Airplane Mode
“Where is it?” Hettie clenched her jaw, and her foot tapped a frantic rhythm on the off-white tiles. An empty passport case rested open in her hand, and I cringed. Luton Airport didn’t care that, in a moment of forgetfulness, I might have ended fifteen years of marriage. The excited families heading to exotic locations, the businessmen dressed in important suits having vital phone calls, all kept bustling about as if there were nothing special about my stupidity.
“Probably in the scanner,” I said, resigned to the tirade I was about to endure.
“Oh, in the scanner? Well, I’m glad we have a copy. It’s a shame they don’t accept that as proof of ID!” Her voice reached a crescendo, drawing eyes from the two hundred people waiting in the queue. Her plump face and short stature did nothing to soften her tongue.
“Excuse me, but I am not allowed to check you in without a passport,” the spotty-faced teenager at the desk piped up.
“I’m really sorry, I guess. It was a little silly. Although you could have double-checked. I mean… in some ways, we could both share the blame.” I tried to smile at her in the way I used to before we were married.
“Both share the blame? You were in charge of the passports! Carl Winterbottom, you give the worst apologies I have ever heard!” Her voice reached near-hypersonic frequencies, and her face was beetroot red.
“We’ve still got my passport.” I winced as she fired a barrage of insults at me. By this point, we had gathered a small crowd. “We have already checked in online, so I could take this flight and you follow on the next?”
The sound that roared from Hettie’s throat belonged to a new emotion. I guessed it represented something between rage, contempt, and incredulity.
“Fine, Carl! Take your flight! But don’t expect to see me anytime soon!” Hettie stormed off, the clicks of her high heels broadcasting her rage to all.
I turned to the check-in boy. “Just the one bag, then.”
The last swallow of beer number six at the airport bar looked like mostly backwash, but I drank it anyway. The fake leather of my stool creaked as I leaned on the fake wood of the bar. My stomach and bladder shouted for my attention, so I belched my way through, “I’m going for a pee.”
I stumbled to the toilet and searched for my flies under the beer belly I had been cultivating for decades. I sighed as I noticed the complete strangers to my left and right. Airport bars lack the one advantage of a proper pub: the toilet friend. That sacred stranger whose bladder operates on your exact frequency, with whom you share nothing but perfectly timed nods and a mutual understanding of sticky floors.
After barely washing my hands, I wandered back to the bar. On my way, I saw the departure sign. Why did my flight have red writing next to it? That’s interesting.
“Gate closes in five minutes.”
Shit.
As realisation ground through my beer-soaked brain, my feet moved ahead of my body.
I stumbled down what must have been an extremely uneven hallway, trying to find the gate. It was odd that anyone would design an airport with wobbles to it. Was the architect drunk? I lurched around the corner to see the same spotty-faced kid who checked me in, shaking his head.
“Has the plane left yet?” I asked.
“Last call, Mr Winterbottom,” he said, scanning my boarding pass as I held my upside-down passport next to my face.
“Sir, if you could hand that to me.”
Does he have to put so much scorn into the statement? He had some idea of what sort of day I was having, so a little sympathy might be nice.
“Thank you, my liege,” I said as he handed me back my passport.
I got on the flight, and everyone had already sat down. A wave of recognition bounced around the passengers and through the clashing blue and yellow of Ryanair.
“Wasn’t that the guy who held up the queue?” someone whispered as I shuffled past.
I bumped every chair I passed. They really don’t design these rows for a belly like mine. Eighteen F. Where was Eighteen F? I found my row, and the young woman in her twenties gave me the polite look of I thought I had the row to myself, you bastard.
“So sorry. I think that is my seat.” She stood up with a smile set to kill, and I squeezed through, cramming my 193-centimetre body into a chair designed for competitive origami people.
“Ladies and gentlemen, now that we have all boarded…”
Were flight attendants allowed to be passive aggressive?
“…we can take off. The cabin crew is first and foremost here for your safety, but we will ensure your comfort.”
Now that is funny. Maybe back in the eighties, cabin crew helped with comfort. Sure, the food was awful and the seats still uncomfortable, but at least you didn’t have to pay for an extra blanket or to go for a pee.
“The safety exits are here, here, and here. If you hear ‘brace, brace’, stick your heads between your legs as shown on your safety card.”
How much more likely was I to survive in the brace-brace position? I couldn’t imagine many people surviving if we got terrorised.
“We do ask that all electronics be turned off or put into flight mode.”
How risky can that really be? I had never visited the great memorial to all those who lost their lives because they forgot to turn their phones to flight mode. They wouldn’t let us bring deodorant for security reasons, but we get to keep a device that can interfere with electronics? Seems unlikely.
I pulled my mobile out of my pocket. Now, where was aeroplane mode? I searched through the symbols on the home screen, but I couldn’t see an aeroplane anywhere. My hand pulled my readers from my pocket. A screw flew off, along with a lens, and the last little pieces of my dignity.
Screw it. Just screw it. I would no longer be humiliated by my stuff. I would no longer be berated by a woman half my height. And I was not putting my phone on flight mode!
“Are you okay?” the young woman sitting next to me asked in a slight Germanic accent.
“Oh, absolutely. Airports are always a little stressful,” I said with a practised fake smile.
“I know what you mean. It took me forever to check my bag. Apparently, a couple had a fight, holding up the queue.”
“Right. Did they?” I squinted, unsure if she knew it was me.
“Yes, but as you say, it’s the airport. Stress is part and parcel.”
The engines ground to life, and we rolled back. The plane taxied around the runway, and the turbines wound up, pushing me back into my chair.
England dropped away from us, and we entered the ever-present grey clouds. After a minute, we burst through the carpet of cotton wool. A blinding sun sat perched in a deep blue sky, and we climbed ever higher.
“I like the reminder that however grey it is at home, the sun is still shining,” the woman next to me said.
“That’s quite deep. I’m Carl, by the way.” I extended my hand, and her gentle grip wrapped around my fingers.
“Emmi.”
“Nice to meet you. So, business or pleasure?”
“I’d usually choose pleasure over business,” she said, giving me a pleasant smile. Her clothes suggested she liked the hippie aesthetic without actually wanting the inconvenience of searching through charity shops. She wore a long floral dress, and an assortment of beads and pendants hung from her neck. The bangles around her wrists jingled whenever she moved.
“I mean, what was the reason for your trip?” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair, feeling an odd rumble. Probably some sort of turbulence.
“Not sure why I have to choose, but I’m going to meet a friend, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Have you known this friend for a long time?”
“Yes, we met ba…” Emmi stopped mid-sentence, her eyes opening wide. Bright multicoloured lights flashed through the window. A woman screamed as the plane lurched and shuddered. Bags, water bottles, and a poor woman heading to the toilet floated in the air before being thrown forward the length of the plane. I smashed my face into the chair in front of me, and blood splattered from my nose. After everything ground to a halt and the cabin filled with moans, the seatbelt light pinged on.
“People of Earth,” a nasal voice snivelled through the speakers. “This is Grand Wachital’s personal adjutant, Shadarciracdavinantor. But you may call me Dave.”
