Ol’ Lucky Loose Lindy Trick

So I’m headed to this French chateau, right? Orquevaux, France. Google it! It’s dope. Anyway. I get to NYC before sundown with a layover in Chitown and I’m trying not to drink.

At airports anymore you can’t even smoke a fucking cigarette without exiting and redoing security clearance. Bunch of bullshit. So I ain’t wanna get lit in any way or I’m gonna wanna smoke, right?

Anyway, 6:30pm EST rolls around and we all start boarding this 777? My first, hopefully not last. All these rich Americans and I’m the MOST Uhmerican of the flight I guess. They all got blankets and pillows…I got a suit and tie. Black tie.

The sun is setting out of sight as I get boarded. All the way on the top floor of this airplane I had yet conceptualized as an individual. 3 passenger levels at least. Shit’s wild.

I’m in my seat by 6:45. I do NOT wanna drink, like I said. And all these families and professionals and jet-setter types; they all know what they are doing. I have not a clue. The passengers stow-away and sit, the doors close. Vamanos a la Francé.

Wheels up by 7 pm per international flights in the 2020’s…2023, air early-2020’s, mind you. Pre-DOGE. I’m high as a kite on the flight takeoff. Where am I going. I speak TexMex Español, if anything other than Midwest English, so what the fuck do I know about French?

Or France? Or Europe? South America? A few times, yeah. Never Europe. And I’m hopping the pond all the way past the Isles, Brother. All the way to Charles De Gaul. What an idea. Only half a day’s flight, right? 7pm to 7am the next day, and a continent away, and an ocean. Anyway, 7 hours of flight time to gain 5 hours on tomorrow…ok, sure.

Everyone is relaxing by the time we level out. According to the in-flight terminal we are fucking high before Newfoundland, taking a route I had heard about; over Nova Scotia, under Greenland, across The British Isles, over the channel, and into Paris. 12 easy steps. 

And I look around and the lights dim. No windows drawn. Everyone resting. 11:45 hours of this dank? No, 7 prolly. Ok, cool. A flying, isolated ego wondering what first class is like, wondering about a meal, wondering too much.

Dong. Stewardess arrives like she’s waiting for me. $5 beers? Ok. Add a jack and Coke I guess. $10? Ok here’s a 20. Yeah, first time to Europe. No clue what to do. No, I’m just a writer. Never been to Paris. Really staying in some chateau near a village I never heard of called Orquevaux. Yeah, it’s gonna be a trip, thanks.

Jack always works on a flight. Break the tension. Then the beer. Uhmerican Budlight prolly. And I take a moment, beer speaking, and soak it in. Few people snore on international flights. I wonder if they really sleep or just rest their eyes. I can’t rest my eyes. I’m a writer. Observation is my bread and butter. So I observe the bottom of the can and tilt it back and down the hatch.

Take a moment. You’re off the continent now, according to the head rest screen in front of you. You want another beer? 8:03pm. Yeah, I’ll have another. Call sign. Here you go yeah, just like you said, Beer 2. Yep. Smooth. You got my card, right? Cool. Yeah just realizing how many hours left. We lose 12, gain 5 on tomorrow, right? Weird. Thanks for the beer.

I'm pondering European beer now. AB, NBev, Budweiser. It’s all European. Now, a Yuengling? That’s an American beer. This Diesel and The Light have run home to the mother land, capitalistically speaking. You ain’t even Irish, let alone German. But Bayern is just across the border. Maybe you get there.

Orquevaux? I got a picture and an Internet rundown. Pink, or salmon, aristocratic recreation overlooking a lake and a village made of limestone relics being revived for the sake of art. Yeah they got a church too, and a castle. Sounds like some American bought the estate and is buying up the town. Smart money. I gotta piss.

Up from the aisle seat, center row, all windows closed anyway but we are on top of the world now. Shucking to my feet, quiet enough not to wake my row or my cabin, slinking back to the bathrooms - lavatories, rather - near the galley. In the galley, the stewards and stewardesses are rolling about something. They stop laughing.

Nah, just gotta piss. No, really. Into the pisser. Feeling the altitude, and the pressure, and the alcohol. And I wash away the flight thus far and scrubbed my 11 o’clock shadow, central standard time, on the last continent. On to the next. Shut off the lights in unlocking the door, and they’re all laughing in the galley still.

Long flight, right? Yeah, never been to Europe so obviously never been to France, let alone Paris. Anyway, here we are. Yeah? Over the ocean? I’ll have another. No, beer. No more liquor. What’s France like? Never been? Alright, imma head back to my seat with this, thanks.

No, not an actor, sorry. Trying to find out if I’m a writer actually, yeah. Yeah, head back now, thanks. Oh I could drink all flight. Really, huh? Ok, keep ‘em coming. Yeah, I’ll take two more. That’s, that’s five right? Oh, you’re not counting? Cool. I guess I am the only idiot to not take sleeping pills for an overnight, international flight. You guys know what you’re doing, I guess. Thanks again!

So I trip down the aisle and lumber back into my chair. These things were designed for Hobbits it seems. I’m more like a cave troll. And now I’m drunk, not just drinking. Drunk on the rare air, the altitude, and the sense of Self. No actor, no, not me. Maybe a writer. I eye the lid of the can and take a swig. Prolly just a writer. And the little computer plane continues east below the southern tip of Greenland.

The flight information on the digital display is clear. 2.5 hours into flight, 4:20 left on ETA to Paris. Local time in Paris is 1:40 am. By the estimated time of arrival at Charles De Gaul, and the conversation I had with the flight crew outside the lavatories, I’m hitting Paris drunk as Pepé Le Pew. They still think I’m someone. They offered me complimentary beverages the entire flight…deal?,.

I’m four or five drinks in and it’s a 4:20 time to 6:00 am arrival. Slam my last beer. Call sign. Beers arrive. 4:05 on time to Paris, 3 or 4 more beers. Let’s get it. So I’m writing, right? I mean. Not on the plane. On the plane I’m drinking. Right, save your reserves. Keep the pen sheathed. Beer, and booze in general, keep me from thinking, which keeps me from feeling, which keeps me from writing. Tiger is in the cage, though the cage is aloft.

Unbeknownst to me, or anyone on the flight really, I am breaking international drug trafficking laws. In addition to the vape pens I forgot to dig out of my carry on, my stow away luggage has controlled substances to boot. I take so many fucking medications I can’t count…but two of them have prolly got me tagged by Interpol before we pass under Greenland; Clonazepam and Testosterone. 

I take the T because my T count at 37 years of age was that of a retired man. I have not even started. I take the Clonazepam for that reality; I have anxiety, thus they have prescribed me apathy. The booze helps me navigate all that bullshit. I’m indestructible. Give me all the drugs. Liquor is a lubricant on all levels. Rx meds were never meant for me, but then again I never thought to see 33, and so here we are; dosed from upon high and it’s negative -43° outside the cabin.

Ok so that’s like 10 beers by now. 3.5 hours or so of flight time. Reading this display makes me think I should have paid attention more in Trig, or Calc, or whatever. Anyway, last beer draining, draining, dripping, dry. Call sign. Yup, you got it, keep ‘em…wait, 5 more? Deal. Let’s roll…wait. No, let’ s just keep it groovy, Miss. Yeah, yeah, just a writer. But right now I’m a drunk, thanks.

What the fuck is “True Air Speed”? We been flying now for a while I deduce, but the TAS listed keeps fluctuating from 550 MPH to 568 MPH. These pilots are fucking with me. Just take it up to 569. Let’s gooo. I wanna play music but it’s as silent as a morgue in flight. I don’t even crush my cans. But I am working on yet another nice pile of them. These folks in the crew are Johnnie’s-On-The Spots on these cans. Keep ‘em movin’.

There’s a couple or something in the two seats to my left in our center row, back aisle. They have pillows, they have blankets, and they have one another; her head rested to her left upon his right shoulder, his head resting down on hers. They must do this often. Huh. Rough life, flying and sleeping. Beer 3 of 3 gone. Crushed the…crunch not in-flight…call sign.

It is a few minutes later when the woman stewardess arrives, a delay not yet perceived. She’s got the trash bag but no new beers. Ok, be cool. No, yeah, writer. I got a website and everything. Yeah, I’d pull it up for you but, you know, I ain’t got travel options and I didn’t pay for the in-flight wifi. Not a celebrity, no. Another beer? Why not?

3 hours flight time, 6:00am ETA, Paris, Mother-Fucking France, European fucking continent. Over the goddamn Atlantic. What a ride. I don’t know what I’m doing, sure, but doing it well it seems. Over the hump of the flight time at least. I’ll have to figure out the luggage and the trains, sure, but Man, what I would not do for a cigarette at this exact moment. Or a bowl. Or a j. Oh well. Finish your beer and be grateful. Chug-a-lug. Crushed can. Burp.

The couple to my left stir at the sound and I no longer wince at the inconsideration of my drunken self. Time for more. I grab my cans, one crushed, two or three others stacked and empty, and I wobble up into the aisle, leaning for a second to gather my bearings, before I stumble aft to the lavatory. Yup, here they are, nah lemme piss first. Not that kinda mile-high club, I guess? Haha, cool.

Piss two, lavatory boogaloo, went off without a hitch. I even washed my mouth out with soap. Why not? Let’s get this beer. The vent overhead flicks off as I unlatch the door and fart. Eyes and tongue and spirit dragging, I look up to three stewardesses each handing me a beverage of the alcoholic variety. I am pleased as a pumpkin patch participant.

Back down the aisle, slide into the seat, drop the tray-table, set my beers down, and reach for my cigs. Not there, not in the chest pocket, what the f-oh, wait. I’m on a fucking plane. Over fucking Scotland by the looks of the headrest fore. The read out thing. Computer screen. On the headrest in front of me. Yeah, I’m fucking Scottish? This a myth? Go back to sleep, just cracking’ a brewski, thanks.

3:30 Paris time and we got a couple hours left. I’d eat this lady’s lapdog for a fucking cigarette. I brought the pouches, yeah. But this mother fucker needs smoke in his lungs, By God!! There’s another 3 beers like that. I lost count of how many times I pissed already but I gotta piss so I gotta get up so I gotta grab my cans and pop up the table thing and, quietly as a mouse, slide up into the aisle. Drunk fish, fancy maneuver.

Yes, ladies, THAT writer. Yeah my Wix site is cool, thanks. No, I don’t do the art installations on my instagram since COVID. Had to try something else yeah, oh thanks, yeah I brought ‘em back for you. A picture? I mean, yeah, why not? Autograph? I told you I ain’t famous haha. Yeah, well, I might be! Ok, sure, what you got to write with? No, haha. I’m not a real writer; I don’t carry a fucking pen. People keep saying this to me. There ya go. Yup, back to the pisser!

By now I’m rolling toward a rolling brownout, which would be followed inevitably by a blackout. Do NOT black out before, or in, Paris, You Dipshit. I smile at myself in the mirror. Mother fuckin’ LIT. Time to party, yeah? Oh, yeah, you’re partying. You’re flying to fucking France, dude. And these guys are providing the liquid assets for the exchange rate of gaining five hours on dawn. In Paris. In France. In Europe. Oh shit, dude. Was your hands, zip your fly. Steady now, just a little turbulence.

Washing my hands, I grabbed for the towelettes and washed up the sink, the toilet seat, and the floor. I staggered in confinement. I stumbled in stasis. I fixed my tie, brushed back my hair with my damp hands, and looked myself square. Look sharp, act sharp, be sharp, dipshit. Ok, cool. Coolio. Total cool factor engaged. Flip the lock and out the door.

3 more fucking beers, hell, why the fuck not? Thanks, folks! I trip back out of the galley only slightly enough to concern myself but I robot-retard into the aisle, lean left, and fold into the seat that I think is mine. No one else sitting here. The couple is awake so, yeah, right seat. They must not be tired anymore. They ignore me. I crack a beer.

Time to Paris: 1:45, local time in Paris: 4:15 am. Man, be nice to be rolling a j. Hell, you rollin’ anyways. Let’s go France! Viva la France! Viva la Revolution! Beer gone, can crushed, neighbors nod my way, I burp a salutation and tilt a beer or two. It’s a good day so far. Glad the night is not real right now. Not much but Flight Information guiding me at this point. And liquid dipshittery.

Iowa, huh? Well, I’m from Kansas, as a matter of fact, go wheat. And to hell with corn, while we are at it. Wink. Crack. Slurp. Mhmm. Yup. Writer. Books and stuff. No, I know nothing about InfoTech, I hear it’s booming. Me? I don’t know shit but a bunch of bullshit, otherwise called information, and little bullshit with regard to technology. No, yeah, like I went to grad school for MLIS, right? But no, I ain’t know shit. But cheers! Oh, ok, yeah good. Hour or more of sleep. Good call.

I cracked my third beer as I got up to piss. The stewardess in the aisle made it clear I had one more round. And then, like, stfu and sit down for, like, an hour, please. Sir. Yeah, sure. No problem just needa piss. Yeah, thanks, yeah I’ll get ‘em when I come out. One? Ok, yeah that’s cool. Thanks. Yeah, just a -burp- writer, yeah. Not famous. I GOTTA P- shh -pisss. Yes. Ok, cool. Yeah good luck with that trash bag. 

People start opening their blinds as I open the lavatory door. Again. But they’re up. Cool. Leggo, Francé. A la pissé, wee wee. Lavatory door slams shut and I barely make it out in time to not urinate down my crotch. Successsss. Yesss. FRANCE MOTHER FUCKER, to myself in my head. EUROPE, BITCH, under my breath. Or-Que-VAUX, I mutter. They knock on the door. Sir, we have begun our approach to Paris. Please respect the seatbelt light. Thanks.

It’s like 5 am, right? I got time to flush, gargle soap, and wash my hands, right. O. K. Anyway. So yeah, France. Europe. You are like over the English Fucking Channel, Brother. Let’s land this bitch. Door open. Aisle strode. Seat set. Time to Paris :45, ETA, 5:45. Ah, fuck, ok. Oh, shit, here she comes with the beer.

Enjoy Paris, Sir, and thank you for flying with us! Have a nice residency.

Yup!

Flight Information, JHB, 2023.