Fly Away to Omaha

I can admit I am only human. Well, mostly human, anyway. And being human, I have my

flaws, my quirks and bucketful of phobias. The most serious of these is my fear of bats. Those

damn little things can flit about like a hummingbird on heroin.

But it is my fear of flying that impact my life more than my phobia of bats. I actually

have to, sometimes, at my wife’s insistence on vacation time, get on a plane, while I can run,

screaming, from bats. You can point me to all the studies and statistics and reports that emphasis

flying as the safest of all modes of transportation, but all of these publications are put out by the

CEO’s of the big airlines, sitting safely at home, laughing all the way to their home computer as

they deposit huge sums of money into e-banks.

They are laughing because they have conned us, the public, into thinking that heavy

metal parts riveted together offer a safe means of travel – through the air! We only need to look

at nature, with its billions of years of evolutionary work experience, to see the absurdity in

modern human aviation. Have you ever seen an elephant fly? Outside of Dumbo, a purely

fictional, but still personable young elephant, the answer is no! Let’s look at emus and ostriches.

Flightless birds. This means they cannot fly. And why not? They evolved into the Americans of

the animal kingdom – they got too fat on a diet on McDonald’s and ice cream. Last question:

how many ostrich’s can fit inside a 737 airliner? 737 full-grown male ostriches! A coincidence,

or are the airline executives just having a wee bit too much fun with us?

So we’ve established that a large number of fat, flightless birds can fit inside a steel tube

with skinny wings that is designed, I am told, to carry me through the air. And I am supposed to

be so thoroughly delighted at this prospect that I’ll hand over $97,450.00 to fly from Kalamazoo

to Atlanta, Georgia?
 I understand the necessity of air travel, otherwise we would spend seven months out of

the year driving to our vacation destinations, and the other five packing or unpacking. Yet

understanding it does not require that I enjoy it. And, really, who can enjoy it? Upon boarding

your first requirement is to march somberly by all those rich folk in the first class section, who

were allowed to board three days ago and most of which are half in the bag, thanks to the three

day supply of free booze. Once you locate your seat, and I use this term loosely for it is the size

of a postcard with upholstery, you must squeeze into it and watch as hundreds of passengers try

to stuff ten-foot carryon luggage into the overhead compartments.

So, ninety minutes later, with every storage compartment groaning under stress and

seemingly ready to burst open at any moment, everyone is finally seated. The behemoth next to

me spills over the armrest and parts of his body are touching mine! I don’t know about you, but I

do not like strangers’ bodies touching any part of me, unless, of course, that stranger is Julie

Andrews.

So I slide over into my wife’s seat. Good thing she is so skinny. Next comes the pilot’s

announcement that due to A. traffic backup, or B. bad weather, or C. a mechanical “glitch” (that

one I really love to hear!), or even possibly D. “Excuse me while I run to the Airport Bar and

Grille for one last Maitai,” the flight will be delayed. This gives me even more time to enjoy the

sweat and odor of the large guy next to me. I think he had too many onions on his Megaburger.

Finally, seven hours later we begin to taxi onto the runway. Anyone who has flown

knows the airplane must drive from the terminal to the farthest spot on the runway, along a

zigzag route that pilots learn as a security countermeasure, in case Nazi fighter planes fly out of

the clouds and dive bomb the airport. So by the time we are actually ready for takeoff, most of

the passengers in first class are passed out in their spacious, overstuffed Lazyboy recliners. Now,
if we are lucky and the pilot hasn’t severely depleted the gas tank getting to the final runway, the

jet’s engines reeve and we hurtle pell-mell down the blacktop.

My phobia hits it peak at two points: takeoffs and landings. The entire plane shakes and

rattles, hinges on the overhead compartments screech in protest, and I desperately wish to be a

first-class flyer, or at least licking the last drops from their tiny liquor bottles. My wife wishes

this also, as my fingernails gouge fresh grooves into her lovely arm.

Somehow this bucket of bolts makes it into the air, and I loosen my grip on my wife’s

bleeding arm. The liquor cart can’t get to her fast enough. Onion breath decides to spill his life

story to me, and I was raised to be polite at all times, under penalty of death, so I could cannot

look away. Hours later, tears streaming from my eyes, I am able to turn back to my wife. Of

course she has the window seat and my eyes are drawn to the vastness outside, and to the flimsy

wings bouncy on the air currents like a really bad surfer. I really didn’t need to see that, but

having seen, my eyes scan every inch of the wing, looking for any minute crack, ding or popping

rivet. Did you know that seven trillion rivets are used on just one wing alone? That is a “7”

followed by a trillion zeros. Do you think the maintenance people, having given back their raises

for the last ten years, having had their medical coverage sliced and diced, tested three times a day

for drugs, are really going to bother to check every one of those seven trillion rivets? What, and

skip lunch?

So I watch the wings flap, trying to be like the birds, but of course I know that plane’s

wings should not flap. Flapping leads to snapping. My phobia grows. I turn back to Onion Breath

and let my eyes tear up again.

Turbulence on an airplane is also very enjoyable. Do not look at the wings during severe

turbulence, if you want to keep your sanity. Air turbulence is largely caused by the airplane
slamming into giant boulders, while flying at 900 miles an hour. At least that is what it feels like.

Knowing I am at 39,000 feet above safe, solid ground, with ruthless turbulence threatening to

snap the flimsy wings at any moment so I can plummet to the earth, makes my phobia kick into

high gear.

The announcements from the pilot or co-pilot, though, take the cake. The pilot will come

over the speaker, matter-of-factly, with no cares in the world, because the Mai-tai effect is still in

full bloom.

“Hello. This is your captain.”

At this point he is just patronizing me, because if he were truly “my” pilot, that would

make me his boss, and I would have fired him for that damn take-off!

“We’re heading into some pretty bad turbulence in about ten minutes, so if you all could

just take your seats.”

What?! I want to scream. You know where it’s at?! This is one huge sky we are in – fly

around it, over it, or under it!

“Yeah, it looks to be pretty bumpy most the rest of the way into Omaha.”

Fly somewhere else! You’re fired! F-I-R-E-D! Wait a sec- Omaha? But I’m on my way to

Atlanta!

So we’re heading to Omaha, on a flying bus with a driver that delights in hitting every

pothole along the route. Onion Breath is snoring in my ear, while his bulk bounces about my

seat. Liquor can’t be served, of course, because of the turbulence, though I know full well the

stewards and stewardesses are in the galley having drinking contests. And when we land, and the

crew, happily drunk, thanks me for flying with them, I am going to deck them, one at a time. I

doubt that will cure my phobia of flying, but it sure will make me feel better.