“I don’t know man,” said Andre. “I’m nervous about the flight.”
“Where are you going, again?” I asked, barely paying attention anymore. We were at work, and I had things to do. Working in a kitchen is inherently distracting. There are thousands of things going on at once. People are bustling around, and even though the bistro I work in is small, a three man line, Andre was an intern, still in culinary school, working with French cuisine for college credit. I am a bastard, working with French cuisine because they hired me. I have no experience in this world. It’s really high end, the kind of place where you see a $23 burger and think “Yea, that’s about right.”
Either way, I’m here now, at this bistro, an hour into my second shift. “Cincinnati,” Andre says.
“Dude, that’s like a 90 minute flight, that’s nothing. When I was a kid, I had a 12 hour flight from Germany to South Africa. That was a motherfucker for a 10 year old.”
“I’ve never been on a plane before. You went to Africa?”
“Yea, man, I went on safari. I saw a lion in the wild. It was dope as hell. Wait, you’ve never flown before? What?”
“Never had to. All my family lives around here or in Massachusetts. We drive everywhere.”
“Dude, that’s crazy. I’ve been flying my entire life, it seems. I flew across country, alone, when I was 7. But that was in like, 1988, when kids could be unattended in the sky. Way before 9/11 when shit changed.”
“I was 8 when that happened.”
“Goddammit,” I sighed.
We kept on working, getting ready for service. We were tag teaming Garde Manger, or simple shit for morons not good enough to deal with real cooking. I’m comfortable here, even though it’s just my second shift. The other staff has embraced me, welcomed me as a kind of savior. I’m taking Andre’s place, as he is back to school, and, apparently, is quite the dummy. As I am a thinking person with a functionally useless Bachelor’s Degree, I might be some sort of improvement over this kid.
“Don’t be nervous about the flight, it’s nothing.”
“I don’t like it. Never been off the ground like that.”
“I had my first panic attack on a plane,” I blurted. I didn’t need to say this. I just did, it just popped out of my mouth.
Okay, let me rewind. For the last couple of years, I’ve suffered panic attacks. Sweats, shakes, feeling faint, the whole shebang. I’ve lost weight because of anxiety (more of a stress drinker than eater, so there’s that). I fully understand the white noise and running commentary of desperation that winds through the mind as you lay in bed, awake, for the third consecutive night. When all you want is sleep, but the negativity and worry is so loud that you can’t escape. You are a prisoner of your own over analysis, even though you know you shouldn’t care, or even be thinking about those things anymore. I know what it’s like to not understand why you are so concerned, but not having the ability to stop.
I know what it’s like to have the darkest ideas pop into your mind at the worst times. Sometimes that happens on the tarmac.
I was working in Alaska, on a campaign for some tool who I couldn’t possibly care less about. It was a job that paid me $900 a week to ask strangers questions. I hate strangers, but I was out of work and had never been to Alaska before, so I signed up. It was a bizarre three weeks, and I’m sure that I’ll get more into it later, but this is about my last hours in the Last Frontier.
At the end of the campaign, there was a party in Anchorage for the staff and some donors and supporters and whoever else was lucky enough to get in. I put on a nice shirt and pants and a jacket and was told, at the outset of the job, that there would be an open bar.
That was a lie. I wasn’t going to let something so small as a cash bar stop me from getting hammered. Also, some of my coworkers and I pregamed at the hotel so we went in a little warm already. A slew of us left the party early because it was terrible, and we were all upset about the lack of free booze.
We were all flying out the next morning, with the van heading to the airport at 6 AM. It was about 10 when a few of us decided to say “fuck it,” and just stay up all night drinking and hanging out. The idea was to drink enough to enjoy the night one last time in a place we’ll probably never see again, but not enough to keep us off the plane to take us away from that frozen hellscape.
This worked. We all thought we would just sleep on the plane for a few hours until we stop in Seattle and the lower 48, where God and Verizon pay attention. I just wanted to have my data back. Where I was stationed in the great white North, Verizon hadn’t gotten to yet. It was amazing how spotty cell service was. First world problem, I know, but it’s nice to text your mom when you are 5000 miles away.
Like I said, our grand idea for the last night worked. For most of us. We all boarded without problem, I’m sitting next to a girl who was part of a different team than I was, but doing the same job. She was cute, and if I hadn’t been seeing someone back in Connecticut, where I belong, I might have tried something with her. Alas, I didn’t do anything.
I had a window seat, she had the middle, and some random had the isle. I was pumped for the window. I didn’t have one on any of the three flights out there, including the initial flight from Hartford to Cincinnati, where I was one of 11 people on the entire flight.
She started to doze as I put on my headphones. I was jealous. I was also getting warm. Thoughts started to creep in. I turned the volume up to drown them out. They started to yell. “WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO THE PLANE? WHAT IF A BIRD FLYS INTO IT? SULLY AIN’T ON THIS FLIGHT. YOU’LL JUST PLUNGE TO AN ICY DEATH IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN.”
I started to sweat a little, just around the collar. I put the air on, blowing directly into my face. Sweat dripped down my back. My leg started to go nuts, bouncing up and down like I’m playing a kick drum. I stopped hearing my music, just the thoughts. “You’ll never see your family again, not when the plane ends up in the ocean. Your mom will cry. Your friends will get wasted and cry for a while. They’ll forget you, though. In a couple weeks, you’re going to be a sad afterthought.”
My hands shook, I couldn’t see what I was looking at. My mouth was dry. Her head slumped onto my shoulder.
I was breathing heavily, like I was asleep. I was wide awake. I couldn’t have been more awake. Or more sober. I felt like all the drink of the night before was magically shipped out of my body. I had never been so sober.
“There’s nothing you can do here, man. Just accept the potential for terror in your life. How shitty is this end going to be?”
Why was I thinking like this? Why were my thoughts talking to me like they were a different, terrible, person? What the hell is going on?
I was now clearly uncomfortable. Apparently visibly so. The flight attendant stopped by my row. She saw my state. Wide eyed, sweaty, shaking. She gave me some water, which I promptly drank. She gave me another one. The act of taking the water had an added benefit. The act of reaching jostled the sleeping lady next to me off of my shoulder.
I thanked the flight attendant quietly, as most of the others on the plane were sleeping. Partly hydrated, I took a deep breath, and I could finally hear some music. I was happy to hear Smokey Robinson, happy it wasn’t my aggressively negative brain screaming at me. Then I looked out the window at the expanse of ocean below me.
“Hey dummy,” my brain interrupted, “better hope for a soft landing, otherwise…done.”
It started again. I couldn’t get it to stop. Shaking, sweating, everything was wrong. My chest was tight. My lungs struggled. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep. Flash cards showing images of crashes zoomed through my vision. Fire, debris, blood. I saw it all. It was all fiction, I think. I think it was fiction because it all happened in my thoughts. Sure some of it was based on news footage, but that reality was emulsified with scenes from Lost, which is ludicrous in every way.
Eventually, we landed in Seattle. I settled down when I got into that airport. I could get a coffee, pop on my laptop for a while, check in with family and friends. My heart stopped racing. My sleepy row buddy and I had neighboring gates for our next flight. Mine took off first, but it was after a two hour layover. So we chatted a bit with coffee, sitting in uncomfortable chairs. We didn’t stay in touch after I took off.
“You had a panic attack in the air?” said Andre, nervously.
“Yea, it passed. Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine,” I said.
I hope he made it okay.
“Where are you going, again?” I asked, barely paying attention anymore. We were at work, and I had things to do. Working in a kitchen is inherently distracting. There are thousands of things going on at once. People are bustling around, and even though the bistro I work in is small, a three man line, Andre was an intern, still in culinary school, working with French cuisine for college credit. I am a bastard, working with French cuisine because they hired me. I have no experience in this world. It’s really high end, the kind of place where you see a $23 burger and think “Yea, that’s about right.”
Either way, I’m here now, at this bistro, an hour into my second shift. “Cincinnati,” Andre says.
“Dude, that’s like a 90 minute flight, that’s nothing. When I was a kid, I had a 12 hour flight from Germany to South Africa. That was a motherfucker for a 10 year old.”
“I’ve never been on a plane before. You went to Africa?”
“Yea, man, I went on safari. I saw a lion in the wild. It was dope as hell. Wait, you’ve never flown before? What?”
“Never had to. All my family lives around here or in Massachusetts. We drive everywhere.”
“Dude, that’s crazy. I’ve been flying my entire life, it seems. I flew across country, alone, when I was 7. But that was in like, 1988, when kids could be unattended in the sky. Way before 9/11 when shit changed.”
“I was 8 when that happened.”
“Goddammit,” I sighed.
We kept on working, getting ready for service. We were tag teaming Garde Manger, or simple shit for morons not good enough to deal with real cooking. I’m comfortable here, even though it’s just my second shift. The other staff has embraced me, welcomed me as a kind of savior. I’m taking Andre’s place, as he is back to school, and, apparently, is quite the dummy. As I am a thinking person with a functionally useless Bachelor’s Degree, I might be some sort of improvement over this kid.
“Don’t be nervous about the flight, it’s nothing.”
“I don’t like it. Never been off the ground like that.”
“I had my first panic attack on a plane,” I blurted. I didn’t need to say this. I just did, it just popped out of my mouth.
Okay, let me rewind. For the last couple of years, I’ve suffered panic attacks. Sweats, shakes, feeling faint, the whole shebang. I’ve lost weight because of anxiety (more of a stress drinker than eater, so there’s that). I fully understand the white noise and running commentary of desperation that winds through the mind as you lay in bed, awake, for the third consecutive night. When all you want is sleep, but the negativity and worry is so loud that you can’t escape. You are a prisoner of your own over analysis, even though you know you shouldn’t care, or even be thinking about those things anymore. I know what it’s like to not understand why you are so concerned, but not having the ability to stop.
I know what it’s like to have the darkest ideas pop into your mind at the worst times. Sometimes that happens on the tarmac.
I was working in Alaska, on a campaign for some tool who I couldn’t possibly care less about. It was a job that paid me $900 a week to ask strangers questions. I hate strangers, but I was out of work and had never been to Alaska before, so I signed up. It was a bizarre three weeks, and I’m sure that I’ll get more into it later, but this is about my last hours in the Last Frontier.
At the end of the campaign, there was a party in Anchorage for the staff and some donors and supporters and whoever else was lucky enough to get in. I put on a nice shirt and pants and a jacket and was told, at the outset of the job, that there would be an open bar.
That was a lie. I wasn’t going to let something so small as a cash bar stop me from getting hammered. Also, some of my coworkers and I pregamed at the hotel so we went in a little warm already. A slew of us left the party early because it was terrible, and we were all upset about the lack of free booze.
We were all flying out the next morning, with the van heading to the airport at 6 AM. It was about 10 when a few of us decided to say “fuck it,” and just stay up all night drinking and hanging out. The idea was to drink enough to enjoy the night one last time in a place we’ll probably never see again, but not enough to keep us off the plane to take us away from that frozen hellscape.
This worked. We all thought we would just sleep on the plane for a few hours until we stop in Seattle and the lower 48, where God and Verizon pay attention. I just wanted to have my data back. Where I was stationed in the great white North, Verizon hadn’t gotten to yet. It was amazing how spotty cell service was. First world problem, I know, but it’s nice to text your mom when you are 5000 miles away.
Like I said, our grand idea for the last night worked. For most of us. We all boarded without problem, I’m sitting next to a girl who was part of a different team than I was, but doing the same job. She was cute, and if I hadn’t been seeing someone back in Connecticut, where I belong, I might have tried something with her. Alas, I didn’t do anything.
I had a window seat, she had the middle, and some random had the isle. I was pumped for the window. I didn’t have one on any of the three flights out there, including the initial flight from Hartford to Cincinnati, where I was one of 11 people on the entire flight.
She started to doze as I put on my headphones. I was jealous. I was also getting warm. Thoughts started to creep in. I turned the volume up to drown them out. They started to yell. “WHAT IF SOMETHING HAPPENS TO THE PLANE? WHAT IF A BIRD FLYS INTO IT? SULLY AIN’T ON THIS FLIGHT. YOU’LL JUST PLUNGE TO AN ICY DEATH IN THE PACIFIC OCEAN.”
I started to sweat a little, just around the collar. I put the air on, blowing directly into my face. Sweat dripped down my back. My leg started to go nuts, bouncing up and down like I’m playing a kick drum. I stopped hearing my music, just the thoughts. “You’ll never see your family again, not when the plane ends up in the ocean. Your mom will cry. Your friends will get wasted and cry for a while. They’ll forget you, though. In a couple weeks, you’re going to be a sad afterthought.”
My hands shook, I couldn’t see what I was looking at. My mouth was dry. Her head slumped onto my shoulder.
I was breathing heavily, like I was asleep. I was wide awake. I couldn’t have been more awake. Or more sober. I felt like all the drink of the night before was magically shipped out of my body. I had never been so sober.
“There’s nothing you can do here, man. Just accept the potential for terror in your life. How shitty is this end going to be?”
Why was I thinking like this? Why were my thoughts talking to me like they were a different, terrible, person? What the hell is going on?
I was now clearly uncomfortable. Apparently visibly so. The flight attendant stopped by my row. She saw my state. Wide eyed, sweaty, shaking. She gave me some water, which I promptly drank. She gave me another one. The act of taking the water had an added benefit. The act of reaching jostled the sleeping lady next to me off of my shoulder.
I thanked the flight attendant quietly, as most of the others on the plane were sleeping. Partly hydrated, I took a deep breath, and I could finally hear some music. I was happy to hear Smokey Robinson, happy it wasn’t my aggressively negative brain screaming at me. Then I looked out the window at the expanse of ocean below me.
“Hey dummy,” my brain interrupted, “better hope for a soft landing, otherwise…done.”
It started again. I couldn’t get it to stop. Shaking, sweating, everything was wrong. My chest was tight. My lungs struggled. I closed my eyes, but I couldn’t sleep. Flash cards showing images of crashes zoomed through my vision. Fire, debris, blood. I saw it all. It was all fiction, I think. I think it was fiction because it all happened in my thoughts. Sure some of it was based on news footage, but that reality was emulsified with scenes from Lost, which is ludicrous in every way.
Eventually, we landed in Seattle. I settled down when I got into that airport. I could get a coffee, pop on my laptop for a while, check in with family and friends. My heart stopped racing. My sleepy row buddy and I had neighboring gates for our next flight. Mine took off first, but it was after a two hour layover. So we chatted a bit with coffee, sitting in uncomfortable chairs. We didn’t stay in touch after I took off.
“You had a panic attack in the air?” said Andre, nervously.
“Yea, it passed. Don’t worry about it, you’ll be fine,” I said.
I hope he made it okay.
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