Bruised Elbows and Broken Dreams

I went on a job interview recently, and I left with the taste of ginger ale in my mouth.

Ginger ale is severely underappreciated as a soft drink, and is without exception my elixir of choice on airplanes. Something about the altitude makes me want to ground myself in a liquefied root. Maybe it is the foreboding sense of sudden onset nausea that accompanies sudden fluctuations in atmospheric pressure. I have always had a sensitive vestibular system.

There are few better feelings than that which arises from spotting the beverage cart at the end of the aisle while hovering 30,000 feet in the air. With a glance, I find I am the thirstiest I have ever been. Those men and women with their silly uniforms and cheesy smiles quickly become heroes. I am awed by their expertise—how they navigate the cart drawers and handle the dwarfed cans of high-pressure fluid.

Such a site is the one sure thing that will free me from the hypoxic coma I am usually prisoner of on a plane. Quickly, I find myself in a state of profound vigilance, making the necessary preparations for the gift I am about to receive. I twist the lock of my tray table 90 degrees counterclockwise and pull down the surface on which will be served the sweatiest, iciest drink this particular layer of the atmosphere has ever seen.

I can hardly wait. I am left deprived of sensitivity to anything but excitement for the impending cup. My neck no longer aches from being just too short to find a comfortable position with the headrest. The defeat I had just felt from only knowing six words in the airline magazine’s crossword dissipates instantly. No more fidgety boredom. No sympathy for the folks with aisle seats who will spend the entirety of their vacation with bruised elbows, on account of those unwieldy beverage cart conductors with the silly uniforms and cheesy smiles. I feel nothing but a longing for my ginger ale.

The cart is just a couple rows away now. I start rehearsing the order in my head. I make sure I know where my tongue needs to be to make the sounds come out just right. I don’t want to mess this up. I practice a smile that might just outmatch the cheesiness of those smiles on the men and women with the silly uniforms.

The moment arrives. I look up and remove my headphones, pretending I’m surprised to find myself in this situation. “Oh, ginger ale, please.” Then, like a surgeon, this uniformed angel of the skies works those delicate knobs, spots a quick glimmer of that unmistakable Canada Dry green, and slips her manicured fingers deftly beneath the tab of the can. She pulls ever so subtly. The popping release of carbonation ignites an explosion of neurotransmitters in my pleasure centers. She picks up the can, tilts it to release its cool contents, and her head tilts in unison. I watch the tunneled ice cubes oscillate up and down until they find a perfect depth in the cup’s light brown seas. She extends the cup towards me—a napkin underneath—and I receive it like the blood of Christ. First, I lay the napkin over the circular indentation on my tray table. I hope to fool the cup into thinking it has a solid surface to stand on. Then I nestle the base of the cup just inside the tiny walls of its new home.

It’s precisely then I realize what I have. I have a ticking time bomb on my tray table. I realize my flight is now ruined. From this point on, there is nothing I can do freely.

I can’t sit cross-legged, like my dad used to when he read the New York Times on the airy, white chair by the fireplace. I can’t reach down and get the book out of the front pocket of my backpack. I only have two chapters left, but now it seems that will remain the case. No way can I doze off, because I might just lose control of my arms in some sort of myoclonic frenzy and knock over this stupid drink. I can’t get up to pee, because that would cause a logistical rigmarole for me and all the other passengers in row 23. And just imagine if the guy in the window seat needs to pee. He wouldn’t dare ask to pass by while I have this landmine balancing over my lap. He doesn’t have the nerve.

As long as it remains on the tray table, this drink owns me. It owns every decision I make on this plane. I just want to get rid of it as fast as I can, so I can return my tray to the locked position and have some agency in my life again. But if I drink too quickly, surely I will need the lavatory before this behemoth touches down, and like I said, that will open up a whole new can of problems.

Getting this drink was the worst decision I’ve ever made. It looked so pretty when it was a few aisles away. Now that it’s here, on my tray table, I hate it. I hate myself for ever thinking it was something I wanted.

When I was on a job interview, I realized I was interviewing for a job, and then realized that would mean I might have to start working.

I’ve been trying to get a job for a while now. It sounds so pretty in theory—filling my days with service that can finally free my mind from this vortex of caustic rumination. But the closer it draws to being a reality, the less I desire it. It starts to look a little scary; not quite so shiny and satisfying.

It’s funny how often this happens in life. So many things seem so great until they arrive.

If and when I get a job, I hope I don’t hate it as much as I do the ginger ale on a plane.