It’s Time to Take Out the Aerotrash, Can First-Class Warfare be Far Behind?

Living in Paris for three weeks is something that I will never forget. Using an airplane to get there and back is something that will also remain lodged in my memory bank for a long time, although it would be preferable to have it surgically excised.

Except for maybe driving a car, a world war, or the “Jerry Springer Show,” there seems to be nothing that brings out the worst in human behavior more than flying. To begin with, the prime directive of all plane passengers is to be both the first person on and off the plane, a mission that even the formidable captain Kirk would deem unrealistic.

Initially, I was lulled into a sense of well-being and, paradoxically, even a sort of foxhole camaraderie, since, to me, being 25,000 feet up in the air in essentially a giant winged coffin, means that the bloated sales rep obsessed with his Blackberry, the teenager chewing gum with bovine proficiency, and the mother who is obviously force-feeding her one year old something the saw on the “Anthony Bourdain Show” may all be sharing our last moments together. Sitting there at gate four of Dulles International, everything seemed copasetic as Barbara and I struck up a conversation with a seemingly pleasant Australian man headed to Paris to see the World Soccer Cup. But once the announcement that the plane was ready to board first-class passengers was made, it was every man and woman for themselves, and I cursed audibly as this same man transmogrified into some sort of George Romero creation and stomped down on my foot, as he lurched wildly toward the boarding area, even though I learned later that he was in economy class with us. But he was only one of hundreds of fellow concourse zombies who were starting to crowd the boarding area despite the heedless pleas of the public address announcers to go back to their seats.

In my opinion, it’s time for the FAA to get tough with these people: Water hoses, cattle prods, tasers? Not tough enoucn. These people—lets’ call them Aerotrash instead of zombies, since the latter may be dangerous, but not necessarily ill-mannered and obnoxious—are not easily deterred, but I think I’ve got the answer, and a timely one at that.

If these people are pursuing plane-boarding as a major life goal, maybe they’ll be up for a little water-boarding. You simply put up a sign, “Line A, immediate boarding. Guaranteed to get you there first, even ahead of those pushy wheelchair people.” Then, instead of entering the plane, they tumble down a chute at the bottom of which they are greeted by three burly, ‘roid-crazed (that’s “ste-“ not “hemorrh-“ but perhaps both) Blackwater employees standing under a snarling (smiling while snarling) picture of Dick Cheney. “Welcome awater-board,” they chime creepily. These people will be guaranteed to wait their turns in the future.

Of course, the reason for the “board first” mania is not to get the best seat, since they’ve all been pre-assigned, it’s to lay claim to the overhead storage compartment, which usually has a number on it corresponding to the one on your seat, but these yahoos ignore this, so a good deterrent might be tagging the carry-on baggage with number, and if the numbers do not match, the flight attendant would open a compartment outer door and the offending baggage would be flung out onto the tarmac. But not so fast. Just in case that piece of Aerotrash is inclined to try to retrieve it, all tarmac baggage would become the property of the Concourse Gorilla, who, incidentally, would be a very cost-effective TSA employee (no wages, health benefits, or paid holidays, just a hundred or so pounds of bananas a day, and not even a tire, since he’s got the luggage to toss around.) And to avoid the torture overload label—we’ve already got water-boarding—each violator will be given a key to the cage and five minutes to convince the hirsute no-so-civil servant to return it.

To deal with the stampede to get off the plane first (To deplane, as the Aeronerds call it, and quite frankly, a term for which they should be paying royalties to the estate of Herve Villechaize), all passengers should be required to stand and get their luggage out of the overhead compartments in turn, from the front to back. Those not in compliance will have all their luggage, including check-in, sent to Basra, Iraq. And the only way ti can be gotten back is for the owner to join the armed forces and be immediately deployed there—no time for training, of course. This certainly is guaranteed to get the ringing endorsement of our president as a bold new recruiting tool. Incidentally, once the enlistee completes a three-hour IED disarming course and successfully deactivates six of them during combat, he/she will have their luggage returned.

Another manifestation of Aero-trash is the selfish asshole who takes up overhead compartment space with items that could be kept in one’s lap: coats, handbags, scarves, etc. These people will be strapped to their checked luggage and made to ride the baggage carousel for six hours with a sign pinned to them saying, “I was tricked into thinking this was going to be a merry-go-round. I want my money back, or, least my dignity, only if it’s worth more, of course.”

I think that will take care of the Aero-trash but, before I end, a word about those supercilious divas and divos in first class, who lounge like Jabbas the Hut, as we economy-class clods trudge timidly by. I can always feel their disdainful glances as I pass by clutching my pitiful belongings like some airborne hobo. It would not surprise me if the airlines eventually assign an attendant-at-arms to that section, barking orders out to us such as, “Avert your eyes!” or “Touch nothing!” interspersed with the occasional command from the pompous potentates themselves: “Peel me a grape, vassal!” Talk about the gap between the middle and upper classes.

I feel the time is ripe for me to take a Spartacus-like action. On my next flight, instead of passing sheepishly by these obnoxious Queens-and-Kings-for-a-Flight, I will incite an economy-class rebellion as I bravely shout from the back of the plane, “I’m talking over First Class! Are you with me?” Or I might reduce it to the more succinct, but perhaps more powerful, “Freedom!” as I easily win over the already half-crazed Aerotrash to help me defeat these pampered patricians. However, in a tear-evoking display of humanity, I do not remove these people from their cushy thrones but, instead, inflict a more subtle punishment that may even result in rehabilitation, simply by compelling them to identify themselves in the future by wearing a sign around their necks that says: “I’m a First-class asshole.”

So you see, with a few adjustments here and there, maybe all of us will be able to fly the friendly skies once again.