What happened?” I asked.

“There was turbulence. A couple of overhead compartments opened up and a suitcase fell on your head. They asked me if they could put you here. I said ‘yes.’ Now we’re diverting to the closest airport.”

“Well, thank you for that I guess.” I looked up ahead to where I could hear Mark cursing up a storm in business class. “Looks like he got upgraded, at least.”

“Yeah, somehow it seemed better to have you here than him,” she said.

I laughed to myself. In the end, Mark ended up being a great wingman. She asked what was so funny. I told her it was nothing.

I felt the plane jostle as the pilot lowered the landing gear. We were almost on the ground when the plane violently jolted back up in a steep climb. There was a chorus of screams throughout the cabin.

“Damn woman pilot!” Shouted Mark from up ahead.

“What do you think that was?” Noor asked me, looking scared.

As if in response to her question, the captain’s voice came over the intercom.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for that! Looks like there was a miscommunication on the ground due to our last minute request for a runway. Please rest assured, everything is under control. The runway will be clear when we make our way back around.”

The plane banked hard to the left. I felt myself being pulled into the seat. I turned to look out the window, which was now pointed almost straight down at the ground.

“This lady’s got some moves,” I quipped.

“Do you think we’ll be alright?” Asked Noor.

Her olive skin had gone almost flat white. She was petrified. I stretched out my open hand as far as the tape would allow and she squeezed it so hard it hurt.

“Inshallah,” I said. God willing.

“You really need to learn more Arabic. That’s not a very reassuring thing to hear right now,” she said. But she was smiling. And the plane landed just fine.

I want to thank my Aunt Linda for helping me brainstorm for this little story. She's an airline pilot with over twenty years of experience, and a very cool lady. I've always looked up to her, even when she's not in the sky. (I'm sorry, I swear to God, that pun wrote itself!)