encountered each other in the airport concourse, but he has only been on two of my flights. The first time was a few months ago when he was escorting a car thief who had been arrested in Georgia and then extradited to California. The prisoner was handcuffed, and sat in the window seat. He was skinny, with dirty blond dreadlocks pulled back in a thick ponytail, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt that said Stop Staring at My Tits!, which I thought was pretty funny. (If I tried to wear that on the plane I’d be turned back at the gate, regardless of the fact that I hardly have anything to stare at.) Officer Rockwell took the seat next to him on the aisle, which put him right across the aisle from me. We were the only passengers on the plane so far, and Officer Rockwell must have noticed the eager expression on my face because he nodded hello. I took that as permission to incessantly grill him with questions throughout the rest of boarding and taxi:
“What happens if he escapes?”
“What happens if he has to go to the lavatory? Do you have to release his handcuffs?”
“What happens if there is an ‘unanticipated landing’? Do you have to release his handcuffs?”
“What happens if there is a rapid decompression and he can’t reach his mask? Are you gonna let him suffocate?”
“What happens if there’s an emergency landing and the cabin fills with smoke? How is he gonna feel his way out of the fuselage?”
“What happens if the escape chutes are deployed? How is he gonna slide down them all handcuffed like he is?”
Officer Rockwell tried to ignore me, but good luck with that on a five-hour flight. “Kid,” he finally hissed. “Shut the hell up. You’re freaking us all out.”
I looked around and saw that he was right. It turned out people are not enthusiastic about listening to all the ways a flight can go wrong while you’re sitting on the tarmac about to take off. Already three of the people surrounding us had broken federal regulation and put their earphones back on. Personally, I think it’s relaxing to go through all possible disaster scenarios in my head as we taxi out. I have a list, of course. It helps calm me down. My friend Malcolm is the same way. I really don’t get why it doesn’t work for everyone.
“Don’t use profanity,” I told him. “I’m impressionable.”
“‘Hell’ is not a profane word,” he corrected me. “And if you’re so impressionable, where the hell are your parents?”
“I’m flying unaccompanied. I do it all the time.”
“Why?”
“Because my parents are divorced and they live across the country from each other. They both work for the airline so I fly free. My custody schedule is week on/week off.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, furrowing his brow. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn he was a little nervous about flying. It probably did not help that he was about a hundred feet tall (“six-five,” he later corrected me), and his knees were practically bundled under his chin in order for him to fit in the economy seats. It’s a good thing he got to wear regular clothes and not his uniform.
“This is an MD-88,” I said, evading his question.
“I know that.” He took the safety card out of the seat pocket in front of him and waved it at me curtly. This prompted his prisoner to take out his own safety card and study it like it was a total treasure map.
“I’m just saying, because the economy-class seats are only seventeen inches wide,” I yammered. “Do you wanna know what’s bigger than seventeen inches?’
“I’m sure there are a lot of things bigger than seventeen inches,” he drolled.
“The average seat of a baby stroller is nineteen inches wide. Can you believe that? These seats are two inches narrower than the seat of a baby stroller.”
Officer Ned closed his eyes slowly and kept his head facing forward. He was a light-skinned African American with freckles and eyes the color of caramel. He wore his hair