Who orders a Pepsi? Like, on purpose? Did Pepsi just pay you to order their soft drink on this flight?
A half hour later I nudge him and say we're flying over Manhattan. He barely looks up from his laptop and shrugs. He goes back to working on his PowerPoint. It's a clear October night, with a perfectly pink sunset and we are flying over one of the greatest triumphs of humankind. The perfect rectangle of Central Park. The 5 bridges. The success and despair. A treadmill of possibility.
Enjoy your Pepsi.
I actually don't even remember if those two morons were the same person, the Pepsi guy and the I-hate-beautiful-views guy. They are all the same person and I am sick of him. To be up here, floating over the greatest city on earth with nothing to do but accept her glory from 30,000 feet in the air. This is godly.
Rewind an hour or so. In utter irritation and disgust she tosses her frizzy, middle-aged hair. With her dry voice, the flight attendant guilt trips us into checking our bags and alerts us that one of the lavatories is broken. I suddenly realize I would much prefer to be at the proctologist.
Later comes a very specific moment on the runway: the moment when the g-force shakes the plane vigorously. It's a moment I often wonder if we have enough speed to take off or plummet to our deaths in a ball of fire.
Will my heart burst before I hit the ground?
There will be another million miles.
Another damp hotel and a boring conference.
There will be another stranger in the next seat in whose business I will feign interest. We will exchange cards and never speak again.
Another flight attendant will clock me in the shoulder with her fat ass.
There will be upgrades and delays and close calls.
There will be a flight to my grandfather's funeral and a flight to my best friend's wedding.
Another package of snack mix with 2,000% of my daily sodium intake.
10,000 screaming infants and 4,000 pushy salesmen wearing Bluetooth earpieces that I want to slap off their heads.
Another perfect plane of horizon and the towers of Jersey City staring enviously at the West Village.
All of those moments. Memories of my New York.
The time we stepped out on to Astor Place from the bowels of the 6 train, welcomed by a street band playing Another Star by Stevie Wonder. It was our anniversary.
For you there might be a brighter star but in my eyes the light of you is all I see.
The most perfect moment. My favorite moment.
With all the shit and annoyance and headaches and deadlines about to be missed,
With turbulence and red eyes and soggy $14 sandwiches and unsolicited offers of sex at hotel bars,
With an embarrassing amount of unrecognized privilege,
I will never order a Pepsi.
I will never ignore beauty for the sake of a PowerPoint.
I will never fly over Manhattan with a thankless heart.
