Yesterday, I had arrived at O’Hare in Chicago Boston Boston
“Is there a storm?”
“No.”
“Torrential rain?”
“No.”
“High winds?”
“No.”
“Freak hail?”
“No.”
“Unexpected fog or low cloud cover?”
“No.”
“So why,” I am forced to ask, “aren’t we on the plane?”
“Flight’s been delayed,” the most unhelpful person on the planet mumbles to me.
Yeah thanks…I rather caught onto that fact after my third trip to Starbucks in as many hours. As the other gate attendant, equally blank faced, looks on I realize that I am not to have an answer as to the reason for my extended stay in the Windy City any time soon. Having checked to see if I can standby on two other flights and for a brief moment even considering paying to fly on a different airline, I finally resign myself that none of us booked on the 3 flights to Beantown are going anytime soon and look for a spare patch of floor to sit on.
Eons later, finally aboard the plane, we are advised of a further delay. Another 30 minutes of my life will be sucked away sitting on the tarmac. Close to alarm caused by the fact that I am seated next to five year old, I try to distract myself thinking of new ways to kill time. The best idea that occurs to me is a quickie in the toilet. An interesting distraction for the aged 18+ passenger stranded in a holding a pattern, it offers an alternative to reading or flipping through the pages of Skymall. Granted the plane is on the tarmac so it won’t get you into the ‘mile high’ club but I consider the possibility of being the founding member of the ’20 foot high’ club: made up of those adventurous travelers who simply can’t wait until after take off. Alas, I am traveling alone and thoughts of my newly founded club are interrupted by the unapologetic stare of a five year old drilling into the side of my head.
I love children but I have discovered that at 35,000 feet, I tend to entertain Alien-esque thoughts of blowing these monstrous creatures out of the airlock or at the very least stowing them safely in an overhead compartment (careful: they may shift during flight). I’m unsure what it is exactly, but after hundreds of flights, my research suggests that high altitudes seem to trigger a chemical imbalance within the brains of anyone less than four feet tall. As a result, a child at 35,000 feet resembles what can only be loosely described as a monkey on acid in a jungle gym.
My last such "monkey" encounter was a few months ago on a trans-Atlantic flight. While it shames me to say, it is also accurate that after five straight hours of torment, when that air-bourne monkey finally succumbed to exhaustion and fell asleep 30 minutes before landing, and his mother had quietly snuck off to the loo… I nearly stabbed him with my pen. Having terrorized me for five hours, I felt justified in jabbing him, just
one (and only in the leg) now that he was enjoying a blissful kip. It took every ounce of reserve strength in my body to physically restrain myself from such an act of madness.
I look at the child sitting next to me now. He seems quite reserved and calm. For the first time, I am allowing myself to believe he may be immune H.A.M.S syndrome (High Altitude Monkey Sickness) which plagues other children. He seems, dare I say, well behaved? I am simply overjoyed at my good fortune, even going so far as to share my squirrel sized complimentary nibbles with him.
Finally I decide it is time to take advantage of my luck and settle down to get some work done. I turn on my overhead light and start to spread out my materials, in so far as is possible in an economy airline seat, when suddenly the seat in front of me reclines unexpectedly. Fine, not great but fine. I can manage. Seconds later a small angelic face appears over the top of the head rest. I try to avoid eye contact and start to count to 15. I’m no fool. I know that if that little face doesn’t disappear within the next 15 seconds at the insistence of its owner (read: parent) that all hope is lost. But the small cherubic face gazes at me intently either oblivious to the orders being issued for it to sit down or simply refusing to disappear back from whence it came. ...5,4,3,2,1.... we make eye contact and my heart sinks. I know I am looking into the eyes of evil, and that by the time we reach 35,000 feet those angelic eyes will morph into the red rimmed wild eyes of a monkey on acid jonesing for its next hit.
It is about this time, that two separate yet equally unfortunate events began to occur. First the forward aft monkey discovered she was in complete control of the seat movement. Forward, back, forward, back, forward, back. Simultaneous to this another monkey several rows behind discovered he could, by standing in his chair, control the sun and he began in earnest to experiment with his new God-like powers over the light switch.
On……….off……….on……..off……..on…..off…..on…off…on..off..on.off.onoffonoffonoffonoffonoffon.
During this warm up performance drinks were served. The monkey beside me seemed to be taking the flurry of activity in stride and made no move to join in as a part of a triple threat. Mental images of him starting in with the air vent were popping up in my head…. WHOOOOOSH….. Shhhhhhhhh…. WHOOOOOSH ….Shhhhhhh…. WHOOOOSH. But thankfully, his immunity held out and he continued to sing quietly to himself with his head in his mothers lap, observing me and apparently curious as to what was causing the panic stricken look on my face. The cause, lost to him, must have been abundantly apparent to the stewardess who arrived with the drinks cart and she must have sensed my desperation.
“Wine? Beer? Something…else?” she politely enquired.
“Yes, both, everything. Please. What have you got?”
Not only was she quick about seeing to me but she refused my money. It must be clear upon my face that I’m close to panic and the food/airline industry are going out of their way to help me hold onto the last strands of sanity. Service like that ought to commended.
And so it went, ‘seat recliner’ and ‘button pusher’ working in tandem until I thought I might vomit from motion sickness or suffer an epileptic seizure brought on by the strobe effect. Forward, on. Back, off, on, forward, off, back, on, off, forward, back until it worked up to a climatic crescendo. And then it stopped, as suddenly as it began.
I don’t recall if hissed warnings issued from parents finally brought it to a halt or if tiny monkey fingers just simply don’t possess the stamina we adults do but at that moment I was left teetering on the brink of the abyss, madness certainly within reach and hysterica mere moments away. In truth, the entire episode may have lasted five minutes or it may have lasted two hours, I couldn’t say but I tend to think, more than anything else that what saved me was the captain’s timely decision to reduce our cruising altitude.
My one crusade in life now is to find the quiet monkey who sat beside me on this flight before I die. He will be found and he will be tested for antibodies to High Altitude Monkey Sickness. One day vaccinations will be available, indeed no, mandatory for any child flying... and people will travel and it will be peaceful. That will be my legacy...
