Welcome aboard to my new passengers. Here is PART 6.

Part 6

In my haste, I clumsily rush into a flight attendant. Looking at her name badge Dorothy Stamps I apologise profusely. A kind Gal and she offers her hand saying, please, call me Oz. Recognising my agitated state, “Oz” Stamps grabs my hand in a kindly gesture and leads me towards the rear galley precariously close to the action happening above with Captain Merri and the crew member. Not wishing to relive the scene I had just witnessed I make up some story about forgetting my medication and wanting to return to my seat for Champagne. I always find my medication reacts more positively with Champagne. I’m convinced it’s the fizzification effect, similar to that of Berocca, ensuring maximum absorption. OZ, kind-heartedly offers to fix me a drink, concerned that I look a little shaky and should probably sit down. I relent, feeling comfortable in Oz’s easy style, a delight I think and wish that she had been working in my section of the aeroplane.

I sit down on a seat next to a trolley that seemed to be loaded with an assortment of plastic trays and plastic wrapped food reminding me of those Asian restaurants with the “bill of fare” immortalised in full glorious moulded plastic in the front window. This “Why” section really is the wrong end of the aeroplane to be I decide. The trolley has a small brightly coloured piece of plastic protruding over the wheel; I poke at it with my foot as Oz arrives with my plastic of Champagne. Oz plonks down in the seat next to me and looks on intently as I fumble through my tote for my pill.

I comment on her lovely ring to which she informs me that it is new having just been married for a few weeks. It must be difficult in a job like yours and being away from your partner. Oh, no she says, I’m married to the Captain. To which I choke on my Champagne, spraying it into the air. Oz gets up to retrieve a napkin and I look nervously at the door leading to the Captains “Merri” little party happening above our heads. Oz, I decide must go from this area lest the Captain appear. A diversion is what’s needed and I think back to my conversation with the Captain and shake my head at the “threat” turning out to be his marriage. It’s at that moment that Mr. Gravy-Stains stumbles into the galley. He steadies himself against the trolley and holds his beer can above his head in a crude gesture indicating he was empty and required another.

Mr. Gravy-Shirt is slurring and frothing at the mouth, the image of a camel appears in my head both very disagreeable beasts I decide. I survey his grotty profile greasy thin hair combed in a wild loop around his head. Apart from his deplorable shirt, he’s wearing tight shorts barely visible under his ample paunch; black walking socks and tan sandals. A big toe protrudes through his left sock - another “WHY”. Oz is very calm with the moment as if it is something she deals with frequently. She engages him with simple conversation about his journey and whom he is travelling with. Mr. Gravy-Shirt stiffens as if his heavily disguised charms and well camouflaged attractiveness have drawn Oz. Like a pungent tropical bloom whose odour is designed to attract flies, fooling them into thinking it is an animal carcass. He puffs himself up as if wearing his Sunday best and is someone often mistaken for Brad Pitt to the casual passer-by. He hoists his rear onto the trolley like he was some athlete on a much-delayed comeback. Oz looks a little concerned but he speaks over her as he relates his story.

Mr. Gravy-Shirt and his wife Kitty Belle, are on the way to the UK. Kitty Belle, last seen slouched ungainly into the aisle, recently won a compensation claim after a nasty accident at her work in the hospital laundry. She accidentally toppled into the industrial size washing machine trying to retrieve a $20 dollar note. Luckily she was rescued moments before the main spin cycle. Perhaps that explains her unusual posture, I should be less quick to judge next time. She subsequently developed a nasty allergy to washing powder, perhaps that explains Mr. Gravy-Shirt and was pensioned off with a tidy sum.

Mr. Gravy-Shirt appears to be enjoying himself although his splattering mouth is becoming alarming. I notice his complexion becoming more crimson and sweat beads form on his forehead. Before our eyes he starts grasping at his chest and collapses across the trolley. Oz jumps into action and grabs the telephone alerting Mr. 6 to the emergency unfolding. Oz rushes to his side and listens for Mr. Gravy-Shirt’s breath and feels for his pulse.

Like a predator awaiting his prey Mr. Gravy-Shirt miraculously springs back to life grabbing at Oz’s petite frame and hauling her atop him. I reel back in horror as Oz struggles to free herself from his mauling clutches. Disoriented, I gulp at my Champagne as if it will buy me time to work out a plan. I curse its cheapness. I must save Oz and I stiffen my shoulders and march to her aid. It is at that moment that a violent shudder grips the aeroplane and I am thrown to the floor like a cheap suit after a Friday drinks party. I look up to see Mr. Gravy-Shirt and Oz, her legs and arms flaying like a parachutist, hurtling down the aisle on the trolley. The noise in the cabin was frightening, like a chicken coup raided by a hungry fox. I reach out my arm from my prone state on the floor in a vain effort to grab the trolley, a gesture as it speeds off into the distance.