WHITE KNUCKLE HIGH

Okay, I’m nervous. It just doesn’t seem natural to be up in the air like this. I’m not a fucking bird or kite. So, I’m scared. An understatement. I’m paralyzed. I figure maybe by having a drink I’ll relax. After all, alcohol is the ‘liquid courage’ of our time. Ethanol-laced blood vessels weaken fear and dig deep into the psyche to find that cockiness and self-confidence that can hitchhike its way to the ever-loving “I” ego Yeah!

I’m polite at first. “Excuse me.” Nothing. “Excuse me. Could I get a cocktail, please?” Some Tammy Faye-faced bitch air waitress named Tiffany whines, “You have to wait till the cart comes here.” The cart, I notice, is partially hidden by the coven-esque first class curtain, a zillion rows in front of me. “Oh, thank you,” I say. I’ll be patient. After all patience is a virtue, and virtues are godly, and I’m about as close to God as possible up here without being fucking dead.

My eyes are magnetized to the iron curtain that separates those that spent a few more bucks than me. I see Tiffany, the fake, smiley-faced sky waitress, talking to some Yuppie junior exec types. “Hey, Sweetie. I’m sorry to interrupt your husband-hunting, but I just want one drink to… calm my nerves.” A phrase that would fit nicely into any Tennessee Williams’ play. Just a little soothing nerve tonic.

I had just left New Orleans. What a town of ma’ams and “politicity.” Their friendliness and Southern hospitality being counter-attacked by my well-learned, self-defense protection mechanism.

THEM: How you doing today?

ME: (Silence and a top form ‘don’t-fuck-with-me’ look.)

New York City - Eight years. I trained with the best!

The cart gets closer. I can smell the relief. A loudmouthed, baldheaded, baby-demon child is screaming in Row 21 in front of me. I know how he/she feels. I'm miserable too.

Tiffany is an idiotic name to me. It reflects parents who in the Sixties took too much acid, smelled too many flowers and euphorically named the product of their sweaty, pumping lust, after a fancy lamp.

I try to make baby Row 21 cry. I make faces at it, ugly faces. Cruel pastimes help pass time.

The cart, a misnomer, the ‘angel-winged tabernacle’ that carries my salvation, my ecstasy, my resurrection, approaches. I watch as she pours drinks. Another one. Her name is Bambi. I feel comfort in this. Bambi. A deer. Something that frolics on the ground, the steady solid ground. I watch to see if anyone else is drinking alcohol. Am I the only one who feels the need, who sees the reason?

Oh, great. Row 20. Someone just got a Bloody Mary. A fellow vodka compatriot. I think it would be better if airlines separated drinkers from non-drinkers, the way they used to separate smokers. That way the drinkers wouldn’t have to feel guilty about having a little eight A.M. cocktail. Smokers never feel guilty. Smokers feel righteous indignation and abhorrence for those who don’t enjoy the inhalation of their carcinogenic phlegm-filled laughter.

I sit. Compose myself. Take from my purse a compact and pat small beads of perspiration off my nose.

BAMBI: Would you like something to drink?

ME: Ah… Yes. I’ll have an orange juice.

She reaches beneath the cart.

ME: Oh… and two vodkas, please.

I’m sure that the “please” will disguise the angst in my voice and her awareness of my need for a double dose. Tension paralyzes my body as I look out the window and see another plane that seems only yards away. Nausea takes over as we bump our way through a big, fluffy, strato-cumulo-cirrus-like cloud. I must stay strong. I must stay focused, for it is my will power alone that keeps this plane up.

Bambi’s hand, holding my precious relief, slows as it extends toward me. My hand feels heavy as it lifts to grasp the cure. Both our hands moving toward each other like cliche lovers in a flower-ridden field, running in slow motion as the music crescendos.

Contact!

I pull the glass greedily toward me forsaking my angel of mercy. My hands shake as I open the seal on the miniature bottles and pour, pour, pour the clear liquid into the glass, into the glass, into the glass, into my mouth, into my mouth. Is that all? Suck the juices of, suck the essence of, ah… ah, oh sweet alcohol, I love you!

My mind starts, is there anyone looking? Does anyone see me making love to this tiny vodka bottle lover?

I settle in, satiated, satisfied, sink into my seat. All is well with the world.

Baby in row 21… cry on.

Tiffany… flirt on.

Airplane… tumble on...

On to our destination. I’ll get there alright.

Whether you do or not!