THE INNER WORKINGS...

(in)frequent flyer

Her name was Dee-Dee. Either that, or at one point in her life she had such a significant emotional connection with someone of that name that she felt the need to tattoo it high on her left thigh.

I was on the last leg of my flight to the U.S. (from Miami to Raleigh) after saying goodbye to Argentina. And the combination of strong emotions and little sleep made me very grateful that the seat next to me was vacant. That is, until Dee-Dee sat down.

Despite my emotional condition, Dee-Dee and I became fast friends. It all started when she asked me if the seats reclined at all, and I directed her to the small silver button on her armrest. But I forewarned her that she should wait until after take-off to recline, because if not, a passive-aggressive flight-attendant would likely come by and diplomatically urge her to return her seat to its full and upright position. Impressed by my thorough knowledge of in-flight seat-reclining procedures, Dee-Dee asked if I had flown before. "A few times," I remarked, asking her about her flight experience. She commented that this was her second flight, and that she was quite nervous.

As her long, metallic-painted fingernails drummed on the afore-mentioned armrest, I realized that Dee-Dee wasn't kidding: we had a serious case of the nerves on our hands. So I decided to be a conscientious seat-mate and put down my freshly purchased newspaper and engage her in some distracting conversation.

We started with the predictable small talk: asking if she was from Miami. She said that she was, and she encouraged me, were I ever to venture outside of the airport on a trip to Miami, to take advantage of the stellar night-life. Her suggestion was duly noted, and I moved on to the next obvious question: why she was traveling to Raleigh. She could have simply responded with the check-the-box answer of "business" or "pleasure" or a simple, "I'm visiting all 50 State capitals in my lifetime." But Dee-Dee, being the forthright person she is, shared with me exactly what she was going to do in Raleigh.

"I'm going to pick my husband up from federal prison." said Dee-Dee.

Now I have a sort of medically-defined condition commonly referred to as the "readable face syndrome". And so I'm sure my eyes nearly popped out of their sockets or the eyebrows nearly leapt onto the scalp. But, trying to play it cool (after all, her husband was in federal prison), I asked the only question that came to my mind. "Are you excited?"

Dee-Dee graciously shared more about her life, the impending wedding (because maybe he wasn't quite yet her legally wedded husband), her boys, and her move "up north" to... Northern Florida.

But my relationship with Dee-Dee, surprisingly enough, had not yet reached its climax. As she drifted out of our conversation, she suddenly became aware of the safety video playing on the TV overhead. "Are they going to give us masks?!?" she asked, alarmed at the perfectly manicured woman in the video responsibly putting on her own oxygen mask before securing those of her uncannily serene children. I assured her that, barring a sudden drop in cabin pressure, we would not need to don the mask. But she didn't quite buy it.

And then the nerves set in again.

The gripping of the armrests began as the plane backed up from the gate, and the deep breathing started as we headed toward the runway. I tried to talk in my smooth jazz radio voice, but she was not going to be calmed down. Once the engines started revving, her eyes darted between the safety card and the window, and I started looking for a brown paper bag, just to be safe. Our third seat-mate, on the other side of Dee-Dee, thought it best to ignore the situation and pretend to read her magazine.

And then we took off.

Dee-Dee clasped her hands to her mouth and started to scream. Even the long, metallic-painted fingernails couldn't stifle the noise. She rocked back and forth, back and forth, and let out an even higher-pitched scream when she caught  a glance of the shrinking houses out our window. I promptly closed the shade and rubbed her arm. I felt like a lamaze coach - trying to silence the screams and encourage deep breathing. Every time another passenger turned around to catch a glimpse of the panic-attack, I would just look to them apologetically, praying that the Xanax she had taken before boarding would kick in.

Sure enough, about fifteen minutes into the flight, Dee-Dee entered into her drug-induced coma. I returned to my paper, the captain turned off the seatbelt sign, and we were smooth sailing. Not until we were landing did she stir, and declare, "Well, that wasn't so bad after all."

And so another frequent flyer is born.

posted by Courtney @ 3:47 AM