Some days I really hate my job.
Started at check-in: “I’m afraid I’ll need an extra space.” To be fair, old jumbo there was embarrassed and apologetic, but it set the tone, ya know?
“Surely you must have extra-legroom accommodation for the VIP list? Just look for the Gee Raaaaf party, you'll find us.” Peering down her snooty roman nose. You’re not strutting the catwalk now with your ridiculously long skinny necks and your wobbly-knobbly-new-baby legs, girls – in my book, everyone on my flight’s a VIP!
Then of course there were the inevitable marital disagreements: “I ain’t sitting nowhere near that snappy bitch, dude – this guy’s travellin’ lone wolf, here on in!”
Jee-zus! Not my rules, guys – I only work here, you know.
Plus the catering’s a complete nightmare – you cannot imagine all those exotic dietary requirements. Who knew there even were that many allergies?
We had one no-show. A Mr Blanca. The wife, Paloma, was inconsolable – I confess to telling a little white lie, said we'd bump him to the next flight, free-of-charge. . . Anything to get her moving.
Then came boarding – have you ever tried single-handedly herding a bucks’ party past the bar? Don’t get me started! Last in were the sweetest old couple: Poppop and Grammy, polite as all-getout and trying their best, but glacier-slow. Tortoisey old faces wrinkled with the effort of every excruciating step.
And there's a bit of weather coming in. If we miss our slot, god only knows how long we’ll be grounded. But everyone’s finally on board and settled. Doors are locked. Take-off in five—
“Uh, Noah? Need a little help here. . . it’s all kicking off in Crocodylia corner.”
Pam Martin-Lawrence is a queer neurodivergent author living on a small island with a long-suffering partner, writing novels and collecting emotional support plants and ‘book boyfriends’. Her poetry and short fiction has appeared in publications including Passionfruit Review, Micromance, KissMet Quarterly, and Bunker Squirrel. Chocolate is her kryptonite.
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