I was on a Northwest Airlines flight bound for the heart of the snowy Midwest. I was a little bit dope-sick and a whole lot hungover. I made my way to the center of business class and found my seat. I wanted to bolt as soon as I sat down. I fought the overwhelming urge to run back to the gate and catch the first taxi home. I’m not a good flier. I’m not a good passenger. I don’t like to wear my seat belt. I don’t like to keep my tray in its upright and locked position, and I don’t like to stow my gear in the overhead bin. The whole machine of air travel is made of rules and regulations and even under the best of circumstances, I have difficulty with it. There was one thing about air travel that I did like, though, and that was vodka and orange juice. I needed mine right now.
I tried to hold it together while the pretty, plasticized attendant gave her practiced rundown of what we were supposed to do in the event of an emergency. Whether over land or water, it didn’t seem to me to matter. If something happened, we all knew we were completely fucked. Going down might have been the kindest nudge that fate could have given this bird. The whole thing was out of my hands anyway. No sense in being gloomy and doom-struck. I just wanted my drink.
Before I left for the airport, I had stood alone in the bathroom in front of the mirror and smoked a generous quantity of black-tar heroin. I put a blob of the dark, sticky resin onto a piece of creased foil and held a disposable Bic lighter under it to slightly melt the dose. With a McDonald’s plastic straw clenched between my teeth and a flame under the foil, I caught the thick, almost oily smoke that slowly boiled up along the crease like a pyroclastic flow in reverse and pulled it deep into my lungs. I was well rehearsed in the technique and never wasted any of my stash. Even now, with my shaking hands and distracted mind, I could have pulled it off while wearing a blindfold. There were a lot of unknowns in my immediate future, but this wasn’t one of them. I knew exactly what came next, the warm embrace of an old chemical friend and a sense that everything would be just fine. Of course, I was on dope, so, really, what the fuck did I know?
I watched my reflection in the cold depth of the mirror and saw my pupils contract to pinpoints while a rush hit me deep down in the viscera and spread to the outskirts of Forrest County, USA. The mirror bit was a little ritual I had. It allowed me to see what happened to me. It assured me that the stuff was working. In a nod to choreographer Bob Fosse and the movie All That Jazz, I fanned the fingers of both hands in front of my face and whispered, “Showtime!” at the gaunt and chalky visage in the mirror.
My adventure had begun.
I sat in my seat aboard the Northwest 737 and I could feel my anxiety start to build. When would this peppy attendant stop with the flight safety rundown and get on to the important things, like serving me my booze? She droned on and I sensed movement as the plane taxied down the runway. There was a brief pause before the hum of the engines turned into a banshee’s feral howl and the awesome force generated by those screaming turbines pressed me back into my seat like I was a piece of putty. Good. Maybe I could just disappear. I felt conspicuous in the foam recess of my little nest. Something inside of me churned and bubbled and it was a bad feeling.
That was forgotten when I heard the announcement, “Your attendant will now take your drink orders.” Relief was just an order away. When the attendant stopped next to my row, I put on my best face and worked the charm angle: “Two double vodkas with orange juice, please!” It was important to keep up my vitamin C intake. It was also important to keep up my hustle. Dreadlocked musicians like me weren’t seen as rock stars by the general public back then. We were freaks, and freaks were dangerous and under scrutiny. The attendant was a lovely young woman. She looked almost military in her uniform, but she was nice. She had a sense of humor and exhibited the kind of mercy usually possessed only by those who nursed the terminally ill. “We’ll just pretend one of those drinks is for whoever is sitting here,” she said, nodding toward the empty seat beside me. I liked her. So this is what they meant by “the friendly skies.”
“We’ll serve them one at a time,” she joked.
“Make sure you remember me,” I shot back as she gave me my plastic cup filled with ice, my orange juice, and four tiny bottles of airline vodka. I declined her offer of free peanuts.
I don’t think I ever enjoyed a drink so much. The cold bite of the ice that rattled hollowly in the plastic cup, the sweet tang of the orange juice, and the tasteless after-burn of the vodka was beautiful. As the mixture absorbed the surrounding light it took on the appearance of some strange, unnamed gem. As I drank, I could feel myself stutter-start to rough, shambling life. The medicine was doing its work, I thought, and I felt my strength and confidence return as I leaned back and made myself comfortable. Now I was starting to feel good. I felt even better when I finished my second double … and I ordered two more.
I mean, seriously, what the fuck was
