Crash Position

TWELVE

  The illusion that it was a glamorous job was truly shattered. The dream lay in shards on the floor. My motivation to get through a flight came as the idea of drinking the expensive champagne on the layover. That and the cash I might help myself to when the passengers passed out. I no longer cared about the individuality of anyone in a seat. If they showed discomfort it went un-noticed. Mothers struggling with their children would just have to deal with it. Passengers who were out rightly unpleasant would suffer the pain of eye drops in their beverages. They wouldn’t miss their duty free shopping if I decided to help myself to it. After all, they could obviously afford to buy more.

  In my apartment days off started with a mad, sickeningly hard run on the treadmill, after which I returned to my apartment to stare at the ceiling. Feeling heavy like lead, I would lay there, uninterested in doing anything, until it was time to rid myself of hunger pains or prepare my uniform for a trip. My books went unread and my friends back home were forgotten. Or they had forgotten me, I was not sure. I wanted to sleep as much as possible. I hated waking up. Working meant patrolling the aisles like a robot. Forcing the cheeks vertical, giving the expected face, like a performing seal. Felling nothing.

  Nights were disturbed, made up of broken sleep, like riding inside a car and jolting awake every time it slowed down or went over a bump. The bumps came regularly, the images of the crash victims shot through my head, their hands clutching at crucifixes, couples holding hands. If I was sleeping in an awkward position, my twisted figure manifested itself as broken bones, exploding lungs, internal injuries, or however I imagined they might feel to a person still alive. The boy in one dream, the Bobby, looking well was holding my hand pulling me down the aisle. He didn’t speak but I sensed, as one has the supernatural power to do in a dream, that he wanted me to help them. they cant be helped, I would think back at him. The lack of sleep, the schedule and my own disconnection from the world made waking hours its own zombielike dream. Every interaction, from the crew on the bus, the briefing discussions, the feigned smiling the interaction with the passengers, the greeting and the smile, all fake, all semi lucid. Each day seemed hazy and dream like. My actions free of consequence,. When you feel nothing of yourself, you certainly cannot feel what someone else is going through. I focused the mission of each flight, to complete my transaction without anyone noticing. To be discreet and make delivery gave the pride that I needed, since wearing the uniform made feel ashamed. When I worked with Tanya's crew, I adopted the face and attitude I needed. It must have worked. Nobody commented on any change in demeanor or affect. Perhaps they weren't looking for it, or would have noticed anyway. Nothing seemed exciting or interesting anymore. Each hotel, a carbon copy of the last. Cold marble, windows that don’t open. Forty channels of garbage. While in the air, I would occasionally see the figure of the young Bobby in the corner of my eye. He would always disappear before I could straight at him. Soon passengers became my victims. Even if they were not a target for Tanya’s crimes, they still suffered my shrinking sense of humanity.

  "Please, Please, let me go. I can't hold on!" he begged, clutching his stomach, eyes watering.

  "I'm sorry, the lavatories have been locked and you will have to be seated now. We will be on the ground shortly." I respond, calmly, unaffected by his desperation. I do not budge from my seat. I remain strapped in with no intention of giving the man mercy. I am laughing, sadistically on the inside. Outwardly, my look is polished and professional as I glance around the cabin, giving reassuring smiles to the passengers who are looking at me as though they are witnesses to an atrocity. He moans, doubles down, with hands shaking, clips the seat belt together. He is in tremendous pain. It’s the worst flight of his life. I like it. The cabin shakes. Rows of heads bob up and down in a synchronized dance as tons of metal, fuel and human cargo meet the asphalt. The man has stopped moaning. Welcome announcement. Doors open. The passengers leave. The man is last to get up. His expensive khakis are now covered with dark, wet patches, as he loses control and his dignity. That will teach you to speak to me like I'm dirt. I am proud of my work. Eye drops in the coffee. Something I learnt from my colleagues. This time, I use more than the usual amount for obnoxious passengers.

  Scenes like this had become typical in my day-to-day flying duties. As each day passed, I became a little crueler, and a little less me.