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“I’ve already booked the flight for you.”
“You booked it?! Fucking hell, Erwin, you know I don’t fly.”
“How else are you going to meet with the client across the pond? Shall I tell them you’ll be over in two weeks via cruise ship?”
The tone in his voice was even and professional, but I knew he was incredulous with my discomfort in flying.
Still he continued to press his case, “Think of it this way, Levi. You can get over your fear of airplanes.”
I dragged a hand down my face, “I don’t fear airplanes. I am simply uncomfortable within a flying contraption that could crash into Earth at any moment. Not to mention the recycling contents of everyone’s sneezes and coughing and shit. How can that even be sanitary…”
“Levi. You’re the one going. And you will be going on this flight.”
His tone was final. Well shit.
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That was how I ended up in Heathrow Airport, with a flight booked to New York, dragging a suitcase behind me as I waded amid crowds and crowds of people all flying on those tiny contraptions to various destinations around the world. I should write my will and email its contents of having someone disembowel Erwin alive if I died on this flight or anything to do with it.
But what’s done was done. I would have a 7 and a half hour flight to New York and another flight back to London. So here I stood amid a long line of people checking their bags in for their flights, silently reevaluating my life choices. I should have stayed in France for one. Maybe become a recluse of an artist or a chef. But no, it was too late for that.
Security was a pain in the ass. Erwin had said if I flew often instead of only taking clients in Europe (the train system worked well for me so far), I could get a security pass. This was a one time deal. Never again. After my flight back anyway. Why the hell did they make it so you had to be at the airport 3 hours in advance anyway? Security and check in took 30 minutes tops, and then you’d be stuck wandering the airport 2 and a half hours. Maybe it was a ploy to get you to buy all that expensive shitty food and souvenirs there. I wonder if that business strategy even worked. With the numb public, probably.
The mindless wandering and grabbing food at a surprisingly decent café seemed to draw my mind from my impending doom hovering in my near future. At least until it was time to line up for my gate. Then the drumming fingers on my laptop bag seemed necessary in order to ground me for the next 8 hours (always round up) of hell.
As I stared at the boarding pass, I noticed that Erwin hadn’t even booked business class for me. Probably an excuse to acclimate me to the public sphere of flying. Cramped in one of those tiny seats with someone crammed next to me. Oh joy. Or maybe because he was titanic in size, he presumed that the tiny seats were normal for someone my size. Asshole. I was average. It was everyone else that was abnormally tall. I hated having clients in the Scandinavian countries for that very reason.
Resigned to my fate, I stepped onto the airplane, glancing at my watch as I stood, unmoving as morons blocked the aisles for everyone else as they couldn’t find their seat or had to stop the entire population of the aircraft to put their bag in the overhead bin. Sometimes I couldn’t believe the public. At this rate, I would be late for my client meeting. In the next two days. After what felt like fucking forever, I was at my seat. Really, Erwin? He booked a window seat. Did he think looking out the window would help my fear of crashing headfirst into the Earth or sea in a flaming inferno? I sure think it wouldn’t.
Nonetheless, it didn’t seem that bad so far. Then again, twenty minutes later, people were still filing into the plane, filling up empty seats and trying to stuff their bags in the already full bins, the flight attendants trying to fit everything in empty bins. Even my seatmate found his spot, a brat swaying to some catchy electronica-pop tune coming from his fancy headphones. He seemed unphased with the whole flying experience. As did everyone else. Didn’t they realize that they were on a vehicle that was essentially death with wings? Probably not. Lucky shits.
Even when the plane pulled away from the gate, taxiing slowly to the runway, I felt fine. Anxious sure, I had never flown before, and aside from various media, did not know what to expect. What I did know, was of the various incidents where aircraft went missing or crashed with no survivors with no apparent cause. Such thoughts already were like poison to the mind, my heart-rate increasing and breathing slowing.
Then it happened.
The fucking plane lifted off up into the air and I grabbed onto the nearest thing clutching it to my chest as I cursed.
“Saint-Merde! Je vais mourir, je vais mourir… Pourquoi est-ce que j’ai permis à Erwin de faire convaincre moi d’embarquer dans l’avion? (1)”
It was only when my rant completed that did I notice what, or who, I grabbed in my admittedly out-of-character hysteria. My seatmate. Who was looking at me very confused and worried.
There was no way of saving face now, was there? My only saving grace was that no one else on the plane seemed to notice my panic. Conversations around us continued as normal, even as I realized I still was clutching my seat-mate’s arm to my chest as I leaned towards him. Well that wasn’t what ordinary people did on airplanes.
I felt my face heat as I released his arm, my face falling into my hands as I apologized.
“Excusé-moi. Je suis désolé… Comme vous pouvez le voir, je n’ai jamais pris l’avion. (2)”
All I received was a confused long blink. Silence. Was he mocking me?
“Quoi? Est-ce que vous parlez? Ou non? (3)”
He looked hesitant, biting his lip as if mulling over something. Then he spoke slowly, enunciating clearly, “I do not speak French.”
“Huh?” I mirrored the confused blink back, not having realized I slipped into my mother tongue in my panic. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I was saying sorry. I have never flown on a plane before.”
The kid’s expression broke into the widest grin I have ever seen, all smiles and bright eyes. “I would have never guessed.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well…” He gave a general gesture in my direction, “Your style of dress… You look like a high class business man. Someone who’d likely travel for business. That and you have almost no French accent when you speak English. You seem well-traveled.”
“That’s because I’ve lived in London for the past ten years. You, by your accent, are American.”
He gave another grin, “Yeah, I was studying abroad for a year. It’s finally time to return home.”
The conversation soon died off, and I realized we were actually at a cruising altitude. I occasionally snuck a glance sideways at the American student returning home. Most of the time he was engrossed in a movie on his personal mini-screen. Sometimes he had a portable gaming device out and was sucked into that universe. It was almost cute how his brow furrowed in concentration, and he’d bite his bottom lip. If anything, in between nodding off into a light unconsciousness and sneaking glances at my seatmate, time passed fairly quickly.
The flight attendants served a light, crappy meal. I picked at it, ate what I deemed wouldn’t leave me prisoner on the porcelain throne shitting uncontrollably for days. I almost wanted to grudgingly admit Erwin was right, and flying was doable. Then the turbulence came.
The aircraft carrying over a hundred passengers wobbled mid-air, that professional calm pilot spoke over the intercom over some shit like experiencing turbulence and to return to your seat with the seatbelt on. What? Did the seatbelt have the potential to protect us from all harm should the airplane crash nose first into the ocean? I didn’t think so.
“Putain! Putain de merde! (4)” I cursed under my breath, as my fingers clamped down on my slacks. My heart raced, blood pounding in my ears, breath caught. The world of the airplane seemed to fade. All I could see was flames. Death.
“Hey! Mister!”
The wall of flames faded, and I was back on the airplane. At first I thought the turbulence had gotten worse, but then realized it was the American shaking me back and forth.
“What, stop that.”
He gave a relieved sigh as he released my shoulder, “Oh good… You didn’t look good all of a sudden. You got really pale and your eyes were unfocused… Panic attack?”
“Is that what they’re called?”
“Um… yeah. I have a friend who used to get them. Although his was due to social anxiety, not flying.”
“Huh.” I gave a grunt in confirmation. I settled back into my seat rougher than I needed to, my head banging on the not-so-soft seat. “Wish this thing would be over already.”
The American offered a sympathetic smile, “Yeah… I think the worst part is how long you have to be stuck on these things.” He looked down at his lap then back over at me. “Hey, what’s your name?”
“...Levi.”
His smile widened again, “Nice to meet you, Levi. My name’s Eren. I figured it was better than calling you mister if you had another one.”
“Mmm…” I gave another noncommittal sound. I was looking forward to get off this thing as soon as possible.
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I breathed a sigh of relief once my feet were on solid ground again. Or at least the airport ground. Close enough. Landing had been an adventure of itself. I think I taught Eren every curse word in French while we spent 20 minutes or so in a nosedive back to Earth. The American student was kind enough to allow me to grab him, and even more so to keep quiet about the whole manner. Discretion was my only saving grace as I was pretty sure I lost all trace of dignity as I marched off that flight. It was the walk of shame, except without the disheveled clothes and pounding headache of a massive hangover.
Eren and I separated after we disembarked, and sadly, when I returned to London in a couple of weeks time, I really didn’t think I would have another good sport to grab onto whenever we took off, landed, or had any slightest hints of turbulence. I followed the glaring signs to the baggage claim, ready to get my suitcase, claim my rented car, and just crash in my hotel room. With or without alcohol in my system, afternoon be damned.
As I snagged my suitcase, I caught a glance of Eren with his backpack and suitcase, looking depressed as he stared at the glowing screen of his phone. It really was none of my business, but the excitable student I saw on the plane and the one ten feet in front of me seemed like different people. And I felt as if I somehow was indebted to Eren’s kindness. He did not once make fun of me for what most people (read: Erwin) thought of as a silly fear.
Before I could stop myself, I was already walking towards Eren, “Eren, is something wrong?”
His head jerked up at the sound of his name, eyes wide in surprise before another grin fashioned on his expression erasing any trace of his disappointment. “Hey Levi! Look, you made it!”
I gave him an incredulous look, “What’s wrong?”
“Oh… I…” He looked at his feet, shuffling them, “It’s just my dad… He got called in- he’s a surgeon, you see- so I have to find my own way back home.”
This was creepy of me, I chided myself, but already the words were slipping out, “If you don’t mind waiting until I get my car from the rental, I can give you a ride.”
“Oh no, you can’t do that. I live outside of the city in a suburb. It’s much too far.”
“Doesn’t that mean it’d also be harder to find public transportation out?”
“I can get a taxi…”
“Look, Eren. It’s creepy of me, I get that. We were strangers who met on a plane, and I have anxiety when it comes to flying. All the more disturbing-”
“No! It’s not.” Eren protested, cutting me off, “I think you’re nice… and it’s perfectly normal to have anxieties and fear when doing new things. And… I like you.”
I snorted, “Are you sure it’s not because I practically taught you every curse word in the French language?”
Eren laughed, and I swear it was the sound of my own happiness. I’m usually not so sappy, but I guess that shows how much I liked the American kid. And usually I thought of Americans as two types, Captain America style Erwin, also known as the celebrity model types, or the brain-lacking over-entitled types who thought everyone should be like Americans. Never an Eren.
Eren brightened, “You know, I can show you around if you want. New York isn’t a city you can just get a car and go. Traffic sucks. I can give you a general tour to help you out.”
I shrugged, couldn’t beat a personal tour guide. Not to mention a good-looking one too. “Alright,” I snuck a glance at my watch, that would have to be changed later, but calculating the time difference, it was already near 4 pm. “You can show me where to find dinner.”
“Oh? Already a dinner date? You never asked me out!”
I already turned to walk towards the car rental, if only to hide the beginnings of a smile, the kid was infectious. “Tais-toi, sale gosse. (5)”