I came out of an alcohol blackout in a tiny bathroom on an airplane, leaning against the wall for support. I was on a direct flight from San Francisco to Newark, New Jersey. There was a horrible alarm going off all around me, this continuous high-pitched screeching noise. The sound your alarm clock makes but louder and non-stop, not beeping, just solid noise. Utter confusion in my head, was my plane crashing? Why am I standing in the plane’s bathroom, not going to the bathroom? The lid was down on the toilet. What is this horrendous sound? I stood dumbfounded for a good ten seconds, trying to get my bearings. I was wobbly, really drunk. I finally looked at my hand. I was holding a lit cigarette. That horrible screech was a smoke alarm. Panic, get out now. I threw the cigarette in the toilet, fumbled with the door and fell out of the bathroom. I knew I had to get back to my seat, fast. I stood up; this was going to be difficult. I was full of whiskey, beer and Xanex. How did I manage to roll a cigarette and even get to the bathroom? It must have been the Xanex, I thought, you took them all and those little anti-anxiety pills told your brain that everything was okay, go ahead, smoke. I was probably in the bathroom forever, maybe people were knocking. I couldn’t remember where I was sitting. The alarm wouldn’t stop; all the passengers turned and looked at me. Most of them had been sleeping. I had to get back to my seat; I had to get away with this. I started down the aisle but I just couldn’t manage. It was like trying to fight in a dream, you know you have to throw a punch, but you just can’t. I was trying to grab the backs of seats for leverage but I kept grabbing passenger’s frightened heads instead. I kept mumbling, “sorry, sorry.” This was becoming a scene, possibly an incident. Oh Christ, I thought, just get me back to my seat, and shut off that god damn alarm, I’ll never drink again.
The evil-faced flight attendant appeared in the aisle, she was coming for me, storming like a professional angry mother. She didn’t like me from takeoff. I’m sure every flight has its annoying drunk, and I was it. She was definitely a career flight attendant, in her 40’s, too much make-up, cheap penetrating perfume, a face that had been forced to smile for too many years. She knew. The plane kept shifting, turbulence, it wasn’t helping my struggle to my seat. I saw my carry-on bag on a vacant seat and quickly sat down. The passenger next to me gave me the reassuring look that said, “Yes, you’re a drunken asshole, and yes, you’ve been ruining my flight.” I closed my eyes. They didn’t actually see me smoking, I thought, I could get away with this, just pretend you’re sleeping, don’t look at anyone. I rolled half on my side and faced the window, away from the aisle.
“HIM.” I heard a woman’s voice say a few seconds later. I kept my eyes closed.
“SIR,” said a man’s voice, “SIR, please get up, now.”
They had me. I rolled over and opened my eyes to 3 flight attendants, two males and evil mother. I tried one last pathetic attempt to appear confused, just another sleeping passenger.
“Huh?”
“SIR, you need to come with us, now.”`
I let out a long sigh and looked at them with pleading eyes. No sympathy came from theirs. I was done. “Okay…” I said and started to get up. It was a hard walk to the back of the plane. Every single person was staring at me. I couldn’t get my balance still. The alarm hadn’t stopped. I needed a beer; I doubted that I would receive one. They took me into a room in the tail of the plane and shut the door. Here we go, I thought.
“What do you think you’re doing, smoking on a plane?” Mother asked.
“Huh? No, I wasn’t smoking…” I said, still trying.
“Come on, man…” a male attendant said, rolling his eyes.
“I knew it was you the first time, I was going to let it slide, but then you set off the alarm!” Mother said.
“The first time?” I said, actually confused. I had smoked before?
“Yes, I know you smoked the first cigarette, you stink of it.”
“Shit…listen…I…”
“You’re too drunk to even be on this plane, this is ridiculous, you could barely walk when you boarded. Don’t you know there was a near hijacking, five days ago?” “And you thought you could fucking smoke?”
My case was pointless. I started rubbing my eyes. The male flight attendants just stood, arms crossed, judging me.
“No…I just don’t remember, shit, listen, I had a really bad weekend…”
“A really bad weekend?”
I don’t know why, but I thought that was funny and started chuckling. She gave me the most grave, serious look in response. She wanted to kill me. My eyes filled with tears.
“But, no, seriously…my girlfriend dumped me in San Francisco at a fuckin’ sushi restaurant in front of her whole family yesterday, I’m flying back early, I don’t know where to even go in New York, I’m sorry, I just got all fucked up today, I didn’t know what I was doing…”
She weighed this in. She didn’t seem to care about my life story but that was all I had to say. She could yell at me for hours but it wouldn’t change a thing. I was just a drunk heartbroken mess who smoked on her plane. She stared at me for a moment waiting for me to elaborate. Her eyes widened and she threw up her hands.
“Jesus Christ.” She said in a tired voice.
“I’m serious, though,” I said to a male attendant. “You have no idea how many shitty things have happened to me over…”
“Okay, okay,” He interrupted holding up his hand.
She started digging through a cabinet noisily. The male attendants seemed to have a little sympathy for me now. She produced a huge sheet of paper.
“This,” she said, “Is a federal warning.”
“Okay…sorry.”
“You need to read this and understand and that you have been officially issued a federal warning. This is on record.”
“Okay, I’m sorry.”
I stood there scanning the warning, pretending I could read the tiny font in my state, acting as if I were mouthing words. It was like a mini-novel. Did she mean read it now? I looked up and she was staring expectedly at me. I asked her what was next by raising my eyebrows.
“Return to your seat and remain in it until we land.”
I apologized again, turned and lurched back down the aisle trying not to stumble. Everyone was still staring, I didn’t care. I slumped into my seat. My fellow passenger looked at me wearily, expecting a story. I didn’t want to talk. He wore little square glasses and a tie. He looked like your average San Francisco to New York traveler, soft, pink hands, the kind of person who would use the word “quaint” six times in a conversation. I put my head back and almost instantly fell asleep. I felt lucky.
I woke up groggy, half drunk and half hung-over with the driest mouth ever. We were descending into Newark Airport. I really needed water but didn’t dare speak to anyone. It was going to be freezing outside; I needed a beer and a bed.
I knew something was wrong when we landed. There was uneasiness on the plane; the crew wasn’t letting passengers stand up. The captain announced that passengers would be allowed to exit the plane soon. To please be patient. That’s when I understood. I was going to be the first person to exit this plane. I should have known. Why would they tell me cops were waiting for me? I was already guilty; I would just smoke another cigarette. I put my head in my hands and sighed.
Ten minutes passed. I was sweating profusely. The passengers were getting restless and talking loudly to each other. Then I saw them. Three cops walking down the aisle towards me, on the hunt. Two were in uniform, one in a suit. The plane grew completely silent. I told my fellow passenger in the tie that they were here for me and smiled at him like a real criminal. They stopped 3 seats in front of me. I forgot that I had switched seats before takeoff. They looked down at the poor innocent man in my original seat. “Sir, please stand up and come with us.” a uniformed cop said to him. The man’s face dropped in fear and panic, he could barely speak.
“WHAT?...no, wait, what…I didn’t...why?” he pleaded wildly. I felt bad. He had no understanding whatsoever why the police were trying to take him away. He just happened to be sitting in 17C, my original seat.
I held my forehead and sighed from seat 20C.
“Fellas,” I said raising my hand, “You’re here for me…”
I stood up and felt all the eyes on me. I grabbed my bag and walked toward the cops.
“You?” “Come with us.”
We started our walk from the back of the plane. One uniformed cop, the Port Authority Cop, walked ahead of me. Homeland Security and the suit walked behind me. I tried my best to look like a drug smuggler, staring back at curious wives in first class, making them avert their eyes. I’d give them a conversation for their ride home at least. I was just a heartbroken drunk who loved cigarettes.
The cops didn’t speak a word to me until after we left the terminal. The Port Authority rookie finally sighed, bored, and said in a Jersey accent, “Christ, kid, the fuck you thinkin’ smokin’ on a plane?” “Didn’t you hear what happened the other day?”
“Yeah, fuck…I dunno.” I mumbled.
They sat me down and took my I.D. The suit had disappeared. The Homeland Security man sat across from me. He looked exactly like a cop, big hairy forearms, salt and pepper hair on a square head. He seemed like a nice guy. He exhaled deeply and said, “So, this is what’s happening. We’re sending your I.D to the F.B.I, anything you want to tell us?” “Why the hell were you smoking on that plane?”
I was shaking, tired, drunk and drugged, dumped, alone in Newark, now going to jail. I hated life so much at that moment. I started crying.
“Fuck, I just don’t know…my whole god damn life fell apart yesterday, I lost the love of my life at a fuckin’ sushi restaurant in Berkeley, I don’t wanna live right now…”
“Kid, stop crying.”
“She gave me some Xanex for the trip, I don’t know. I took them all. I drank so much fuckin’ whiskey at the airport. I only remember being cut off at the bar, I was crying…”
“Calm down, kid.”
“Now I gotta leave my apartment, I don’t know where to go. She really fucked me up, man. I got dumped in front of her fuckin’ family. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m just all…”
“Okay, kid, just stop crying. I get it man; just stop talking for a minute. Breathe. I know, it sucks.”
I sat in silence sobbing with him for about ten minutes. He kept clearing his throat and sighing. The Port Authority cop came back, talking on his radio with my I.D in his hand. He was about my age, clean-shaven, pissed off that he was doing this instead of drinking with his buddies.
“The F.B.I said he got nothin’, they don’t want em’.” He said, “You guys want em’?”
Homeland Security looked up, wide-eyed, “Nah, we don’t want him,” He said, “You guys want him?”
He looked at my drunk, crying eyes and thought about it, “Nah, not really.”
There was a strange pause. “Well,” said the Port Authority Cop, “You gotta way outta this airport? A ride?”
“Yeah,” I said.
The two looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay, let’s walk him out.” One said. As I was being escorted out of the airport I turned on my phone. It was just passed midnight. It was New Year’s Day, 2010. Five days after the Christmas Day Plane Scare. I also had a text message from an old friend who lives on West 79th Street in Manhattan saying I could crash on his couch until I found a place. I was supposed to be in Lake Tahoe with my girlfriend’s family. Instead I was in Newark Airport with even more people who didn’t want me around. “Good luck, kid, don’t be stupid, okay?” the Port Authority Cop told me as we parted. I needed a cigarette.
I was met at the gate by my friend, Diamond. He drove in from Brooklyn to pick me up. He saw my face and knew immediately that I’d been through a lot in the past days. I threw my bag in his car and lit a cigarette. “Jesus, man, I got a fucking story to tell you.” I said.
“Cool”, he said, “I got like 12 beers and a bottle of tequila. Let’s get fucked and pack your books.”
“Amen.”
That was the best thing I had heard in 3 days. I told him my story. He laughed, called me stupid, laughed some more. We sped on the Jersey Turnpike towards my now ex-girlfriend’s apartment in Jersey City.
“Dude, fuck her. Just get out. Shit will be okay. I can’t believe you smoked on a fucking airplane. You’re seriously retarded.”
“I dunno, dude.” I said, “She just started treatin’ me like shit these last two months, I should have seen this coming, why the fuck did I go to California?”
“Fuck her.” He said, “She could have at least waited till you got back.”
I stared out my window looking at cold, industrial, ugly New Jersey passing by.
Every man needs a friend to say, “Fuck her” in his life. I started laughing, lit another cigarette. “She had her reasons, man; I could never be what she wanted. It was killing me. Jesus, man, I thought I was goin’ to jail. What a perfect ending.”
We parked the car at my girlfriend’s building. It was a high-rise modern building on the Hudson River. Probably the nicest place I’ve ever lived. Now I was going back to cold New York, back to all the uncomfortable couches and love-seats of sympathetic friends. Back to life packed in trash bags, no privacy living-rooms, Laundromats in Brooklyn ghettos, smelly socks. I was used to it. Hell, I loved it in a funny way. Living in the financial district of Jersey City was a huge change. But I loved her; I loved my life with her.
We started drinking the beers in the apartment. I was almost giddy, I had just barely avoided jail for a federal offense, and being excited and drunk and free hid my bottom-line pain and anguish that my life had fallen to pieces within days, again. All I know to do in these situations is drink tequila, laugh for a few hours, and die tomorrow.
I looked around the apartment, packing all my books and clothes into boxes and bags. It was the saddest thing I’d ever done. All the gigantic IKEA furniture we had bought together was now hers, the bed, couch, dressers, and bookshelves. It was all useless without love. I knew it would end this way, she had a corporate job and I was a bike messenger. I never felt worthy of her. And I wasn’t. All I can say is that I tried. I took a shot of tequila and took a framed drawing I had done off the wall and smashed it over my head. That felt good.
The next morning I wrote her a note on the back of my Marilyn Monroe Andy Warhol framed print and packed my things into my friend’s car. We drove through the Holland Tunnel, back to New York, to 79th and Broadway. It was time to build again, and suffer. In my city. She was gone.
