When it comes to flying, I believe in pampering myself, always picking the best of America's bankrupt airlines.
Recently I flew across the country and couldn't decide between first class and business class, since I couldn't afford either one of them. I wound up sitting in coach, so named because you need someone to shout, "Come on, you can do it!" as you try to wedge yourself into your seat.
Many airlines have started adding surcharges to their ticket prices to help defray the cost of items such as fuel and bad management. For example, you can no longer bring two pieces of luggage on a flight - it costs an extra $25 for the airlines to lose that second bag.
"Of course," the flight attendant purrs as I squeeze between the two professional wrestlers to sit in my seat, "meals in our first-class and business cabins are complimentary and prepared by our chef, Emeril. In the coach cabin, meals cost $10 and are prepared by our chef, Boyardee. Coach passengers may pay an additional $5 to upgrade lunch to 'edible.' "
"In the event of sudden decompression, little orange masks will drop from the ceiling to dispense air. In the coach cabin, the air costs $10, though coach passengers may pay an additional $5 to upgrade to 'oxygen.' "
"For entertainment, passengers in the first two cabins may choose from a wide variety of movies to watch on their personal electronic devices, or, if they prefer, George Carlin will sit next to them and tell jokes. In coach, our movie today is Alive, the uplifting story of a plane crash in the Andes wherein a handful of frolicking survivors indulge in cannibalism."
I eye the large men on either side of me, deciding that if we go down in the Andes, I'm good for a couple of months. Otherwise, I'm not paying all that money for airline food, even if it does look more appetizing than what they're eating in the movie.
After a couple of hours aloft, my nose twitches at an unmistakable smell: They're baking chocolate-chip cookies in first class! My stomach comes alive, begging me to eat one before it has to resort to cannibalism.
I reach up for the flight-attendant button, paying the dollar surcharge to ring the bell.
"How much," I plead, "to buy one of those cookies?"
She tells me $5 and, when I pull out my wallet, hands me a small package.
"What's this?" I sputter.
"Moon Pie," she responds.
Now, a Moon Pie is every bit as delicious as a smear of marshmallow packed between two dry graham crackers and coated in chocolate can be, but my heart is set on an upgrade. "No," I hiss, being careful not to wake the man seated next to me, whose head is resting on my shoulder. "I mean a fresh-baked chocolate-chip cookie!"
The flight attendant snatches the Moon Pie out of my hand. "Those are only for our upgraded travelers," she tells me, marching off.
I sit there, fuming, wondering whether I could storm into first class and swallow a cookie before the air marshal shot me. Then I spot a business- class passenger stretching his legs.
"Hey, buddy!" I whisper. I slide out of my seat, earning a snarl from the professional wrestler guy. I offer the business-class person $10 if he will go get me a cookie. "Or two," I say.
"Two would be $20," he replies; math skills like that explain why he's in business class. I tell him fine, whatever, and he leaves.
A few minutes later, he's back. I have my money out, but there's no cookie. "I decided it just wouldn't be right," he advises me sadly. "Those cookies are meant for just the people in front. It would be immoral."
"What kind of business person are you?" I demand.
Looking insulted, he turns on his heel and retreats to the safety of his cabin, where coach passengers are not allowed to go. Heartbroken, despondent, I go to find the flight attendant, but I'm too late.
They're out of Moon Pies.
Write to Bruce at bruce@wbrucecameron.com.
