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Planes, Tiki Bars, & Mr. Wiggles
By Douglas Sassaman
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I’m not sure what caused me more distress, my young daughter’s complete meltdown at 30,000 feet, or the crowd of twenty-somethings standing in the rear of the plane with their beer cans and gin-and-tonics resting on the lower portion of an emergency door as if it was a tiki bar.
Except – I reminded myself with sobering mid-thirty-something realization – it wasn’t a tiki bar they were lounging around, it was an emergency exit door on a Boeing 747-400. Four college students, an unlimited supply of alcohol, and an emergency exit; throw in a drunken wager and then say, m-i-d-a-i-r d-i-s-a-s-t-e-r. Much as I hate to interfere with young drinking hoons, I felt quite certain that the time to intervene was now. But just as I unbuckled my seatbelt a stewardess finally came along and diffused the potentially catastrophic situation. “Do you realize your drinks are resting on an emergency slide? Do you know what would happen if it were to accidentally deploy?” A couple of blithe shrugs, “The people in the last six rows of this aircraft would be instantly killed. Can you kindly remove your drinks and return to your seats.” The now sullen group dispersed and I went looking for the next in-flight crisis. It didn’t take long.
My wife, daughter, and I were returning to the United States after a two-year work related stint in New Zealand. A twelve-hour, three-meal, four-movie flight across the Pacific, I prepared for the worst and expected nothing less.
Trouble started even before take-off. My wife and I had decided in a surprisingly democratic fashion that we would each choose a movie to watch while the other tended our daughter. Moments after we made our picks a stewardess got on the intercom and informed us that, “Due to some technical problems with the video system no movies would be shown in the aft section of the airplane,” which should come as no surprise, was precisely where we sat. The pain and anxiety in our expressions couldn’t have been worse had the same stewardess informed us of a malfunction with engine number 3 while in flight, anything but the video system. A non-specific grumble arose around us. The guy next to me complained vehemently to the lady next to him. A young man beside him declared above the rising din, “That’s it! Shove us in the back then take away our movies! Watch out, the dinner rolls are going next!” Silently I prepared myself for a small-scale mutiny, my daughter’s Mr. Wiggles, with his wooden head and pointy nose, could serve as a viable weapon; with that in mind I rummaged around in her toy satchel and brought Mr. Wiggles to bear. The nearest stewardess was two rows in front of me, my grip tightened around Mr. Wiggles neck, but then just as suddenly the mood in the cabin mellowed and it became apparent an uprising was unlikely. I stowed Mr. Wiggles in my front seat pocket for safekeeping.
As an aside, have you taken note of the latest shocking trend in the world of flight attendants? I feel it’s my duty to help clue you in. They’ll tell you flat out at the beginning of the flight that they, and I quote, ‘…are primarily here for your safety.’ It used to be their primary responsibility to keep the nuts and coffee flowing (something called Customer Service), and if the plane happened to lose an engine then they could lend a hand there as well. Nowadays, they’ll bark at you to move your elbows as they wheel that big clunky metal cart with razor edges down the isle, some peanuts will be lobbed in your direction, and then they’ll move on. That’s the last you’ll see of them. If you’re hankering for a refill of coffee I think it costs you mileage points, assuming you can even track down a flight attendant, they’re all busy in the back studying flight safety procedures in case your plane is destined for a fiery finish. I just had to add my two bits on what I see as yet another example of the downfall of civilization.
I now know why airlines crank up the movies on international flights. Someone learned early on that if you stick people into a plane for twelve hours with free booze as their only leisure activity, it would cost you more in alcohol than the production costs of the film Titanic. In a mere hour the aft section of the airplane began to look like the Lambda Chi house on a Friday night. I felt comforted with Mr. Wiggles close at hand.
Not long after the tiki bar incident, the second and perhaps more dramatic situation occurred over international waters – my daughter Emma was awoken from a nap prematurely. Lower me into a Russian cylo to diffuse a nuclear warhead, lash fishing line to my ankles and shove me off a suspension bridge, anything but try and comfort my daughter when she’s awoken precipitately. In an apparent beer-spilling incident behind us, a loud-mouthed punk rocked my daughter’s seat as she lay curled up in a vision of slumber. Her eyes shot open. My wife and I went into rapid-fire action. My wife patted, I cooed, “Shh-shh-shhh-shhh, it’s okay Emma, go back to sleep. It’s okay puppet, just a drunk man in the seat behind you. Don’t worry darling Mr. Wiggles and I are going to have a talk with him in just a minute.”
Despite my soothing words and my wife’s constant patting, my daughter sat up with a start, and said, “Someone’s gonna have to pay for this one.” At least that’s what I think she would have said if she could talk. Instead she composed herself, filled her lungs with air, and began simply to scream. I snatched her up, my wife patted her back in a harried motion and all socializing in the aft section of the plane came to an abrupt halt. Drink trolleys paused, passengers gaped, the drunken tussle behind us ceased.
Trying to hold onto a child in this state is like trying to hold a Vaseline coated eel in your arms, despite my best soothing efforts, my daughter ended up in the little space at my feet, she bonked her head on a metal bracket and things went from really bad to a place few have gone. Between my wife and I we slowly, and with much effort, hoisted her back onto my lap and I held on for the ride. My wife resumed her ineffectual patting. I took her for a brief walk down the aisle, but that just allowed her voice to carry to the next cabin up, maybe even as far as business class. I retreated to the rear of the plane, past the tiki bar, past the toilets, and into a little food prep corridor that was currently vacated. There I rode out the storm. My wife came back with some more comforting pats and her milk bottle which Emma more or less batted away, but finally the tempest subsided, the demon departed, and our little Emma returned to her loving sweet self.
Under intense scrutiny I returned to my seat and handed Emma to my wife. The party atmosphere had resumed on the plane, but Mr. Wiggles and I had some unpleasant business to attend to. I looked at Mr. Wiggles in my front seat pocket; his glassy eyes appeared ready for action. “Let’s rock!” I seized him by the neck and turned around.
Copyright 2000 Douglas S. Sassaman, http://CosmicBurp.com
About The Author:
Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes the humor column, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' on the web at http://CosmicBurp.com.
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