I just had to throw my weight around when our flight companions finally arrived for the transfer. An early-balder from the UK and his bambi-eyed1 bride. They had done nothing wrong and are, i assume, good people2. 😂 Exhausted and more than a little drunk now, Disdain was enjoying her party.
I have a rule – or superstition – about getting into helicopters recreationally. It just seems like an effective way to kill people off through privilege. The plane we are eventually ushered to looks smaller than the copters beside it. I always said this was a good way for rich people to die, and i am cool with not being that rich.
We are four adventurous flyers now, but i am incapable of mustering any camaraderie. Suncripsed and afable, the faint cheeriness of our companions was easily oppressed by my mood. With British-born manners and likely warranted fear of Disdain, Mr. and Mrs. Rich politely defer to me to climb in first.
When i don’t speak it’s difficult for people to profile me as American, which is mostly all we do in these parts. That is, until i open my mouth, which can be jarring for unsuspecting profilers. I visibly recoil from the offer to board first. “Put the kids in the back,” i command without eye contact, skills honed through my Covid-in-Arabia identity. Early-balder lent his hand to the freshly-minted Mrs. Charlotte Rich. I didn’t catch his first name from the manifest.
Loaded-on, strapped-in, headsets in-place, we synchronously tense as the engine strains to get up the force for take-off. The plane is more Hyundai than Porsche – not so much the elegant send-off i had designed. The pilot, probably Sri Lankan, smiled wordlessly. He looked nearly 15 years old. We were off.
