Flying Steerage.
Behavior on airlines has gotten pretty bad.
By Prioleau Alexander
Not too long ago, some young man taunted Mike Tyson until Iron Mike punched him in the face. I don’t know what this kid’s final destination was, but it was almost the afterlife.
I think perhaps we need a dress code on airplanes—like in the old days, when tickets were too expensive for people like me to buy. If the carriers want to keep prices where they are, perhaps they could require White Tie, which travelers could rent and return at the various airports. With everyone in tails and gowns, no one would fight, because they’d be too busy— speaking in fake British accents, sipping their drink with their pinkie extended, and sharing their favorite Monty Python quotes.
I would say tuxes instead of tails, but my tux didn’t stop me from getting in a fight one time. My record for peace in tails is unblemished.
The omni-present sweatsuits have the opposite effect as tails, as tracksuits are literally designed for athletes, among them boxers and MMA fighters. Mafia bosses also like tracks suits. Either way, the wearer might be dangerous, which puts us civilized passengers in a fight-or-flight mode… and since flight isn’t an option going 500mph at 20,000 feet, fight is what’s left.
Obviously, seatbelt extenders need to be done away with. If parts of you are going to flow over the armrests and onto me, you need two seats. I don’t care if you buy the two, or the carrier is stupid enough to give a second one to you, but we’re moving into the neighborhood of murderous rage if you ooze onto me.
Another way to calm the herds would be to install two armrests between seats. I’m usually polite and surrender my right to the armrest, but if some Portland lib wearing a Free Palestine t-shirt plops down next to me, that armrest is mine… and one of us will get dead before I’ll give up a quarter inch.
Booze is often a factor… some people just can handle drinking their first beer at 6:30 am—although the need to gird oneself for the coming boarding-process-battle does justify said consumption. The airport is literally the only place on earth where you will encounter Mormons and Baptist pastors doing shots of schnapps with their bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits.
The airlines failure to feed passengers—at all, ever—doesn’t help matters. That 8th degree blackbelt Buddhist Monk who’s six scotches deep needs more in his stomach than six peanuts and a cookie. The mere Feng Shui of these flying cattle cars can put me into another murderous rage, and I’m not a religiously-avowed, deadly teetotaler who’s currently half in the bag. I don’t think a dude who lives in a cave on Mt. Everest can muster the level of meditation required to endure a middle-seat.
Drugs would probably help. Personally, I don’t do drugs, but if there was shop in the concourse selling those psychedelic mushrooms, I might bite. And if I have a layover in Atlanta, I might give crack a try, too.
A little more courtesy regarding gate arrivals would be a good way to soothe the savage beasts. I don’t know about you, but there have been times when I’ve landed, and had to book a flight to get to my next gate. Best case scenario, you land at gate A-1, and leave from gate Z-11… but it feels like a small victory, because Concourse Z actually has 13 gates.
Flight attendants are often a serious point of contention, as I’ve written about before. They used to be attractive young ladies wearing heels and mini skirts, who flew until they married a pilot, or someone in First Class. Today, most are 25-year veterans—acerbic, volcanic individuals getting ready to erupt, and spew a lava of bitterness and fury.
I’m told much of this comes from the fact they no longer view themselves service ambassadors or passenger attendants, but instead now see themselves as “safety professionals.” Really? Then why am I the one who has to be prepared and willing to open the escape hatch? Believe me, when the plane is being engulfed in flames, a “safety professional” telling me to “remain calm” is not going to help matters.
As we all know, airlines have publicly and proudly announced they are focused on hiring “diverse pilots,” who “better reflect” a representation of “our passengers.” Hey, airline executives—have you ever flown commercial? I want the pilots to be the complete opposite of me and my fellow passengers.
What’s the plan? Are you going to redesign the cockpit to accommodate 350-lb pilots? Are they going to wear flip-flops so I can see their yellow cracked toenails? Are they going to get in fistfight over space to stow their footlocker-sized “carry on” luggage? It’s not hard to figure out, you dummies. Every single person onboard wants the same thing: A former military fighter pilot with at least 10,000 hours. No one wants to die because on final approach the pilot’s “tuck” becomes “untucked,” causing him to pass out from the pain and fall forward on the yoke.
Earlier I mention First Class. You wanna know what the most punch-able face on the planet is? A First Class passenger who, instead looking at their phone or a magazine, looks at—and makes eye-contact with—all us peons flying steerage. Trust me, we’re miserable enough without you looking up at us—and down on us—at the same time.
Tick, tock, Dudes-who-look-at-us-in-First-Class… the time is coming when one of us seething serfs is going to blow, and you’ll go from First Class to needing a first-class plastic surgeon.
I also think we might civilize things a bit by requiring everyone to put their feet in a garbage bag, and duct tape it closed—and anyone who removes them gets added to the no-fly list. I’m not going to venture too far into the topic, other than to say I’ve never encountered anything about my fellow travelers’ feet that help me “settle back and enjoy my flight.” I’m sure the feeling is mutual.
About a decade ago I instituted my “If it’s less than 8-hours, I drive” rule. Why? Because by the time you get to the airport (two hours before your flight), change planes in Atlanta, suffer through a “weather” delay, arrive at your destination, endure the the rental car nightmare, and figure out how the hell to get out of the airport, you’ve spent the better part of a day.
I’m aware the odds of dying in a car crash are infinity higher than in a plane, but it’s a risk I’m happy to take.