You have two problems. One is whatever is telling you it's ok to drink $7 beer on an early morning flight all alone. You don't appear to be on a business trip, no briefcase, no pre-departure text to confirm the Henderson meeting at 3:30. Your dress is decidedly casual. Shorts and a worn t-shirt.
I don't know why you're on the plane, but we haven't even taken off yet and you have your beer in hand, along with the plastic cup. For appearances sake. Maybe you want to just pop that bad boy open and guzzle it down, but you pour it, slowly, the cup tipped a bit to avoid too much foam. You hold the can on one arm rest and the cup in the other. Meditating it seems for three minutes before you take a sip. One sip.
You close your eyes. Everything will be ok.
Another sip.
Another sip.
No, it won't.
You're about my age, I'm guessing. You could be my brother. Maybe you're headed to see your family and so you're prepping yourself now for the moment at the baggage claim when your sister goes to hug you and you take one very small, almost imperceptible step back. She sees it. She touches your arm instead.
Or maybe you've just come from a visit. Maybe your college roommate. His wife was coming on to you, which was not flattering at all. You felt like you were in a Tennessee Williams play all week long and so, on the flight home, you might as well just live out the last scene as if Williams himself was writing your life.
But your other problem is that you're drinking Miller Lite. Williams would have chosen gin. You're more a T.C. Boyle character. No one should drink Miller Lite and it should be illegal to sell it before 8 P.M. But still, you had options. Maybe you're not a fan of Sutter Home, those dainty bottles seem like something from a dollhouse, but they have a bit of dignity to them. Order two Jim Beams and one Coke. You had options.
You have options.
You can get off this plane and chose a whole other life.
You see me, lift the cup a little. Cheers, as we hurl into the sky.
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