Chicken or Pasta?

Since time began, man has wanted to fly. In the old days, he looked at birds and made them Gods. He wondered what the view would be like from way up there. Man was envious. Centuries after his lust for flying began, he flew thanks to the Wright Brothers, Santos Dumont and many others. Now man can fly as far and as high as he wants. Yet, today flying is miserable.

The first thing I would ask a flight attendant, if given the opportunity, is: did you want enjoy the glory of what a flight attendant used to represent or did they not accept you as a guard at Riker’s Island? Flight attendants are like Nazi Prison Camp guardians. They do not talk, they do not smile. They grunt and glare and say three things: chicken or pasta, pull your seat up now, that needs to be turned off immediately. You are not allowed to talk back to a flight attendant, crack jokes or complain about anything. You will be arrested upon landing.

Flight attendants play their own little games, too. Their favorite one seems to be smash elbow. This is where they will drive the cart up and down the aisle as fast as possible, eyes closed, and count how many elbows they can smash into.

On International flights, in economy, there are two carts: one with drinks, one with food. The one with food has two flight attendants and goes first. Right behind it is the drink cart but with only one attendant. The food cart goes three times as fast: they have two people (basic math) and it is easier to throw a tray of food than a cup of liquid. Therefore, if you fly economy, you will always finish your chicken or pasta before you get your drink or $6.00 MD 20/20 tasting “International Flagship” wine.

Now, the next source of misery are stupid fliers. If you don’t have an elementary school education, you should not fly. There is a simple order to where seats are located on a plane. There are numbers and letters, 23A, 28G. When you get on a plane, there is a flight attendant to help guide you. She will ask everybody to show a boarding pass, which has a seat assignment. Then, you will be pointed in the right direction. This flight attendant located at the boarding door is a backup for cases of stupidity. At this point, even a monkey could find its seat. But, incredibly, some people still cannot. Extreme stupidity has no solution. If you have trouble finding your seat, you should not fly. If you sit down in the wrong seat, you should be escorted off the plane, no questions asked. Why? Because when you get asked whether you want chicken or pasta, your brain will explode. By then, we’ll be in mid flight and have to land due to the mess.

An elementary school education also comes in handy when asking for a drink. They have some sodas, juices, coffee, warm beer and two 7 Eleven wines (but no brown paper bags). You have the option to ask what they have. If, after the flight attendant tells you everything available, you ask for tea, you should never fly again.

The TSA does a decent job of screening for weapons, liquids and patting down old ladies. But, they need to search and seize Cuban and homemade food. This is a weapon of torture. In a plane, you are no better than sardines in a can. There is no air nor space and having to smell this vomit is on the level of waterboarding.

If you are male between the ages of 14 and 60, you need to man up. For the love of testosterone, don't bring a pillow on the plane. Yes, airlines have done away with this luxury. Of course, the seats are as comfortable as those at Fenway. But, what has happened to toughing it out? These men should have their pillows removed to help get them back on the path to being a man. It is fine for kids, women and senior citizens. Back in the day when we dreamed of flying, a man would sleep on rocks and under a tree but never brought his own hay to make a pillow.

We all know people who fly first class are rich. They made their millions by inheriting it, screwing someone or a few of them through hard work and luck. Yes, they will enjoy a certain luxury in the air for a few hours while having paid ten times the price of economy. Yet, when we economy fliers get off the plane, the first class cabin always looks as if a tornado came through there, with blankets, food, water bottles, newspapers strewn about as if it had been Armageddon. When the firsters board the plane, they will plow through us serfs while looking down on us. Then, we are made to walk through their waste when we get off. It says a lot about rich people.

Bait and switch is illegal. This is when you advertise one product, expound in its glory and amazingness, yet after purchasing it, the buyer realizes it is no better than a two day old turd. The government allows the airlines to bait and switch. Television commercials demonstrate happy fliers. They smile, they wave goodbye, hug hello, they sleep happily on the plane, the flight attendants smile, the person eats well and can’t seem to wait to fly again. It is as if the life got touched by the magic wand of nirvana.

The product is not like that. Open the American Airlines magazine and you will find a page with dry snot, tons of ripped pages, the crossword puzzle filled out and sticky substances on the cover. Your knees are stuck against the seat in front of you. It is then that the guy will decide to push his seat back right on top of your knees. Now, your eyes and his balding, dandruff filled head are two inches apart. You can’t eat, you can’t read, you can’t work and you can’t put your own seat back because the guy behind you is 6’7”. His knee is your armrest. The guy next to you is burping and taking ear wax out of his ear with his pointer finger and making little balls of wax. What an interesting dinner it will make: dandruff falling from above the tray and little yellow curry balls from the left. To your right and across the aisle is a little kid hate because he is oblivious to the hell and torture that surrounds you. Looking up, you notice one of the panels on the wall is held on to another panel with duct tape. There are still eight hours to go. Chicken or fucking pasta.

Car executives were smart. They flew in their own planes and got skewered by Congress when they went to DC. The second time around, they drove. It says a lot when someone would rather spend 12 hours in a car made by GM or Chrysler, instead of two hours in a plane. Over a hundred years ago we should have been careful what we had wished for.

Brazilian bobblehead routine

The other day I was getting ready for a trip. It should have been a simple task, as I had done it hundreds of times. But, no, I was in a new house and no longer had my routine down. The underwear was here, socks over there, I couldn’t find my ties, the suit was where it was supposed to be at least, but I couldn’t find the shoe polish. It took me almost two hours to pack. I used to do it in 15. When I arrived at my hotel in São Paulo, I chuckled to myself at the ease with which I unpacked. In a city 4000 miles away I had more of a routine than where I lived. Then I laid down, closed my eyes and realized I have another routine that never fails.

So, I boarded the plane in Miami the previous evening and sat in 26A, right next to a nice, little old lady. She was 60, maybe, and a candidate for Grandmother of the year. She smiled, as if to say to me, "Hey neighbor, we’re gonna be together for eight hours." Before turning away and placing her bags under the seat in front of her as directed by the flight attendant, she opened her mouth as if to say something. I leaned closer, but not too much, we were not yet even on speaking terms. I was ready to listen to this warm, cookie-baking, sweater-knitting grandmother. But, no words came out. No Portuguese. No English. No Chinese. No Spanish. Just an open mouth and eyes looking at me. Then I heard what I thought was the roar of a jet engine. But, it came from somewhere deep inside of her. In that first nanosecond I had hoped that my hearing compass was off and it was really the pilot revving the engines. It wasn't; people were still filing in, lost sheep looking for seats, clearly marked by numbers and letters. The next nanosecond it hit me. My worst fear hooked me in its death grip. She had a rumbling and then a loud, gut wrenching COOOUUGGGHH!

Like a shotgun just fired, I recoiled. I cracked the back of my head on the window. I stared at her wide-eyed. Post traumatic cough syndrome they call it. It was not a tickle in the throat kind of cough. Grandma had not accidentally swallowed the wrong way. It was the cough of the devil itself.

In Portuguese she said, "Boy, I hope you don't mind but I have a horrible COUGH, COUGH, COUGH cold." She had gone from kindly grandmother to poltergeist in three seconds flat.

What could I say? I tried to quickly and desperately come to terms with this catastrophic situation. I recalled what the woman who checked me in said, "We have a completely full flight tonight so we can't upgrade you. I’m sorry." I’ll bet! These two were in collusion. To me, those words from the American Airlines check in lady, were a death spell she cast upon me. How could she...I was just a regular, nice, traveling average Joe.

Yet, there I was, with nowhere to go. It was an emergency. Panic. Hell. Punishment. Brutality. Torture. Eight, nine hours next to disease central. What amendment to the Constitution states no cruel and unusual punishment?! Would it be possible for both the Marlins and Yankees to lose?

Truth be told, I was only getting over a cold. It was gifted to me in Spain a couple of weeks earlier. I took it with me to Miami, Boston and Maine. It logged many miles on American Airlines. I brought the last vestige of it with me to Brazil. I was hoping to give it a final send off and burial somewhere in the concrete of Sao Paulo. The thought of a sequel was too much for me.

Three minutes after boarding the plane, I was trapped completely, staring down the barrel of another cold or worse. I was threatened and cornered, looking around in desperation as more passengers had trouble deciphering their seat assignments. At the very worst they would have to sit next to a crying baby, a snorer, a portly person. Next to me was the SARS flag bearer.

Maybe, I thought, there would be a no show and I could take their seat? Middle, shmiddle, I didn’t care! In vain I summoned all of my strength, hoping to duplicate some Star Trek trick and force a seat to appear - just for me - somewhere, anywhere, the wing, engine nacelle, wherever but next to 26B. I didn't care about being obvious. I looked left, and right, and left and right. Eyes wide open. Little dog like whimpers were emanating from me. I would have spent the flight on the wing if I could have. Forget the cold outside at 37,000 feet. I'm from New England, I could have taken it. But, that jungle fever she had brought with her no hardy New Englander could tolerate.

I was gripped by anger, overcome by fear. COUGH COUGH COUGH! Grandma, I mean Poltergeist, continued her gagging, raspy, deep cough at 15-second intervals. Maybe it was biological terrorism, a new secret weapon? Had airport security searched her? Should I warn the stewardess, after all that would surely have resolved the situation. Maybe her real name was Fatma Al Aqsa Allah Mohammed Mohammed Allah.

Her head would bob left and right, back and forth, in stride with the rhythm of her coughs. She looked like a goddamned bobblehead doll. Pretend your grandkids are around, set a good example and cover your mouth! On the inside of course.

I cozied up to the window as if I were a drunk and it my bottle. I rang the bell and asked the stewardess how to roll down the window. I had become delirious. My system had gone into shock. I pointed those useless and noisy air conditioning jets right into the DMZ between us to blow away the germs that were invisibly invading my personal space. I feared a slow, SARS related death somewhere over the Amazon at 3am. Would they just throw my body out of the plane like they do when someone dies at sea? Maybe Ebola would be quicker.

But alas I realized I have a routine of bad luck with neighbors on flights. And the Captain of flight 907 had his routine. He said, "Make it so," and gunned the engines. For me it was so, for the whole flight down to Brazil. Eight hours. COUGH COUGH COUGH. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. Wheeeeeeeezzzzzeeee. COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH.

So, I gave up and accepted my fate. We all have our routines. Then I took my shoes off, wondered why I had showered that morning and waited for my Dixie cup of ice with a splash of Diet Coke.