He boards the plane. The hum of the jets. The sterile smell of cleaner. Bleach. PineSol. 409. Lemon Pledge. A pristine chariot waiting just for him. He sits. The drones buzzing around him tending to a million little details. Each one possibly life or death. Wheels, check. Lights, check. He could care less. “Can we please get this thing off of the ground?” Not in the mood for safety today. He gets the general sense that his voice has been heard. His message registered. But what else can he do? Take the yoke? Even the planes have gotten out of his control. Used to be he could take control of a vehicle. Ten times more buttons and switches on the dashboard now. Probably couldn’t even release the brakes.
“Fancy a beverage sir?” Vanessa. The stewardess. At least he still knows what to do with her. “Rum and Coke, love.” And with that, a little more settled and at ease. He can already feel the syrupy liquor making its osmotic way into his bloodstream.
What could Margaret be doing right now.
The thought zaps him back into the moment. Still grounded. Waiting to taxi. Goddammit, where’s the secretary of defense?
