The plane was overbooked and in a strange turn of events, I found myself about to spend the remainder of my journey in the company of the four hundred, in the splendors of first class aviation. I can finally live the life I am qualified to, self-ruling and sovereign. I thank her excessively but my words fall short as the stewardess hands me the experience of a life time. It is time to say adieu, so I turn to her : “Sugartits, I would like to miss you less and see you more. So that's a wish, a selfish one, but I'm sure you'd understand.” She offers me her soft, plump, blushing cheeks. I gave her a peck, I pecked her like she had never been pecked before. I tip my hat and take one last whiff of her enthralling essence and I am off, fleeing the scene, before they find me with my trousers down on my ankles.
The on-board reception perfectly mirrored the value of our person. The stewards' smile a tad more inviting, her nod; a touch more comforting and the tap on the bum, a smidgen more assuring than any economic flight I had endured, better yet, I had never received a tap on the bum before. I take my seat and greet my fellow travelers with a timid and polite nod, I cage my excitement. One would not want to give away that I do not belong. I took a moment to briefly assess the setting. I assess myself, my positioning in the room as well as the others. The fellow sitting next to me extends his hand to me, introducing himself “Magnus, high court judge.” I grab his hand “OK”. I noticed his shiny, purple velvet jacket, it was hard not to, it leaps out at me. It screams dick-head, but I am not one to judge a man by his attire. I integrated into my new bourgeois surroundings with ease. I had Magnus hooting and howling while dishing out the usual piping hot banter “Comparatively, walking through a spiders web is a mild inconvenience” I said. “Picture it from the other perspective, you just fucking destroyed his house. That he built. With his butt – hole”. On cue, as if rehearsed, he roared. I fall silent. There they are. An essential perk of the first class experience - I came to find out - is the luxury of being seated first, settling down and watching the commoners guided through like slaves on auction. I slowly sip from my champagne and I observe the elderly squished in the masses, I lock in on a single mom carrying a stroller on her shoulder, barely holding on, while guiding her off-spring through the chaos. I take another sip and I think to myself: somebody should help her out. I remained seated but I take comfort in the fact that such a solicitous thought had crossed my mind.
“Two more glasses of Remy reserve, if you would, Love.”
As I await my drink, I look at my reflection in the airplane window. I find all corners of my mouth covered in complimentary foie gras, my jumper drenched in champagne, I realized my gratitude for the sudden windfall had faded out. I had become a gluttonous monster. Drunk, making obscene gestures at the staff, taking full advantage of the open leg space, even though my modest stature would suffice without it. I, an idealist at heart, had lost any sense of humility by a mere 3 hours spent in first class. I looked back at the people in coach and I saw the grade school teachers that taught me how to read and write, the nurses that took care of me when I was sick, the neighborhood watches that kept me and my family save, the fire-fighters, police officers, mothers, fathers, and troops risking their lives fighting for our safety and freedom and I could see them, looking back at me and it hit me like a sudden stroke “miss?” I call the stewardess over. “Could you please close the privacy curtains?”