Exert from "Safe Travels"

Below is an exert from "Safe Travels," a collection of non-fiction essays I started awhile ago and have just recently started working on again (needless to say it's all I can think about at the moment). So, I hope you'll enjoy...

I hate flying.

The smell of people trying to cover up their smells melding with the stale air we are all fighting to breathe, the sound of children crying and the useless cooing of apologetic mothers; the crumbs of other people, the trash left behind. The flight attendants and their types: Boob Job Betty with the too small uniform, just bursting for attention; Lisping Larry with his “theatbelt thafety” instructions and constant gesticulating hands; Pissed off Patty with the “fuck you” smile who hates Boob Job Betty and probably spits in your drink when no one’s looking. And then there is that monotone voice that chirps in at all the expected elevations, the voice behind the controls, the voice you’re trusting your life with, the voice you’re glad you didn’t have to see the face of until after you got off the plane.

I wore a pair of trendy over-sized sunglasses that covered most of my face, even though it was dark outside, and a scarf draping my shoulders in artistic sweeps, even though it was unreasonably warm inside the cabin. Maybe someone would think I was famous if I looked exhausted and unimpressed, I thought. I didn’t bother to look when someone sat down in seat next to me; I was busy trying to appear unapproachable.

I wanted to sleep but an unnatural lunging motion had startled me and the jerking caused my sunglasses to dislodge and reveal my less than famous face. I grasped the silver armrest separating me from the stranger directly to my right. I watched as the cylindrical inside walls tilted from side to side and I thought of a funhouse—the type that isn’t really fun at all.

“Don’t like to fly?” The body next to me could speak. The flight was half over and we had expertly avoided engaging in any forced conversation so far. Why did he have to ruin it? I responded with an acceptable nod, rejecting his attempt at banter.

“You get used to it. After a while, you stop worrying about the plane crashing and more about just getting to wherever you're going,” the man said. He had black, spiral ringlets that sang past his shoulders. He was petit. I thought that if I stood up it would be embarrassing. That hair made me sick. It reminded me of the wads of fake hair that came in tight plastic packages at the craft store.

“So, have you ever been to San Juan?” he asked.

“Yes. Once. But I’m just making a connecting flight—” I stopped. There was something about him. I looked around, an entourage of bald spots with long black hair and black leather occupied the seats next to us and behind us. They drank champagne. The man next to me was drinking Tropicana Orange Juice from the can.

I could tell. He was famous.

It didn’t matter who he was; right now, he was just another body taking up space, breathing my air. But he started it, obligating me to inquire.

“Do—um, I mean, you look really familiar, are you, uh—” I had no idea who he was. Probably a has-been that I was too young to know but old enough to recognize from the way the present decade seemed to hang from his bones like the loose skin around his neck.

“Yeah. I was in a band,” he looked me up and down, “you’re probably too young to remember, though.” The defeat in his voice made me self-conscious. “Ever hear of Black Sabbath?” he asked.

“Oh, yeah, of course!” I said, thinking: I watched The Osbournes, I know about Black Sabbath. That’s the band Ozzy was in before he got the shakes and stutters; back when he bit the heads off animals to make a crowd go wild; the career he had before reality TV and loose skin, right?

“Well, I’m not in Black Sabbath now. I was, back in the 80s. This band is called Dio.” He pointed his index finger up in the air and twirled his arm like a cowboy without a lasso. “We’re doing a concert in San Juan. It’s part of our tour,” he said. I nodded and smiled, trying to figure out if reading the safety manual would be considered rude at this point.

“Do you want to go?” he asked.

“Go where?” Doesn’t he know we are trapped like sardines in this bucket of aluminum? There’s nowhere to go, no way out.

“To the show. Do you want a ticket?” Neat! Does that include a backstage pass to meet your hot sons and drink from an open bar? If so, I’ll let you sign my cleavage with a Sharpie!

“I wish I could go. But I sort of have plans. I’m on my way to Anguilla—my dad is getting remarried,” I said, trying to make it sound as uninteresting as it really was.

“Ah, wouldn’t want to miss that. You like her?”

“Who?”

I was distracted. The talk was antagonizing. I was trying to mentally prepare for a crash and he was causing static in my brain waves. I was holding my breath when I wasn’t talking, and the lack of oxygen was making me stupid. Or maybe it was the third Bloody Mary I was about to finish. As I drained the last drops from the plastic cup and rattled the ice to indicate the need for a refill, one of the flight attendants, Boob Job Betty, shook her head and pointed to the “Fasten Seat Belt” sign above. “No Drink Service Due To Turbulence” would make a better sign, I thought.

I looked out the window: a mess of clouds. But I knew there was a shark-filled ocean below that I couldn’t see. Panic trickled down my spine and I suddenly realized that I had no idea how to use my seat cushion as a floatation device.

“The lady your pops is marrying – you like her?”

“Oh, right, sure, she’s nice. This is lucky number three for him, though, so we’re all keeping our fingers crossed,” I said. I hoped my sarcasm would satisfy him to silence for the rest of the flight as I laughed in the way that makes people uncomfortable, finally reaching for the safety manual to cap it off.

“Marriage is tough. But Anguilla – whoowee, that’s a nice place,” he said.

I stared out the window again and watched the wings shake as we plunged from the clouded darkness into a parade of lights. We were about to land when my stranger and I finally exchanged names.

“Ronnie—Ronnie James Dio,” he said, shaking my hand before we parted ways.

He seemed disappointed that I didn’t write it down or ask for an autograph.

He said to look for them when they came to a nearby city.

I said I would and knew I wouldn’t.