By Joshua Powell
The pilot, I am sure, was bombed. Most likely he'd downed a few of those tiny bottles of hooch in the first class men’s room and then popped an Altoid. The son of a bitch most likely had to close one eye to see things.
That’s the reason why the plane went down. I am not sure about this but I’ve got a good hunch that’s the reason – he looked pretty damn sketchy when I got on the plane.
Right away I popped an Ativan and chased it down with a glass of crappy Chablis and then passed out in my window seat. In retrospect I should have taken two Ativans. This would have kept me calm when the jet screeched into the water and then bellied its way onto the beach. Oh did I mention the screaming people?
Newsflash, folks: screaming does nothing to counteract the acceleration of gravity. Doesn’t anyone take physics anymore? This trout of a woman sitting next to me mumbled some appeal to Jesus to save her: “Oh dear Jesus please don’t let me go this way.” I meanwhile was toying in my mind with the rate of acceleration. Is it 3.8 meters per second squared?
Once the plane came to a slump in the sand and everyone was pretty sure that a fire ball was not going to make its way down the fuselage and burn us all up – everybody started to clap! What the hell is that all about? There we were stranded on this island with no plan for getting off. Nope. People are simply banking on our being found via the “little black box,” which to the best of my knowledge is only used to help determine why people die in plane crashes.
Nobody here is pragmatic in the least. As in, we’ve got not one iota of food.We are going to have to eat each other I guess. The problem is that no one died in the crash – not even an old person with a bad ticker. Maybe there’s a diabetic here – one can only hope. There is a weak-looking Chinese man – I wonder if he will taste like Chinese food.
The stewardess looks like hell. Myself, I would have preferred that she was a bit more composed and you know, put together. After all, just before liftoff she'd given us that calm little song and dance about what do to in the event of a water landing – apparently she is all talk. I suppose I should offer her an Ativan, because she looks like she might have a stroke – which on second thought I don’t really want to prevent in the event that the Chinese man does not have diabetes.
The woman who sat next to me on the plane just walked over to me and asked how I am doing. “We are going to get through this,” she said. I looked at her and gave her a curt knowing nod – I know what she is all about – her pleas to Jesus were all about her – me me me. That’s what she kept saying anyway. I looked at her and wanted to say something like “there’s no I in team, bitch,” but instead I gave her the look. I hope she does not die first because I am sure she will taste bad.
Hey… what's that noise? Is it? Could it be? It is! A miracle, a chopper – buzzing overhead. Are we…yes, we are saved! I look around and what do I see? That damn pilot. He is a piece of work that guy. He’s slumped there, over there under a tree. Snoring and cradled in one arm, half a bottle of Chablis.
Joshua Powell is a writer in Albany, New York. He has sworn off flying, at least for the time being. We are grateful that he risked his life on the Chablis Express. And that he took advantage of the pilot prompt provided by MyStoryLives on Friday, July 7, 2006! We hope others of you will let your creativity take wing too!