You're Going to Fucking Die Today

The flight attendant is explaining how to fasten a seatbelt when it occurs to me that we're not going to make it.  Despite our properly fastened seat belts.

We're going to fucking die.

And I vaguely look like the guy in 8A.  And the coroner will confuse us, my body will get sent to the wrong place, and a grieving child will say, "Dad doesn't look so good, Mommy.  Why does Daddy look so frightened?"

This causes me to laugh, which I cover up with my hand.

We're going to fucking die this afternoon!

"... if you are physically unable to wind a large rubber band please change seats with someone who can."

I laugh some more.  I cover it up harder.

"Blah.  Blah.  Blah."

The safety presentation continues.

"A group of small boys will twist the plane's rubber band and throw us into the air.  Please turn off all electronic devices during this procedure."

I reach into my back pocket to grab my phone and turn it off.

A plane just like ours sits next to us.  I stare out the window watching the captain make his pre-flight inspection.  He kicks a tire.  He spins one of the propellers.  It didn't fall off so I guess it passed.  He pulls a flask out of his pocket and takes a big drink.  It must be almost empty since he's looking up at the clouds with the flask turned end over end.  He shakes it.  It's empty.

"... your seat can be used as a flotation device."

Good to know, but I'll be too busy screaming and drowning.

"Because this is a short flight, meals will not be served.  And the extra weight of the food may upset the plane's delicate balance and it could crash in a glorious fireball.  Of course you'll be dead by then so it won't matter."

Oh, God.  Glad I skipped breakfast.  The NTSB will thank my dead body.

I look around at the cabin.  This plane is about 100 years old.  This brass plaque on the flight deck door indicates that this plane was flown by the Wright brothers on their famous flight at Kitty Hawk.  I notice some duct tape on the inside of the fuselage.  I begin nervously picking at it.

"Sir, please stop that.  Otherwise we may crash.  And it will be your fault."

"Sorry."

 A few minutes pass.  Ginger begins her routine, once the plane levels out, above the first layer of clouds.  The Pacific ocean is to my right.  I've always wanted to crash into it.  Another bucket list item completed!

"Vodka?  Cigarette?"  the flight attendant asks.

"Both please."  I respond,

She hands me a clear plastic cup filled with vodka and uses tongs to drop an ice cube into the cup.  She hands me a cigarette, lights it, and asks the next passenger, "Vodka?  Cigarette?"

He responds, "No," and grabs his knees with a tight grip.

The fool!  You know, this is how you die.

I dump the Vodka in my mouth and swallow it.  I ask Ginger, who's still next to me, to top off my drink.  She obliges.

"Can I have another cigarette too?"

"Sure." says Ginger, as she flips the pack toward me.  A cigarette comes out and I take it.

She looks at me with an assuring smile and says, "You probably won't die today."

"Thanks."