Chicken or Fish?

A short story about Planes, Peas and Pettiness.

“Chicken or fish!?”

“Chicken or fish!?”

“Sir?” he pauses, “Chicken or fish?”

Each word hammers down with impatience. My eyes roll round in my head and eyelids prize themselves apart as I focus on him.

?“What?” I say, even though I’ve heard the question a million times. The endless decision between ropey chicken or anemic fish. I’d take Soylent Green at this point, there’s no winner here.

“Chicken”, he pauses for a beat, “or fish”.

He looks down at the beaten metal cart as if to prompt me to realise what should be obvious to any cretinous fool but apparently not me. I must have taken too long because he follows up with “to eat?” He omits cretinous fool but it’s there, under the niceties. He is so over this. I weigh up my options.

“What’s the chicken?”

“Curry” is the reply. Yum, generic curry flavor. Well, at least it will taste of something.

“And the fish?” I ask.

“It comes with chips” he replies.

What a choice. A generic English take on an entire countries’ cuisine boiled down to one all-encompassing “curry” flavor, or our own internationally famous cuisine packed with salt and sugar. It’s not the airline's fault of course, the human taste bud didn’t evolve travelling at almost the speed of sound, 40,000 feet up in the air. I swing between what is the likely healthy option versus what will bring me some short-term pleasure and escape from this place.

This place is sat wedged between two equally unhappy solo travelers, no one else but businesspeople are on this plane, where we’re heading isn’t exactly a holiday destination. We’re at the back, like naughty school children, the harsh realities of an ancient class system resurrected for the purpose of international flight. Each class thrown into sharp relief by a curtain and a small rope. My favourite part of the experience is being paraded past the spacious beds, vast seats and low ambient lighting, watching happy people being served champagne and hot towels on the way to hell. My place in all of this is very close to the toilet, close enough to get the frequent whiff of everyone’s post digested inflight meal. You might think calling this place Hell is a bit overdramatic, after all, I am on a plane going somewhere exotic. Surely that must be exciting. I’m clearly just some ungrateful snob that doesn’t know how good he has it. However, that entirely depends on your state of mind. It’s hot. There is screaming. It smells bad and you can’t leave.

“Vegetarian?” I say.

“Did you preorder one?” he asks.

“I think so, it should be on my account.”

I’m a member of their frequent traveler program, it gives you benefits like the odd free bottle of water and occasionally being treated like a human. It also remembers your seat preferences (mine is not the middle seat) and food options. I’m not vegetarian but often it’s the healthiest option on the plane and you usually get it first which means more time to sleep, the main goal of any flight.

“Sorry sir, we’ve given them all away” he veins a sympathetic sort of expression. This happens a lot and I really feel for vegetarians as they literally have to go hungry if an alternative can’t be found. I could make some grand statement about being vegetarian and make a fuss and try to acquire upgraded food from an upper class but since I am not one this would all be veined outrange and since I’m not a great liar I fear my ruse would be seen through rather quickly.

“Fish then”, he passes me a plastic tray, with various plastic packets on, one covered in silver foil, like something from a dystopian sci-fi.

“Wine with your meal?” he asks politely.

What time is it where I just left? What time is it where I am going? I guess it’s gone 5pm at one of them so why not? On the flip side, I had promised myself to stop drinking on flights, like abstaining from inflight alcohol will someone how to make up for 20 years of overindulgence. I guess I have been taking that St. Johns Wort as well.

“No thank you,” I say as if I’ve just made some major sacrifice. I turned down free alcohol, I wait for my applause, I expect my award to be pinned to my chest any minute but nothing comes.

He’s onto the next one, to the right of me, my inflight friend labelled “K” who is currently breaking etiquette by occupying my armrest. For those of you who don’t know, the middle seat gets both armrests. Aisle you get to lean out and stick a leg out. Window you get to lean against the side of the plane. The middle seat sucks, even for me and I am travel size, so if you’re in a window or aisle, give the middle seat a break and let them take the armrest. In my head, I role play explaining plane etiquette passionately to K but instead I play elbow wars which is pretty much a willy-waving contest, in all but name. How did it come to this? A little over 100 years since the first commercial flights, a brave new world and it’s come down to two grown men politely tussling over a slither of plastic covered in faux leather. I lose this round.

K says yes to wine and I have to pass it across to him, instantly regretting my earlier sacrifice and ask the air steward if I can have some. I have been taking that St Johns Wort after all.

“Red or White?” he asks.

What great choices these are, Red or White flavour.

“What is the white?” as if I am having some fine dining experience, does it pair well with fish and chips I wonder?

“Chardonnay”, of course it’s chardonnay, the safest and most vanilla of wines. It just assumes people will like it. There’s no doubt in my mind the red will be merlot but I ask anyway even though I have already decided on the white.

“Cabernet Sauvignon” he says.

“I’ll have the chardonnay please”

He passes me the plastic bottle of almost clear liquid. I’m aware I’ve become an annoying passenger and I overly enthusiastically say thank you to try to get back in his good books. I say it so enthusiastically that to British ears, it comes across as false, or possibly even sarcastic. He moves on without a word and I’m left with that weird guilt of being a burden on the world by simply existing.

I stare down at my dystopian nightmare, plastic tray, plastic cup, plastic cutlery wrapped in plastic. Attenborough’s “Our Planet” passes through my mind and I feel the guilt that I am part of the problem. I peel back the foil lid of my dinner, hot steam blasts me in the face, almost removing my eyebrows. I peel open the cutlery and poke at the congealed mess before me and try to figure out what fish this might have been? What colour was it? What shape was it? Thanks to Pixar I also wonder what aspirations he or she might have had as well. Yet more guilt. I plow my fork into it, it breaks in the middle, I try to gather some garden peas, though I doubt they ever saw a garden, even through a window. Most escape so I try again, a fine balancing act while trying not to elbow my inflight friends on either side, like a T-Rex at a fancy banquet.

The offending trays are taken away and K wants to use the bathroom. Getting out means bothering “H” who has just started watching the latest from the “Too Fast Too Furious” franchise. It’s amazing what you’ll watch on a plane. I’d say the average movie rating goes up by several grades on a plane, the captive audience effect. I've watched movies I thought were fantastic while flying only to recommend them to friends later and have the awkward experience of sitting through “Battlefield Earth” with them. Honestly, it seemed all right on the plane. I guess I’d had a few drinks as well.?

I lean my head forward and look past H to signal I’d like to leave but he’s not getting it. I tap him lightly and he jumps, I apologise and look past him again trying to avoid talking so I don’t get my travel breath on him. He looks irritated at me like I am asking something out of the ordinary. Surely he’s been on a plane before and is aware of how humans work? Stuff goes in, stuff comes out. I gesture behind me with my head at K to pass the blame. H stands up without taking his headphones off and he’s yanked backward. He pulls them off and throws them on the seat and he stares down at me as a scramble out of the seat and into the aisle.

I get to the toilet before K and join the queue of people that had wriggled free sooner than I. Even in the back, there’s still a ranking system, those that paid for extra legroom, a front-row or an exit aisle. The further up the plane you are the sooner you get fed and the sooner you get free again. I make eye contact with K and smile, he looks at his phone, I look at my phone. It’s my turn for the toilet and I shuffle in, leaning back awkwardly so I can close the bi-folding door. I close the lock and after a moment the light flickers on. The toilet seat is down. That’s never a good sign. It means the person behind me was so ashamed that they felt the need to hide the evidence of the crime they committed here. I hold the lid between my index finger and thumb and slowly open it, wincing at what I might see and bracing for what I might smell. My lucky day, it’s fine and I go about my business, wash my hands and think about leaving when suddenly I remember K is waiting. I feel the urge to make sure this place is as clean as a palace. There’s water everywhere, soggy tissue on the sides and what I hope is water on the floor. K will think I did this! I grab the various soggy bits of tissue and push them into the bin, getting more paper towels and I clean the side down. Even the floor gets mopped, all the while I’m trying not to gag. Why am I doing this? I don’t know K, I’ll never see him again and I don’t even know his real name but the fear of facing K and being publicly shamed is too great. I wash my hands again and get water on the floor again. I push it around with my shoe so I don’t get stuck in some kind of infinite loop in this toilet. I brace myself and unlock the door, the light goes out, K isn’t there.

I return to my seat and K isn’t back so I stand in the aisle with H. I make eye contact with him, he looks at his phone, I look at mine. Every so often another passenger needs to get by and since they designed these aisles for one person at a time, this proves tricky. You have to decide between the crotch or the butt pass. From time to time a steward passes and I feel the need to explain why I’m standing around and I apologies for being in the way. I start to wonder how we’d all actually get out in an emergency and realise it doesn’t look good. It’s probably easier in the better seats I ponder. Thankfully before I think myself into a panic attack or a 40,000 feet class war, K comes back, says thank you to us both for waiting and performs the weird ritual required to fit a grown man into a small space.?I wonder what took him so long, perhaps he too suffers from fear of public shame. I slump into my seat after K and quickly take my armrest while he’s distracted, “ha, victory” I think. H joins his aisle 49 comrades, thus closing my means of escape and while I am distracted, he takes my other armrest.

Everyone else seems to have fallen asleep apart from the crew, a couple of workaholics and me. It’s dark except for the blue light coming from people’s inflight entertainment, the odd laptop screen and the one shutter that someone forgot or refused to close. On plane there is no time, you’re between time, the only time that matters is how much time there is left until you are free. I pause the movie I am watching, I don’t even know what it is, it’s possible I had fallen asleep but I can’t be sure. I poke at the screen trying to be careful not to wake the person in the seat in front (whoever thought touch screens on the back of a seat was a good idea is a hateful person) and I find the in-flight travel information. 6 hours to our destination, still enough time for a bit of sleep if only I could get it. Perhaps some more wine would help?

I push the assistance button but no one comes, I’m going to have to go find someone. How do I get past the sleeping H? I can’t wake him, that’s bad form and I can’t get out easily either. I decide in my wisdom to stand on my seat and jump over him. I launch myself and land successfully. I almost take a little bow it was so perfectly executed. I skip down the aisle towards the kitchen and turn the corner to find the air stewards having their lunch and gossip. “Can I have another wine please?” I ask in my most courteous voice, bordering on begging. They eye me up and down, deciding how intoxicated I am, so I stand there smiling like a beauty patient contestant. I must have passed the test because they decide to hand me two travel bottles of their finest “white wine”.

I return to my seat to realise my mistake. How now am I going to get back into my seat without disrupting H? He’s slumped on my armrest which means his is open. I rest my right foot on it and prepare for launch. I can’t use the back of the chair in front as that is another faux pas. I bob up and down on one leg and just as I launch, H wakes up to see me flying past him into my seat. Clearly and understandably alarmed, he jumps back in his seat and his arm knocks me midflight. This changes my flight trajectory and I miss my landing zone, flying into K who also jumps up startled. I now have my head on K and leg on H and neither looks hugely happy by their midflight wake-up call. I quickly pull myself onto my own seat, H laughs at me asks if I am ok and I explain I didn’t want to wake him, thankfully he sees the funny side, K seems less impressed. I rummage around under my butt and hold up my prized two miniature bottles of wine and say, “I’m sorry, can I offer one of you a bottle a wine?”. Since I only have two I am lucky that K turns me down and goes back to sleep, H accepts the surprise mid-flight wine which makes me feel better about everything. While he is drinking the wine I’m able to get my armrest and with K asleep against the window I grab the other, “finally!” I think and I slump back in my chair and with the aid of the wine, I escape the confines of my middle seat and enter the land of nod.

Dong

“Please fasten your seatbelts and return your tray table to its full upright and locked position.”

I keep my eyes closed for just a little longer but I’m jolted from left and right by H and K as they do various acrobatics to try to put their shoes back on and find various items that have escaped during flight. I follow suit and try to squeeze my shoes back onto my now slightly swollen feet, regretting my decision to wear dress shoes on a plane in some outdated sense of pride and fashion.

I buckle up my seatbelt and look to my right, K has neglected his duty to raise the blindfold which makes me unreasonably annoyed with him. The air steward tells him to raise it, I feel better until he only does it part of the way. Doesn’t he know that landing an aircraft is one of the more dangerous parts of flight along with take-off? If we should decide to miss the runway today or simply drop out of the air, our eyes will be adjusted to the ambient light and we’ll all be able to see our horrific end more clearly. K finally completes his window seat duties and on this day, thankfully, the plane lands down comfortably onto the tarmac. There’s no round of applause, not on this flight. This is business.

Before the plane has even stopped moving, K is undoing his seatbelt and is on the edge of his seat, like a sprinter in the starting blocks. I don’t know where he thinks he’s going before H or myself get up but he seems pretty keen. I’ve got a mild hangover from the wine I drank and I can’t deal with this. I sit with my seatbelt on. After all, the sign is still on and we are travelling at the speed of a decent racing car at this point. The plane jolts forward and he headbutts the seat in front. He laughs embarrassed and I laugh along to put him at ease, I guess he doesn’t like public shame either.?

The plane pulls into the terminal, this airport doesn’t have fingers so we wait for the steps. K is stood up now trying to push his way out, I haven’t moved since H hasn’t moved but that’s not stopping K. He continues to push against me, as if I’ve forgotten I am supposed to be leaving. H finally gets up and before I’ve even had a chance to move, K has stepped over me and pushed himself into the aisle. H already has his bag down and K decides he can’t possibly wait for his either. As K brings it down and it smacks the woman in front of him on the head, he apologies halfheartedly while continuing to gently push her with his Samsonite. She looks angry, I have my popcorn ready for some post-flight argy-bargy but nothing comes of it.

I stand in front of my seat, a benefit of being short is I fit under the bins, watching everyone fight their way out of the plane and slowly start to gather my things. I’ve already accepted my fate to be back of the immigration queue, back of the plane means back of the queue and fighting my fellow backseat dwellers isn’t going to change that. I finally wander my way out and thank the crew, they automatically thank me back, for what I am never sure, I’m pretty sure the plane would have made it without me.

The hot air hits my face as I stand at the top of the steps. I descend them like I am a celebrity exiting my private jet, the world's press watching me descending the stairs. Instead, it’s the unwashed horde from the back of the plane staring at me, mentally hurrying me to end their torture. I wedge myself into the armpit of another traveler, it smells. Just like that, I am back to being regular old me. Speaking of old, this bus has seen better days, it’s hot and sweaty but thankfully it’s also leaking fuel somewhere that masks the other unpleasant smells. It should cause alarm but at this stage, I’d welcome some kind of explosion for the sweet relief of being here.

We’re shuffled into a dilapidated old building that looks more like an old bus station than an airport, nationals gleefully go through their check-in as they are welcomed home while the rest of us are lined up like cattle to the slaughter. We shuffle forward each time there is space, staring into our black mirrors to pass the time. As I near the front, I suddenly start to feel shifty for no reason. “Don’t look suspicious” runs on a loop through my head. I’m sweating a lot, I’m not built for this climate. I start to speculate about if I am here illegally or perhaps my prescription drugs are not allowed here and the penalty is death. Worse did someone put illegal drugs in my bag? Am I an unwitting maul, that fish did taste odd perhaps a package was hidden in it? I get to the front; I walk up to the counter and I feel like Kevin in Home Alone as I push my passport across the counter. All they can see of me is the top of my head. I stand on tiptoes smiling innocently. The officer looks at me, looks at my passport, looks at me, holds it in the air against me. I stop smiling and pull a serious face trying my best to look like my picture. “Why are you here?” he demands, a million thoughts rush through my head, why am I here? It is a good question, I better say something quickly, I’m being suspicious.

“Work” I blurt out, his eyes fixed on me. “No, business!” I interject quickly.

“Which is it, business or work?” he asks.

“Definitely business” I answer. He stares at my passport a while longer as I mentally prepare myself to be told I’m going home. It would not be the first time I’ve heard that sentence.

“Have a good day sir” he announces as he hands me back my passport. I say my thanks and don’t look back.

I get outside the airport and get a second heat blast, various illegal taxi offers me a lift but this isn't my first rodeo. The first guy says 50, the second says 40, the third says 30, they then argue amongst themselves for a bit. I say, “who has the best car with working AC?” They point to the same guy and I go with him. In the taxi, the driver asks me where I am from.

“London,” I say.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go” he replies.

“You should go,” I say, “but only in the summer, the rain is warmer.”

I laugh, he laughs. An awkward silence passes over the car and he turns the music up, it’s Dolly Parton.

We get to the hotel, it looks a lot older than the photos on the internet but I don’t care. I have no idea what to tip the driver, for all I know he’s already charged double what I should have paid. I decide to pay him another 3rd on what he said, just easy math’s for a tired head, he seems pleased and insists I put his number in my phone so I can Whatsapp him when I need a driver. I definitely overpaid then as he wants my repeat business, he will probably put me in his phone next to an emoji of a dollar sign, a cow and a crying with laughter face.

I step into the ice-cold AC of the hotel, it’s like the artic in here but it feels great. I shuffle over to the check-in desk and drop my passport on the counter.

“Welcome Sir, have you come far?” the concierge asks me.

“London” I reply.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go” she replies.

“You should go,” I say, “but only in the summer, the rain is warmer.” I laugh, she laughs, inside I am crying.

“I don’t seem to have a booking for you, are you sure you booked this hotel?” she enquires.

A reasonable request but it sends a little shiver of panic through my body. Did I imagine booking this place? Did I book the wrong country? Did I book the wrong dates? All are possible and all have happened before. I get my phone out of my pocket and look for the reservation, thankfully I find it and realise I have booked it for the previous night, the night I spent on the plane. I ask her to check for reservations for the previous day, she finds it. Relief washes over me, she makes me a key but instead of passing it to me, she says those nightmare-inducing words. “My colleague will help you to your room.”

To any sane person, this sounds like a good thing but if you’re me, or anything like me, it fills you with dread. This means an extended period of social niceties where someone helps you the last few yards with your suitcase - a suitcase you’ve managed to lug halfway around the planet - but you can’t possibly do this last bit. He takes my suitcase firmly and asks me to follow him. At the lift, we stand awkwardly and he smiles at me, I smile back, the smile drops from his face, I look around the lobby pretending I am admiring the hotel but really I am avoiding any more eye contact. I wish this damn elevator would hurry up and end this awkwardness.

“Ding!” it announces merrily. Relief washes over me.?

The porter indicates for me to board the lift first. It’s tiny, so he wedges himself in with me, so close now with the suitcase between us that I become very conscious that I probably smell like an old shoe.?

“Have you come far?” the porter asks me.

“London” I reply.

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go” he replies.

“You should go,” I say, “but only in the summer, the rain is warmer.” I don’t laugh this time I just stare at him. He looks at me awkwardly and then stares at the lift buttons as they illuminate each floor, “5”, “6”, “7”. I assume he’s hoping the lift will hurry up.

“DING!” The lift announces.

We walk in silence to my room and he swipes the key. It gives an erroneous “durrr” noise. He tries again and we get a positive “BING!”- we’re in! He shows me around the room and points to things and names them like a show and tell. He shows me how to operate a phone in case I have never seen one, he then switches on the TV in case I’ve not seen one of those either. He moves to the doorway and stops and announces, “Are you happy with your room?”

“Yes it’s great thank you” I reply trying to end this as quickly as possible, the super king bed covered in fresh white linen is calling me.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?” he prompts.

I know this is almost over and I am getting excited about proper sleep. Then it hits me - he wants a tip. How much is a polite amount here? I don’t want to insult him with too little so my mind races over the notes in my wallet, 20, 10, damn no 5’s, a 5 would be perfect here. Why didn’t I ask for smaller notes at the airport?

“No thank you” I insist.

I’m still internally panicking about the tip situation. What if this is a country where tipping is really insulting? What if this man hates me forever? Perhaps I could quickly Google it now, no it’s too late I’ll have to go with my gut. I pull a 10 from my wallet and awkwardly announce, “this is for you”. Obviously it’s for him, that why I am giving it to him and there’s no one else here. He graciously accepts and to my relief, he seems happy. Catastrophe expertly avoided, I congratulate myself and the cortisol in my brain begins to drain away.

I fall into my bed exhausted but relieved to be there. I drag myself across the bed to the telephone and press the speed dial.

“Hello, room service?”

“Hi, can I order some food?” I ask hopefully.

“Sorry sir, the kitchen is closed.” Internally I break down until I hear the voice continue.

“We do still have a limited menu available.”

“Excellent, what’s available?” I ask, relieved.

“Well sir, we have a Chicken Club Sandwich,” he pauses. “Or a smoked salmon bagel.”