Aeroplane

I was over at Gabriel's Subtext and he was writing about children on an aeroplane, which reminded me of a short story I wrote a few years ago. So, here it is, my answer to annoying children on aeroplanes.

I am on an aeroplane returning to Australia from San Francisco, the city with the bay that is always cold, where the mist rolls down from the hills in the afternoon like a big fluffy white doona shaken out to air. We are into that long boring period, about the three-quarter mark. All the tricks the airline has devised to make the time pass quicker have been trotted out, bad food and bad movies and everyone, including the staff, have settled down to see the flight out.

The passengers are looking tired, or bored, resigned, or just miserable. A comfortable position is near on impossible to maintain and the best drug combination is tricky. Irregular mounds stretch out in front of me in rows, some blanketed some not, in the sunset lighting now in place. The quiet hum of the aircraft, seemingly all around me, is as constant as a heart beat, like a meditative “OM,” somewhere in my subconscious.

I am post Valium. I did sleep a little despite my fear of dying, er flying. I have read some magazines and eaten twice. Out of the corner of my eye, I see people pass by on their way to wherever – the choices are limited.

My travelling companion, Mark, has three seats next to me – the aeroplane is not even half full – and he has just reclined, waiting for sleep to take him. The hostess, with far too much make up and a permanent grin, tells me that this flight is the longest single flight anywhere and with head winds they have to carry less passengers to conserve fuel.

“There isn't much fuel to spare by the time we get to Australia, perhaps forty-five minutes, tops.”

I’m not so sure I wanted to know that small fact.

I sit here lit up by my brighter than bright reading lamp pondering what would make the time pass the quickest. I try to read.

It’s quiet now, except for two toddlers running around the aircraft, an irritating three-year-old and his slightly older, curly blond-haired sister. I have just returned from the galley with my second cup of coffee. Caffeine is a poor substitute for nicotine. I did bring some nicotine patches with me, but I’m avoiding using them. I want a cigarette with smoke and ash and the full draw back experience.

“Ahhh! Oooo! Squeal! Squeal!”

Fucking children I say to Mark, but he is nearly asleep. What’s the mother doing, I think. “What is this, a flying creche, or an adventure play ground thirty thousand feet up?” They scamper past, too short to be seen because of the high backed seats, until they are upon me. And then gone again, just as quick.

I involuntarily reach for a cigarette.

This smoking thing, as pathetic as it may sound, is really a bit much. It is one thing to choose to sit in non-smoking to avoid the putrid smoking section, but there is a big difference between sneaking to the smoking section for the odd ciggy and prohibition. One could get very edgy if one allowed oneself to.

I open my book and wriggle into the most comfortable position possible.

Suddenly there is a slap to the seat in front of me and a whack to my fold down table. “Ahhhhh,” and then the tap, tap, tap of little feet running away behind me. I catch my coffee but drop my book.

“Children running around the cabin, there should be a law against it,” I turn and grumble to Mark. His response is a warbling in-take of air through his nose, like a growling dog, followed by a large exhale.

Perhaps, I’m nicotine deprived? I’d thought of tripping the youngest one, as he passed by on one of his previous laps, but it was a spontaneous reaction and my foot simply hit the underneath of the seat in front. I gritted my teeth.

Surely someone will complain.

I want to verbally abuse them, but they don’t stop long enough by my armrest for me to swing my mouth into action.

The space waitress comes into view, strolling by with that look left, look right, look left, thing they do.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes,” purrs the over made up Miss Plastic.

“Can you shut these children up and stop them from running up and down?”

“They are children.” Her smile disappears and is replaced by a look of contempt. “What do you expect me to do?” Weak flash of a smile. Raised eyebrows.

What do I expect you to do? She looked really tired and some what annoyed by my request. “Never mind,” I say. “Kids will be kids... I guess.”

Repeated flash of the plastic smile and off she walks.

I see, I thought.

The little brat’s modus operandi is to run up one aisle and down the other, crossing over through the toilets and galley section, squealing and bouncing soft toy Kangaroos off each armrest, as they pass by. Whack, “Ahhh,” giggle, giggle. Whack, “Ahhh,” giggle, giggle. Their little blue eyes maniacal, their laugh possessed. Lisa Simpson, “I am the Lizard Queen.”

A shiver runs up my spine.

They look very pleased with their game. After about an hour, I want to take them by the throat and choke them until they are dead. Them, as blue faced corpses, amuses me for a millisecond.

Perhaps, the lack of nicotine has made me unusually crabby. I don’t mind children generally, but definitely only one at a time and probably only those known to me. I smile at the thought of my nieces tugging at my arms and calling me uncle.

They round the corner and are heading back down the aisle, in my direction. I've had it. Something has to be done.

I have to think quickly, what plan of action will be the most effective? When I say effective, this is a revenge mission, so “effective” roughly translates into causing harm, hitting out, getting the little bastards, bothering them as much as they are bothering me, for what now seems like hours.

I stand up. I feel big and suddenly they look very small.

I have to time it properly to ensure a clean get away. I need to be as close to the galley as possible, to ensure escape. I step in to the aisle and walk toward them. They are about to meet the unstoppable force. My eyes squint, my mouth curls into a nasty grin. They are side by side as the gap closes. Perfect, lost in their own, annoying, little world. They are looking up at each passenger, as they thump the armrest of each chair, laughing. It is the usual act. I simply walk right through them, no warning, nothing to indicate that I have even seen them. They ricochet off my thighs. I hear thuds and tearful outbursts, but within seconds I am around the corner and out of sight.

The boy is sitting on his mother’s lap, his face smeared with tears, as I return from my sojourn in the toilet. His curly hair almost seems finer and his face, some how, more angelic than I remember. The brat daughter is in her seat reading, as mother is comforting the boy child. They are laughing, a little, between each other, poking, prodding, although they are finally confined to their seats, by their mother. The boy child gives me a withering look as I walk by, or am I just imagining it?

When I get back to my seat Mark asks me if I am pleased with myself, as he woke to see the whole thing unfold.

The girl fared better being spun sideways into a gap between two rows of seats. Her squealing, brat brother did not fare so well. He connected with an armrest, heavily, with his head and as the ensuing, hysterical wail indicated, some pain was inflicted.

I am, indeed, pleased.