I would've preferred snakes

Ever been on a plane with a madman? I have.
 
On a packed Monday afternoon flight from Philadelphia, I was sitting in seat 18E, trying to ignore the remnants of a cod-induced food poisoning and how my right arm and thigh were pressed against the Santa-Claus proportions of 18F. The crew had just passed through collecting trash and the plane had begun to descend over Hollywood-Ft. Lauderdale airport when one of the stewardesses began to shout.

“I knew it! I knew it!” she yelled from the back of the plane.

When I jerked my head upright to stare down the rows of seats to the first class cabin, it was obvious what she was yelling about.

A knot of men, some in flight attendant uniforms, was tussling in the aisle near the front of the plane. More were getting up from their seats and rushing up to join them. The rest of the passengers were doing what I was doing—stiffening in fear in their seats with fear and looking for signs of AK-47s and dead pilots. 18D, a reedy blonde woman on my left, didn’t seem too perturbed as she echoed the sentiments of the screaming stewardess.

“My friend is sitting right up there next to him,” she said, gesturing to the first row of coach with eerie calm. “She said that he was acting weird.” 

Even as she spoke, the struggle in first class had died down. The muffled shouts had ended, and several of the men who had been fighting were now standing around, winded and tense. Santa Claus in 18F, taller than me by a head, craned his neck as he reported, “Looks like they’ve got him handcuffed.” Everyone on the plane began to clap. 

A stewardess’s voice crackled over the intercom. 

“Please make sure your seat belts are securely fastened,” she said, in a ridiculous parody of calm. We will soon be landing in Ft. Lauderdale.”

Some of the men from the front began to return to their seats. “I think he’s nuts,” one of them whispered as he passed row 18. “There were all these big dudes with badges.” 

One of the big dudes, a muscled Asian man with razor-cut cheekbones, got his bag from his seat and returned to the front of the plane. Another one, a short and stocky white guy with ham hocks for forearms, stationed himself in front of the cockpit, arms folded, for all the world a bouncer at a rock show.  Whoever had started the trouble was out of sight and awfully quiet—I and my rowmates guessed that he was drugged. When the plane landed, everybody clapped. 

Then a male steward’s spoke into the PA system, his voice quavering as he made USAir’s only official acknowledgement that we had all possibly just cheated death. “Ladies and Gentlemen, please remain seated. The police must enter the plane before you can get off.” 

Two BSO officers boarded the plane through the side exit door and made their way to the front, where the nut was stashed behind the cockpit under the watchful gaze of the air marshals. The whole cabin leaned forward to get a glimpse of the cause of all the trouble—some passengers even took out their camcorders.

After about ten minutes, a wild-eyed older white man who looked like he would enjoy a good brick game of golf walked up the aisle in handcuffs, flanked by officers. Someone yelled, “Loser!” Then the plane erupted in cheers

On the way out, the BSO was taking statements.

“He kept saying, ‘I have to go potty.' He was making all these excuses to stand near the door,’” I overheard one witness say. Another told me how the lunatic had managed to unlatch one of the plane’s emergency doors and was trying to get out into the open air.

By the time I got to the terra firma of the terminal, my shoulders were trembling.

“Don’t worry, Mamí,” a woman hawking credit cards and neck pillows at the gate soothed upon seeing my ragged countenance. “The air marshals are always there. You’re completely safe. There’s one now—isn’t he cute?”

Comments

[Jake Smith]

OMG, over a year since updated??????????