An Original Monologue

by ilsa troge

 

Everything had happened so fast. The ad in the magazine detailing the weekend seminar in Sedona. The call to my travel agent. Flight reservations to Phoenix. Car rental arrangements for the hundred and twenty miles I'd have to drive. Motel accommodations. Getting time off work during the busy season, and finding I had enough money to afford this spur of the moment trip. This was certainly out of character for me. I never did anything on the spur of the moment. I detested the monotony of car trips. My immediate "comfort zone" never takes me more than thirty-five miles in any one direction. But here I was, sitting in seat 25D on Northwest flight 1641, waiting for take-off. 

My thoughts were interrupted by the sounds of a heated discussion in the seats next to me. The occupants, an elderly couple, were having a disagreement about seating. They ended up moving across the aisle to other seats, only to create more commotion when the "rightful" occupants of those seats showed up. One of the young men took the window seat in my row, leaving the middle seat between us vacant. I didn't notice what became of his companion, as my thoughts were now focused on something altogether different. 

Were the walls of the plane really closing in on me? Why was it so difficult for me to catch my breath? I felt like screaming, but couldn't. My heart was beating so fast and loud I felt it would jump out of my chest at any moment! All I could think of was getting OFF THAT PLANE! - but my legs would not move - and the aisle was completely blocked by boarding passengers. What was I going to do? I just HAD to get off that plane. 

I dug my fingernails into the armrests of my seat, as if this could somehow help me hold on to reality, but it only served to magnify the horror of the situation. How could I have been so incredibly stupid as to forget about my fear of flying??? 

The last time I'd flown - seven years earlier on a non-stop from Honolulu - the plane had taken a sudden drop in altitude too terrifying for words. Drinks, snacks, stewardesses and unbuckled passengers were sent flying about the cabin. Even though the pilot assured us it was "just a little bit of unexpected turbulence," I'd vowed never to fly again. But here I sat, trapped, on a plane still sitting at the gate, scared out of my mind. 

My racing thoughts were interrupted by a calm voice asking if the seat next to me was taken. Without looking up, I nodded and mumbled something about my being a white-knuckle flyer. 

The voice responded "I know," as baggage was stowed in the overhead compartment. Was it really that obvious? I wondered. 

As he seated himself I noticed we were both wearing pale purple shirts. How synchronistic, I thought, but said nothing, as I felt myself sinking yet deeper into fear-of-flying mode. The next thing I knew he was prying my nails away from the armrest and gently took my hand to rest it between his. Under other circumstances I would've protested this obvious infringement of "my space" - but somehow this was different. 

At first his words seemed to be coming from somewhere far away, and I could barely make them out. But it didn't take me long to tune-in to what he was telling me. He gave me a detailed rundown of what was going on in the cockpit, assured me of the safety of the plane, alluded to his innumerable trips on just this type of aircraft, explained each creak, bump, grind and shimmy the plane made - almost before it happened. I was still in no condition to respond verbally, so I just kept nodding, at once indicating I understood what he was saying as well as encouraging him to keep talking. 

He ordered a glass of Chablis for each of us. I eagerly accepted and at last could feel myself relaxing. As I refocused my attention, I noticed my rescuer was a very attractive man. He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and the most sincere smile I'd ever seen. Soon we were talking a mile-a-minute about practically every subject under the sun, and in what seemed like no time at all, the pilot was giving us our landing instructions. 

I thanked the helpful stranger for his kindness, and as we parted in the terminal, shared an embrace only friends of long-standing would find comfortable. 

In a moment he was gone. Only then did it occur to me that I didn't even know his name. I returned to the plane and asked the stewardess what the name of the gentleman seated next to me was. She looked at her manifest and with a puzzled expression said, "But ma'am, there was no one seated next to you. The manifest shows that seat flew empty on this flight." 

A chill ran down my spine, and I smiled - knowingly. It didn't really matter if I didn't know his name. I'd seen "Highway to Heaven" and "Touched By An Angel" enough times to believe the TV characters just might have real-world counterparts. And besides, who else would know the intricacies of flying better than the ANGEL seated next to me on Northwest Flight 1641?