As warned, perhaps not suitable to minors.
moderator let me know if I cross the line and I'll review as appropriate.

Part 5

The business class appears to be having sleep time so I walk through as it looks as though there is another section of the plane I hadn’t seen before. “Y” they call it and “WHY” indeed is what I say.
Why did all these people choose to sit here when it’s so much more comfortable up front?
Why did these people think it would be fun to be wedged cheek by jowl for 20 hours?
Why are they all squinting to view the movie on the screen on the wall? Don’t they know about the little TV’s under their seats?
Why does it smell so bad in here, a mixture of lamb (mutton) curry and stale beer.
Another term I discovered is “economy”, I suspect it has something to do with the frugality in interior design for this part of the plane.
I’m not at all impressed and feel slightly superior to this poor underclass, contorted into position, eyes looking forward as if in some trance state. I look at the centre row and wonder how the middle people get out to visit the facilities. I chuckle at the vision of one person standing up and the entire row bursting upright as if they are joined at the shoulders with Velcro. Such a wit, I say and nod at the “gentleman” (used loosely) with gravy stains down his shirtfront and an array of beer cans on the table in front of him. He appears to be admiring my outfit with bulging tote bag in a slightly leering manner. I walk on, as it appears there is a galley further down. I smile and nod at the “sandwich class” passengers as I walk past and arrive at the little galley. These aeroplanes are big.

The flight attendant appears startled, looking up at me as he had just finished packing away a selection of spirits into a neat looking leather bag. I presume it is easier to dispense from in the cramped aisles of this section of the plane, kind of like those delightful cigarette girls of times gone by. Feeling like striking up a conversation I offer my hand and introduce myself. He reciprocates and introduces himself as Dam Taat, another odd name I thought, and Dutch is my guess. He offers me a drink and I accept but look on horrified as he mixes my Bloody Mary into a “plastic” glass.

Dam informs me he has worked with Skittish Airways for almost 20-years, working his way “up” so to speak from the lowly position of baggage handler. I comment that he still seems to have a way with bags to which I received a flared nostril and nervous twitter. I admire the way such people are so seemingly pleased with their “minor” achievements, to them, it’s as if they have reached the giddy pinnacle of President. He conveys that he is on a multi-sector having just completed Rarotonga and was looking forward to returning home to his partner recently out of hospital after a serious bout of Singapore flux resulting in a distended stomach and a rather nasty procedure involving a suction device and a flammable gas sign above his hospital bed. It sounded nasty and I was pleased that my Mother had instilled in me from an early age the importance of regular bowel irrigation.

We’re joined in the galley by Godeno, a rather attractive South American woman, tall and slim with her long black hair tied in a tight bun, slightly forward giving an initial Impression of a unicorn. She arrives rubbing her posterior region cursing about the “gentleman” I had seen earlier with the gravy stains down his front. It appears said gentleman was having trouble containing himself after a few too many ales and was looking for action while his good wife appeared to be comatose after her sixth Bailey’s and Diet Coke and had slumped ungainly into the aisle with her skirt hitched high around her ample thighs and the buttons on her blouse seriously in danger of exploding into the air placing the safety of the entire aeroplane at risk of depressurising. Godeno reaches for the Vodka bottle and pours a “plastic” tumbler and downs it in one. I’m impressed by her boldness and raise my drink in kindred acknowledgement. I decide to take my leave when Godone and Dam fuss over a bit of powder on the bench amusingly cleaning it up with their flared nostrils with the assistance of a cocktail straw. Such enterprise I think, turning an obvious work acquired health condition into a positive and leave them to it.

Onward and beyond I go into depths of the “WHY” compartment that have me wondering if I’ve crossed the border and entered another country. A packing room of bodies in uneasy and vicarious states of recline. It’s like an orgy of unknowns wallowing in their joint proximity the likes I’ve not seen since attending the Sydney Mardi Gras last summer, stumbling into the lavatories in the small hours to be confronted by darkness from an isolated power outage with men groping their way in the humid, acrid atmosphere trying to find a parking space at the urinal. Reaching what appears to be the end of the aeroplane another galley and a door, to the left, slightly ajar. I see stairs and my childlike curiosity takes hold, ignoring the STAFF ONLY sign, I creep up the narrow stairway.

Muffled noises reach my ears and they appear to be vaguely familiar. As I arrive at the top of the stairs through the dim light I can see an arrangement of bunk beds and the figure of Captain Merri in close proximity with another member of the crew, his uniform strewn across the floor, the petite flight attendant in a prose similar to that I had witnessed of Purser Gaylor’s in the toilet just a short time ago, his lime green underpants around his ankles, the colour clashing violently with his beige socks, I despair at his lack of fashion sense and speculate that had he worn black socks the vision would have been so much more appealing. I grab at the handrail, feeling unnerved that the aeroplane was hurtling through the sky while the Captain was in the rear fornicating with a crewmember in such a violent clash of fashion ineptitude and he a Captain no less. Who is flying this aeroplane I ask myself. Having not been noticed, I decide discretion is the better part of valour and retrace my steps quietly down the stairway. My head is racing.
Will we crash?
I have visions of the aeroplane lurching through the sky and hope in all hope that the gentleman I saw previously in the cockpit listening to music on his headphones would realise our predicament and grab at the steering wheel and guide us to safety. I’ve not packed my swimmers and should we crash over water I worry about the washability of my pyjamas having noted that the instructions clearly stated “do not soak” I vision myself drifting interminably in the saline soup of the Malacca Straits - being rescued in a state of droopy disrobement, how embarrassing I think. I reach into my tote for one of my “little helpers” - marching quickly to the sanctuary of my seat.


[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 17, 2004).]

[This message has been edited by GoldFlyer (edited Jan 17, 2004).]