Flying First Class

Is it worth the cost?

“Priority seating,” the man in the gray Richelieu shoes and matching Brioni suit hissed. Koen Billingham pressed the start button on his Jaeger-LeCoultre moonphase chronograph and continued, “I’m timing you because every second I wait in this purgatory of a queue is another complaint I’ll be filing.”

“Thank you, sir,” the gate attendant said. “We board disabled passengers first, then those with small children, then first class. It won’t be long, I promise.” 

The gate attendant examined the ticket of a wobbling woman in her eighties with skin like an alligator that lived its entire life under the scorching Florida sun. “Do you need assistance?” 

The woman shook her head and drifted toward the jetway.

“That was four seconds,” Koen said. He tightened his Tom Ford’s Windsor knot as he clenched his toes. He wanted to ball his hands into fists, too but knew that would be an excuse for the annoying-as-hell airline employee to call security. 

He tapped his foot to a discordant beat. 

“Just another minute until those who need to board first are seated. Being seated early doesn’t get you to your destination ahead of anyone else.” The gate attendant, Harry Gleason, a fit man in his fifties with salt and pepper hair and deep-set blue eyes, smiled. “Thank you for your patience.”

After another two minutes, Harry smiled again at Koen and said, “You can board now, sir. Have a great flight.”

“I doubt it.” Koen huffed and marched toward the jetway.

Koen ignored the pre-flight announcements but looked up when someone tapped his shoulder. “You? You’re the gate attendant!”

“We have double duty. I work the gate, and I’m a flight attendant.”

“How wonderful for you.” Koen flaunted his sarcasm. “Did you come to apologize for how you treated me in the hope of convincing me not to file a complaint?” he asked as he snatched a glass of champagne from the flight attendant’s tray. “It won’t work, but thanks for the drink.”

After Koen had downed the entire glass in a single swallow, Harry said, “There’s a six-year-old girl in economy who’s flying to Los Angeles for surgery and—”

“So?”

“—and her flight would be more comfortable if she could sit in a fully-reclining seat. The child’s in pain.”

“Ask somebody else.” Koen grabbed another glass. He was not budging from seat 1A, his seat. It was 1A or take another flight, that was Koen’s rule of aviation. 

“The airline’s willing to comp you a free first-class flight if you exchange seats. It’s not even four hours from Houston to LAX, and we’ll still be able to provide you with champagne and your first-class lunch. It’s an aisle seat, too.”

“Well, whoopie doo. No thanks.” Koen put the empty flute back on Harry’s tray, pulled a magazine out of his black Fendi briefcase, and flipped through the pages. 

“You won’t get to Los Angeles any—”

“Yeah, yeah, any faster in economy than in first class. Where have I heard that before?”

“Have a good flight.” The flight attendant nodded and then asked another first-class passenger. 

An hour after taking off, Delta flight 1709 entered the realm between cold and warm fronts, where air fights for its place in the atmosphere, creating phantasmagorical light shows and a furious sky. The Boeing 737 bounced and rolled like a toy mouse in the thralls of a cat. 

The fasten seat belt light blinked red. 

“Flight attendants, please take your seats,” the baritone pilot announced.

As the flight attendant hurried by Koen’s seat, he grabbed two miniature Johnny Walker Black bottles off the cart—not Koen’s favorite whiskey, but it would do—and smirked at Harry. He downed them in rapid succession, wincing from the drink’s coarseness. 

The additional alcohol accomplished Koen’s objective: anesthesia. His eyelids flickered in sync with the plane’s oscillations. His ears ignored the gasps and yelps of other passengers. He donned an eye mask, squeezed foam plugs into his ears, and thought about Pricilla, his woman in LA who would make this business trip worthwhile. He willed himself into a dream, their warm bodies entangled as one, sweaty and salty, her lips against his neck. He didn’t see the forked lightning that struck the aircraft or hear the pilot's reassurance, “It’s nothing to worry about; planes get hit by lightning all the time."

Koen tumbled into a deep sleep. 

His eyes opened to darkness. After a moment, he removed his eye mask and ear plugs, blinked, and found himself sitting in an empty airplane. He unbuckled his seat belt and stood. There was nobody, not a single passenger, nor the pilots, nor the flight attendants.

An eerie silence filled the fuselage. Koen couldn’t recall when he’d been inside an airplane so quiet, dead on the ground, without the engines spooling, air conditioning humming, overhead lockers clicking shut, and babies wailing.

What is going on? Where is everyone? 

Los Angeles International Airport filled Koen’s window, and beyond the airport, the equally familiar San Gabriel Mountains. It was August 10th, but snow covered the mountains.

Koen thought about the unexpected snow for a few moments but then focused on the urgency of exiting. He walked to the dividing area between the upper classes and economy sections and, following the instructions printed in large letters on the inside of the door, opened the hatch. 

Koen shivered as he wandered through the deserted terminal, his brain fogged, footsteps echoing, continuing along the cavernous space until he reached Billingham Books, a sells-everything airport shop. 

Koen dropped his briefcase. His stomach lurched, bile bubbled up his esophagus, his eyes fixed wide, and with trembling hands, he picked up the newspaper. The headline, dated November 30, 2023, three months from now, said, Virus Spreads; No Cure. 

He had arrived before anyone else. 

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If you enjoyed this story, I think you’ll also like my story Flying on Ambien.