written inaction

The guttural scream wrenched forth from a few rows back, jarring me out of watching “Bee Movie”.  Looking towards the back of the plane I saw the squinting purple face of a man in a neck brace convulsing back and forth.  He was having a seizure. 

Slumping over and continuing to convulse, the man attracted the attention of other neighbors, and before long dozens of call buttons were tripped on Delta Flight B27.  I popped out one of my earphones so that I could hear the voices better, but still keep up to date on Benny the Bee, who was just about to reach a pivotal point in the movie, and I’d be fucked if I missed that.  The idea of getting up to help had crossed my mind, but the fact that my only qualification was an expired first responder certificate kept me glued to me seat. I could jump up, hold his shoulder and valiantly instruct the other passengers to hold him down until a doctor on the ground could see him, upon which the seasoned medical professional would discern that the victim would only suffer a few broken ribs due to an anonymous passenger’s valiant restraint. 

The possibilities at this point seemed elusive to me; would the captain have to land the plane?  Would the man be alright?  Would I be treated actually hearing someone ask over the intercom if there was a doctor on the plane?  The flight attendants, with a mundane manner that might have suggested the man had asked for a second bag of peanuts, went about securing bedding materials for the man who seemed to have lost consciousness.  In other news, Buddy the Bee had just decided to sue the human race for stealing all of beedom’s honey.  As Jerry Seinfeld’s voice of high panic spelled out the injustices that the modern bee faced, a voice cracked over the movie: “If there is a physician on the plane or anyone with medical training, would they please calmly press his or her call button—GO! YOU’VE GOT TO HURRY!”  A strange closing to a calm message.  It had actually been the Seinfeld’s line as the movie cut back in, a simple coincidence that caused a collective tensing of everyone with a headset.  It had always struck me as a very difficult situation for a crew to face when 30,000 feet above the ground.  Obviously someone with the proper training was needed, but how would one go about doing this without alarming a population of hysteric-prone people flying in a magic tin can miles above the earth?  No doubt difficult, but nothing compared the green mile of flight attendantship; calling for a pilot.  How far can a plane get without a pilot?  Right to the scene of the crash.  And everyone knows that. 

Would a crew think passengers stupid enough to believe a rouse about a cockpit tour?  “Good morning to all of our passengers aboard flight 235.  As a special treat, the captain has invited anyone with flight experience to the cockpit for a tour.  Any flight experience at all.  Anything with wings…any experience at all.  Dear god, please—someone.  It’s a very important tour.  Might be your last chance.  Our last chance.  Dear lord—we’re going to die!  WE’RE GOING TO DIE!  Press your call button if interested.”  I appreciate the difficulty of the situation. 

Delta Emergency Lack of Pilot Handbook:

So you’ve lost your pilot—what to do?  Follow these easy steps to ensure the safety of your passengers and crew.  1) Aim autopilot at nearest ocean. 2) Offer all adult beverages at ½ off.  3) Pass around release of liability paperwork.

As I revel in my own hilarity, the flight attendants round up a doctor, a nurse, an EMT, and a random man with anti-seizure medicine.  The congregation works on the man in front of the bathrooms, blocking access to the rear of the plane and forcing the entire plane to use the lavatories in the first class cabin.  Fortunately a classwar was avoided when the commoners were instructed to form a line behind the curtain so as not to infect the first class cabin with ‘poor’.  I need to use the bathroom out of curiosity rather than necessity.  Sadly, it is unremarkable in appearance.  In function, however, the bathroom is exemplary.  All is normal until the flush, which creates a vacuum so forceful and so fast that my hair gets sucked back and my ears pop.  With mouth agape I decide that the price of a plane ticket probably entitles me to two flushes, and even if it doesn’t, no one else in my row has gone, so there are flushes to spare.  I giggle a little as I allow myself a solitary “woo!” as my hair once again mats down before springing back up.  Screw the in flight movie. 

When I exit, I become aware of how much I stick out.  Several people have their eyes on me.  Is it my clothing?  Perhaps my celebration was a little too loud.  Then it hits me; there does not exist a medical condition in this world that could warrant a double flush from such a toilet, and every member of this posh potty-going cabin knows it.  Not so much ashamed as I am disappointed that I will not be able to revisit this marvel of aviation technology, I amble back to my seat with my head of volumous hair. 

Back in my seat my neighbor is asleep.  I have become the victim of the dirty love child between Murphy’s and Moore’s laws: Coach’s Law.  Coach’s Law indicates that the longer the journey and the greater the number of changeovers, the larger a passenger’s neighbor will become.  For instance, if I were traveling on a nonstop flight to Pittsburg, my neighbor would be a 110lb. sorority girl.  Or supermodel.  It doesn’t matter, because I never get to fucking fly short distances.  However, if I fly across the country as I am today, my neighbor will grow by an average of 75lbs. with each successive layover.  On this flight, with a four-hour duration from Cincinnatti to Seattle, my seatmate has increased by about 150lbs, and unkind deviation.  My decision to watch Bee Movie was not for Jerry Seinfeld’s comedic delivery, but rather to have a reason to put down the seat divider to reclaim the half of my seat that had previously been occupied by this woman’s left butt cheek.  “Excuse me,” I crooned “but would you mind if I put the armrest down so I can plug in my headphones?”  “Oh not at all,” she smiled breathing in until I had lowered the metal arm between us, at which point she exhaled like a charging bull. The steel groaned and I found myself questioning the integrity of modern metallurgy.

*                                                                        *                                                                        * 

The Cascades began to peak through the wisps of hovering cloud as the plane descended onto the tarmac.  The armrest had held, and seizure man had managed to get back into his seat and strap in for the landing.  After a long and drawn out exiting process, I call Scott, Erin’s roommate, and headed to the baggage claim.  After a brief talk with Becky to let her know that I had not died in a pilotless plane crash I grab my waiting bags and I reflect on how everything that has happened today seems to have done so according to my schedule.  It’s both exciting and worrisome. 

After a few false starts to cars that I incorrectly think to be Scott’s, we find each other and do the introduction thing.  I am immediately conscious of how foreign my clothes look; jeans, a black fleece, and running shoes stand out like a full Under Armor in gym class.  Scott wears Chacos and outdoorsy clothing in muted earth tones.  I had found my people.

We cruise about the city on our way to meet Erin for lunch, which thrills me because I haven’t eaten anything since my last evening with Mom and Dad the other night.  Apparently discount plane fare comes out of the food budget, because I can see no other justification for my two measly biscotti.  We find Erin at the parking garage and make our way to Agua Verge, a Mexican luncheon and kayak bar.  Having never been to a restaurant specializing in fish tacos, much less one that doubled as a kayak bar, I was justifiably apprehensive.  I opted for Carnita—pork tacos—on the condition that Erin and I would share bites of her Mahi Mahi tacos.  As we made our way into a heated porch area overlooking the harbor the difference of the entire seen became apparent.  It’s too early to make generalizations, but the east just isn’t like this.  There’s something different here.  The weather, the topography, the general demeanor of the people I had met (to be fair, a small group as of yet), were all markedly different from any other place I had been.  And the food was fantastic.  It’s always clear when you’ve got good food because it tastes clean almost to the point of sparseness, and Agua Verde had that down.  The moderate portion sizes made me appreciate the gentle and wonderful flavors coming from a dish I normally wouldn’t have eaten. 

Afterwards, Scott took me back to the house and I got to see where I would be living for the next few weeks.  I met most of the other roommates and felt guilty that the jet lag was really killing my level of consciousness