Naturally apprehensive and skeptical as
to how a giant pile of metal could possibly get off the ground in the first place and then stay aloft,
my flying days got off to a peculiarly bad
start years ago, and since then, despite countless trips across the country and across the Atlantic, I've never lost the feeling that at any
moment the winged contraption I was in would take a dive and I would
plummet to certain death. Alcohol does not help, although a couple of Lorazepam on the way to the airport will smooth things out nicely.
My virgin flight at the age of
twenty-two was the start of my lack of confidence in the
allegedly friendly skies. Of course, the fact that I was reared by two
people who had never been higher than their fifth-floor
walk-up in Brooklyn didn’t help.
Both my parents were of the “If God
Had Intended Us To Fly He Would Have Given Us Wings”
school of thought, my father more ferocious in this belief than
my mother. He was the guru, she merely one of his willing
disciples. Dad was very up-to-date on the death toll for any year from
plane crashes, and was a veritable walking book of statistics on the probability of survival relating to where you sat in the
aircraft, sort of a precursor to Google on the subject. Whenever a major air disaster occurred, he seemed as
happy as a news commentator with a hot story. Gloating, he
would say, “See that, what did I tell you? Am I right or am I
right?”
On the eve of my first flight, a
forty-five-minute hop from New York to Washington to visit a
college friend, my parents invited me over to dinner for their
version of the Last Supper. One would have thought I was having
major surgery the following day from the way they
behaved.
“One question: Why are you doing this to us?” my father asked, his lower lip quivering.
“I only have the weekend, and I don’t
want to spend half of it getting there. Besides, I want
to fly, we are not living in the Dark Ages anymore, at least I’m not.
You are aware that normal people fly every day, are you not?
They say it’s safer than driving.”
“If your mother’s driving, maybe, but
all I know is when my car runs out of gas, I don’t
fall into the Atlantic Ocean.”
“Jesus, Dad, airplanes do not run out of
gas! Anyway, I’m flying to Washington, there’s no ocean to
fall into.”
“That’s even worse. At least if you fall
into the water you could swim, you
might possibly survive. But you hit land and bang, that’s it!
You’re finished.”
“Mother, please make him stop.” I turned
to her, the voice of authority in almost all
disputes.
“You've been a
wonderful daughter,” she said, blowing her nose into a wadded-up ball of
lipstick-stained tissues. “I just don’t understand what’s wrong with the
train all of a sudden?” Overcome with sobs, she left the
room.
After promising to call them the
minute I arrived, I left thinking my parents were really
pathetic. I mean really, how could anyone not have faith in the New
York-to-DC Eastern Shuttle? After all, it was practically
invented to ferry important politicians back and forth, it had
to be safe!
Looking back, I could see all the red flags that I missed at the time. A
leading indicator was the condition of the stewardesses; one
was at least fifteen pounds overweight and the other had a very unflattering hairdo. Obviously,
both of them were expendable employees. And the airplane was
less than half full, which meant that all the passengers who were
sensitive to bad omens had bolted before take-off.
We had been airborne for about fifteen minutes
when I noticed that the elderly German couple sitting next
to me were gripping hands and praying in their native tongue.
I also noticed that we seemed to be going down rather
dramatically, but hey, it was my first time, who knew what it was
supposed to feel like? But then the captain announced, fairly shouting, “Ladies
and gentlemen, we just received report of a bomb on the
plane! We are making an emergency landing. Please
deplane by sliding down the inflated rubber chute and run away as fast as
possible!”
As the chubby stewardess began sobbing
uncontrollably, the captain’s voice continued with the cryptic instructions:
“Remove your shoes and eyeglasses and place them under your seat.” With that announcement all Hell broke loose, it was just like
those grade-B airplane disaster movies. I think I even saw
Leslie Nielsen and Shelley Winters elbowing people in the
aisle. Despite all the screaming, pushing and shoving I survived, and with
the distinction of being the last person off the plane.
Unfortunately, I was one of maybe two people who actually did as the captain
requested and so slid down the rubber emergency
chute minus my shoes and glasses. Being incredibly myopic, I saw little of Washington that particular weekend. I also never saw those shoes again, or those glasses or my luggage.
FYI: The plane did not explode.
