Our Pilot Is Crying

?Welcome aboard? the blonde stewardess grinned perfect white teeth. ?Seat number??
?14B,? I read off the folded ticket, delirious from the early morning scrambling to JFK. I was exhausted and eager to nap on a long flight to the UK. Just a few more hours and I?ll see Phoebe I thought. I'd only known her two months but I was flying overseas to see her again after a week apart. I?d also never been in love before, at least not like this.
?Down the right aisle, middle seat!? the chipper stewardess sang in a soothing tone. I hauled my hefty carry on behind me down the aisle, careful not to kneecap anyone. A businessman in front of me was taking his time removing books, neck pillows and kindles from the bags, causing a traffic jam. It was nearly a seven-hour flight to Heathrow, plenty of time to do that later. Still, I waited patiently until the people behind me began to shove.
?Ahem!? I cleared my throat, hoping he?d take a hint. He didn?t. I groaned and lowered my head in frustration before my throat a little louder.
The middle-aged businessman holding up the rest of us gave me a sneer, squinting down the end of his upturned nose. Finally, he slid into his seat.
The man huffed some whispered insult under his breath once I?d passed, but I was walking on air at the thought of seeing her.
I squeezed down the narrow aisle, lugging my heavy bag as an infant?s cries grew in volume. I glanced at the numbers as I shuffled onward. Upon spotting my row number, I stopped in my tracks. This couldn?t be right, surely there was a mistake. I checked the ticket a few times to confirm; I was seated between a loudly squealing baby and a snoring, overweight man.
?Pardon me,? I said to the large man spilling out his aisle seat. ?Sir,? I continued before the wide man wearing a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt and shorts finally woke up. He glowered at me with a face red with rosacea and wild, gray whiskers. He grumbled as he struggled to his feet and then extended a large arm to the dreaded middle seat as if angrily presenting the last of his possessions to a repo man.
I squeezed into the narrow seat and clicked my belt on before plugging my earbuds in to drown out the wailing baby?s screeching with music. The large man spilled back into his aisle seat and his sweaty belly enveloped my forearm like a hairy amoeba.
The plane continued to fill up and overhead compartments were stuffed to the brink of bursting. Eventually, the passengers were all seated and I breathed out. Finally.
?Welcome aboard British Airways flight 2135, this is your pilot speaking. Thank you for your patience, we are now cleared for takeoff,? a robust voice said through the speaker. The plane soon rattled as we accelerated down the runway. I clenched the armrest, trying to convince myself the amount of shaking was completely natural. My body pressed back against the seat as the plane tilted and lifted. The city beneath fell away. I watched the city shrink into grids of urban planning, then crop pastures, and sighed in relief before dozing off.
Eventually, we leveled and my firm grip on the armrest relaxed. The seat belt sign shut off just before the pilot spoke.
?Good afternoon passengers. This is your captain speaking. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 33,000 feet at an airspeed of around 400 miles per hour. The time is 9:00 pm. But none of that matters. None of it ****ing matters.?
With a click, the speaker announcement cut short, but everyone had heard it. Concerned whispers spread throughout the cabin.
?What the hell was that?? a man huffed from a few rows behind me. I tried to chalk it up to a joke that went South, but my twisting stomach made it clear I didn?t buy that. The pilot came back on as the murmur of concerned passengers grew.
?You put in your time in being the perfect companion and they just ****ing run to someone else. It?s like you never even existed, except as a stepping stone. They take everything you have to give and move on to some other *******.? He then began to wail, sobbing loudly into the speaker. I was no longer simply concerned, I was terrified. Everyone on board was.
Shrill screams erupted from toppling passengers as the plane banked left at a 45-degree angle. A few overhead compartments unlatched, spilling out hard-shell luggage that smacked into a few passengers in the aisle seats with audible thuds. The copilot was shouting and banging on the cockpit door with a fist; he?d been locked out.
More screaming. People mashed the flight attendant help button, but they had all gathered at the locked door to the pilot?s cabin, trying desperately to force it open. It only took one panicked man from first class shouting ?Oh my God, we?re going to die!? and absolute Hell broke loose. The pilot took the speaker once again.
?When they scavenge the black box out of the smoldering wreckage, Phoebe, I hope to God you listen to the recording. This was your ****ing fault. You and the ******* you texted you?d pick up at terminal 3. Riding aboard my ****ing plane.? He broke down into an awful, tearful wailing, unable to coherently speak any longer.
The din of panicking passengers at death?s door continue to scream over the pilot's distorted cries through the overhead speaker. The jagged peaks of Newfoundland?s Long Range Mountains grow ever closer as I type, but I?ve been frozen in my seat since the realization hit me like a cinder block. Phoebe. My Phoebe. That ?*******? she'd texted was me.


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