It’s only during the past ten years that I’ve developed an intense fear of flying. I do realize that my chances of dying in a plane crash are about one in eleven million, and that I’m more likely to be killed by a donkey than in a plane crash. I even read somewhere that I’m more likely to be killed driving to the airport than while flying the friendly skies. But those useless statistics do nothing to halt the incredible rush of fear that shocks my system whenever I enter an airport. Meandering through the crowds, I tend to become a paranoid aerophobic who fantasizes about über creative death scenarios while fidgeting in the security line. I don’t want to be trapped underwater or decapitated by a tray table, and I don’t want to fall through the sky like some suicidal stockbroker who forgot to move a decimal point.
People call it a phobia, although the word “phobia” sounds gentle and non-threatening, like a sprained ankle or the common cold. I’m terrified of heights, but it’s that added incentive of potentially burning, drowning, or asphyxiating that typically concerns me when I book my flight. The older I become, the more I fear death. Honestly, I can’t even look at a scythe without having an anxiety attack. Call me selfish, but I’m not ready for someone in a black hood to harvest my soul. I have too many student loans to repay.
When I tell people I’m scared of flying, they often laugh and say something asinine like, “Why don’t you pony up the extra cash and fly first class.”
But how do you explain to someone that first-class feels like a different world? The colors seem brighter. The aisle seems wider. Even the air tastes different, like there’s a hint of spearmint at the back of your throat. Whenever I move through first-class I can’t help but glance at the wine glasses and hot towels. I touch the leather seats as I walk by, relishing that new car smell and dreading the musty odor of all those nosebleed seats in coach. I generally sprint through first-class because I feel like an intruder who’s trespassing on private property and might get shot at any moment. I feel tongue-tied and confused, not sure if I should nod politely and make small talk about immigration and mutual funds, or if I should keep my eyes on the floor and shuffle toward the back of the cattle car with the rest of the herd.
Invariably, I stand there with my mouth hanging open, practically drooling as the flight attendant uncorks a bottle of red wine and mixes cocktails at the mini-bar. I see men in Armani suits draping cloth napkins across their steam-cleaned laps. I see women marinating in Chanel and Estée Lauder, fingering their gold necklaces while I clutch my frayed duffel bag. I hear the ding of metal silverware as it clinks against an assortment of fine China and spirals off into the static lull of coach. I wonder if first-class passengers ever consider all those suckers who sit behind them, huddled together behind a thin dusty curtain that separates an entire tax bracket, trading crumpled bills for cheap headsets while they fiddle with plastic tray tables.
So I suffer in coach. And while the other passengers read their magazines and newspapers, or watch TV on their laptops, I hunker down in a cramped, smelly seat and clutch my bag of stale peanuts, choking on panic and anxiety like a dog on small bones.
But it’s not just the flying either. It’s the overpriced food and the constant delays. It’s the overbooked flights and the lost luggage and the broken escalators. I hate walking through the terminal, trying to forget that the word itself is often associated with cancer. And while I’m shuffling toward my gate, nervous and agitated and hunched over like a jumbo shrimp, praying for a safe landing that doesn’t involve water, everybody around me is either incredibly happy or incredibly sad.
The happy people stroll through the airport laughing and smiling, their eyes wide open as they march toward a seven day cruise in the Caribbean, or a quiet weekend ensconced in their lover’s arms. They thumb through stacks of glossy brochures and talk with anybody who will bother to listen. They clean their Bolle sunglasses with the hems of their Hawaiian shirts. Even their smiles look tanned.
These are the people escaping from bosses and shopping lists and household chores. These are the smiling bastards I’m always trying to crosscheck into the luggage carousel. While I’m stressing over love and death and crashing into a five-star resort, these people are worrying about whether or not they remembered to pack their bathing suit, or if they’ve brought enough batteries for their digital camera. For them, this airport is just another layover on their way to better times.
The sad people cry into wads of Kleenex, staring at the floor as they shuffle through the terminal like a horde of zombies. Eyes tired and puffy, they linger near security checkpoints, glancing at their watches as they say goodbye to friends and lovers, refusing to acknowledge anyone else around them. Separated by frequent flier miles, these people remain distantly in love, their relationships surviving on phone calls and postcards, their anniversaries replaced by a series of online bookings.
These are the people torn apart by airspace and time zones. They care about someone so deeply, so intensely, that they go home and mark their calendars, counting the days until they can return to the airport with a lighter step. Heartsick over the present, they anticipate the future so they can relive the past.
Then there’s me. Nervous and agitated, I push my way through the crowds, listening to people complain about layovers and cancelations. I make my way toward the gate, a duffel bag pressed against my chest, hating everyone around me who smiles and says, “Have a safe flight.”
Michael Howarth is originally from Falmouth, Massachusetts. After earning his BA in English at James Madison University, he entered the MFA Program in Writing at the University of Alaska at Anchorage where he studied fiction. Following his MFA, he attended the University of Louisiana at Lafayette where he earned his Ph.D. He currently teaches Children’s Literature and Film Studies at Missouri Southern State University. His work has appeared in such publications as The Southwestern Review, Flashquake, Farmhouse Magazine, DASH Literary Journal, and Mud Luscious.