'We were ready for the in-flight service: peanuts and a movie'

We were ready for the in-flight service: peanuts and a movie. It seemed odd that they would only serve peanuts on a flight that also included a movie, but that’s what I had learned to expect from this particular airline. It also seemed odd that the movie they were showing was “Flight,” as in “flight go down.” Wait, am I dreaming?…

I watched a fascinating documentary once on a guy whose name I always forget. I always forget the details of the flight he was on, too. I don’t know the airline, the date, the location of the crash. I do remember, though, that Errol Morris got him to tell an amazing tale about what happened that day. The guy was on a DC-10, I think. Maybe he was a trainer of pilots for DC-10s? Something like that. Anyway, this guy sprung into action when one of the plane’s engines went out (I think. Just think of this as a tall tale and then go look up the details later.).

The flight attendant asks if there are any pilots on board. This guy volunteers. He goes into the cockpit. He tries to figure out what to do. At one point the plane, this huge plane, starts making parabolas in the sky, up and down and up and down… Not crashing yet also not really flying either. The guy got the plane to be somewhat stable as it came in for a landing. I love the idea that all landings are crash landings, some are just more controlled than others.

The guy lived. Several people did not. The guy was sad those people died. He felt guilty. He hadn’t done enough. Yet without him they all would have died. Even the pilot whose cockpit went tumbling away after it sheared off the metal wreckage. The pilot survived. This guy survived. He is a hero and no one knows his name.

When I saw the previews for “Flight” I wondered if they had taken some of the story from that guy’s story. I didn’t see the movie, though, because I was turned off by the reports of misogyny and general depressiveness. .

When that guy was trying to save the plane, he wasn’t scared. He just did what needed to be done, what he was trained to do. No one told him what to do. He could have said he wasn’t qualified. Hearing him talk about it he may have thought he wasn’t qualified. To save everyone. 

A friend of mine just flew from Kuala Lumpur to Beijing. Everyone on her Facebook page told her to be careful. My thought was that route is probably the safest in the world right now, kind of like after Jack in the Box was selling death burgers. No one wanted to go there, yet I knew they’d be cooking those things past the point of any life form survival. 

My cousin was in the hospital for E. Coli poisoning. Almost died, apparently. I don’t know him very well. That side of the family is distant. Like from each other. Even though most of us lived in the same town. No one wanted to be close. Too scary.

I read an article recently about Romanian orphans who were traumatized because of lack of physical contact. Workers at the orphanages would pick up a child who would be begging to be held. Then the child would start hitting at the volunteer and want to be put down. Then it would beg to be picked up again. Lack of appropriate attachment skills. How many adults, including myself, do I know with this lack of attachment? Get close but go away. At the same time. Get close enough to comfort me but not close enough to hurt me. You’ve served your purpose, yet somehow I don’t feel satisfied.

So there I am, eating my peanuts (thankful they’re not the honey roasted variety because, you know, the gluten) and watching the plane crash with it’s debonair pilot at the helm. I guess he was drunk? Or something? I saw a story recently about how people don’t trust female pilots. I suppose they’d rather have a tipsy captain than one wearing a skirt because, you know, we can’t do things. In a way I almost wish to keep that secret that I am the most competent person I know. I like not having to take the responsibility that comes with that. Yep, I’m a girl. Now leave me alone and let me go get this stuff done. Oops, I forgot that feminism is out. I guess I’ll just be patient...

Someone told me once that most women wouldn’t say “Seven Samurai” was their favorite film. I suppose most men wouldn’t either.

'Shut up and let me finish!'

“Shut up and let me finish!”

“Ok, fine.”

“Thank you. As you know, I’ve been trying for a long time to get this group together. Ever since I was a kid I wanted to be in a band. The glory of being on stage, the hours of practicing to make just the right sound, the…”

“We know, we know…”

“I said let me finish!”

“Fine.”

“As I was saying, I always wanted to be in a band. But here’s the thing: the drummer doesn’t keep the beat. How can we be a band if our drummer doesn’t keep the beat?”

Everyone looked around sheepishly at one another. No one looked at the drummer.

“The Petty Tyrants will never stay together unless someone in this band learns how to play.”

Silence. The band members wondered if their lead singer and manager was done speaking. 

“I’m finished,” he said. The room exhaled. “Does anyone else have anything to say?” 

More silence. Then a hand rose in the air. It was the drummer.

“Yes, what is it?”

“I quit.”

“No, you can’t quit.”

“I quit. Why would you want me to stay?”

“Because…” the manager trailed off.

The drummer stood up, grabbed her drumsticks and walked out the door. The rest of the band followed.

“Shut up and let me finish!” the manager shouted. A cockroach skittered in the corner of the warehouse where they’d practiced. It skittered over to the drums. It hopped up on the snare. It beat out a perfect 120 bpm tempo. It leapt onto the tom-tom and crashed into the cymbal. It stopped. It sighed. It hopped down and skittered away.

The manager cried.

* * *

I think I’m finally ready to write about my friend Stephen Dodge who took his life 14 years ago. He was a sports reporter at the first newspaper I worked at. He was adorable, a man-child really. He was married and would always say children shouldn’t have children when people asked if they were going to have kids. He never had any kids. He died at 29. I was 25. I thought I’d never be as old as 29. He must have seen something about life I hadn’t understood yet. 

Stephen’s funeral was packed with athletes because he was a sports reporter. He was the best writer on staff. This is what he told me once when I complimented his writing:

“I’m not a good writer.”

“What do you mean you’re not a good writer? You’re the best writer here. You’re smart. You would have gone to Stanford if your mom hadn’t gotten sick.”

“I’m not a good writer because I don’t write as well as Toni Morrison.”

I teach creativity classes now, which some people may say is frivolous and a waste of time for people who could otherwise be making good money at something else. One of the things we talk about is comparing ourselves to others and how harmful it can be. How destructive it can be to our writing, to ourselves. I think that’s what took Stephen’s life. It’s such a cliche, but he never felt good enough, and that feeling can extend to the depth of our being. That feeling can end our being. 

He was beautiful, he was loved, and he always wore boat shoes without socks. He drove the same red Mustang his whole life. Toni Morrison could never say that.