The Mile High Club

mod note: originally posted on 8/6/12

It’s been a whirlwind 3 days in Miami – a city that I have always detested until now. It’s got no substance, and even the rich people are seedy. This, however, was a bachelor weekend to remember, the details of which are to remain forever sealed, mostly because I don’t remember many of them.

I’ve got nothing left in the tank, so I’m sitting in the bar at the Fontainebleau, killing time until I have to head to the airport. Normally, I’d do my pre-flight drinking at the airport, but MIA is a fucking shithole, and the Fontainebleau isn’t half bad. The rest of the group has long since departed, as I am the only one with an international flight.

I’m doing what I do best, self-medicating. Mentally, I’m already dead inside, so it’s just the physical pain of a 3-day binge of booze, girls, and some narcotics. Some of the groomsmen-to-be are from places like Cleveland and Albany, so I felt a moral obligation to show them you don’t need a bowling alley or shotgun to have fun.

I make the caloric-conscious switch from Bloody Mary to the Dark and Stormy – the refreshing mixture of dark rum, lime juice, and ginger beer. It’s good, but still doesn’t compare to ones at the Milk & Honey on Poland Street in London. After a few of these, it’s about that time to head to the airport. I don’t care how much the hotel bill is, and I really don’t want to see it, so I sign the bar tab to my room and leave without checking out. It’s sort of like trying not to see your available balance at the ATM when you get back from a trip to Las Vegas or Macau.

Manny gets me there in good time, although he talks too fucking much. My last trip out of Miami had been on a PJ, so already I’m a little irritated at having to deal with the terminal riff raff. I check in on American Airlines; no point going to the lounge – it’s fucking disgusting, and my flight is boarding soon anyway. I swing by a bar, chug a beer with my Klonopin and head to the gate.

For the first time in as long as I can remember, the takeoff doesn’t bother me at all. The steep turn the plane makes at what feels like a stall speed doesn’t concern me in the least; a crash would’ve put me out of my misery. I don’t know if there is a Hell, but I’m definitely on track to go there at this point, especially after the decadence and debauchery of the last few days. I quickly mumble what I could recall of the Lord’s Prayer as insurance, and go back to my iPod.

I know they say you can’t have electronic devices turned on during takeoff, but that’s such bullshit. As Douglas Bader once said, “rules are for the obedience of fools, and the guidance of wise men.” Given my fear of flying, I need my iPod for takeoffs and landings. My usual go-to tune is a Britney Spears song; it doesn’t matter which one. Not that I love Brittney Spears, but I am confident that it is not my destiny to die while listening to ‘Baby, One More Time.’

Once the plane levels off, my mood totally turns. First of all, the chick next to me is smoking hot by airplane standards. In addition, the clientele on the Miami-London flight is totally different that what I am used on the New York-London flights – bankers and BP executives.

It’s like one big First Class party, and I am the life of it. The drinks are flowing; every one is up, talking, and moving around. It’s like everything Virgin Atlantic promises but never delivers; I’m wondering if I dropped my keys in a hat somewhere.

As a world-traveling banker, but not the lacrosse-playing, Brooks Brothers kind, I can relate to most people – especially the fun-loving jet-setter types you find on a Miami-London red eye. I’m ordering people drinks, telling stories, and making jokes – I am Lloyd Christmas lighting farts at the party.

I happen to be a connoisseur of inappropriate jokes. I have the confidence and security to tell such jokes with ease, mainly because my delivery is impeccable and hits exactly where the funny overtakes the offensive. Let’s be honest, most people love to hear off-color, rude or racist jokes. As long as you can pull them off, you’ll be a hit.

I immediately seize on this unexpected atmosphere to impress Andrea, the chick sitting next to me. I soon realize that there is a chance that I might just get lucky, and that the flight attendants are cool enough that they’d let me do it. At the very least, I can set the framework to be her London tour guide, and we all know what that means.

So I ask for 2 glasses of champagne and go in for the kill. Sadly, this is right about the point where everything catches up to me and, just like that, I’m out. I don’t literally pass out; I just have no memory of what I say or do for the next hour or so before I eventually do pass out.

Subsequently, I have no recollection of landing, and very little memory of clearing customs. It’s really only once I’m showered and am heading into the office that I start to sober up. Fuck, I hope I didn’t embarrass myself. Fuck it. Who cares? I never got her number, so it doesn’t matter any way.

A couple of days go by and I’ve more or less forgotten about the trip back, when a mysterious email lands in my work inbox:

Dear [me],

I just had to send you an email.

I have to say that you are by far the most interesting, entertaining, and funny person I have ever had the privilege of meeting on an airplane. You are a beautiful soul, inside and out.

I felt an immediate connection with you, and sense that the feeling is mutual. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have the courage to be sending you this email.

I fly to London 2-3 times a month, and am usually there for a couple of days at a time. I would love nothing more than to see you again.

I have been a flight attendant for 14 years, and have had the pleasure of meeting some of the most fascinating and interesting people in the world from celebrities and politicians to business leaders and pro athletes. But I have never enjoyed meeting anyone as much as I enjoyed meeting you.

Sincerely,

Andrew