The Senator

Flight to Mexico. Pink and purple playing cards. The clouds outside the plane pass like unnamed cities. I look in my billfold and find more pink and purple from some Canadian city I can't remember. I look up and order a beer from a stewardess who may have been on my last plane. I might even know her name. I unfold the tray table and find a dead rose. I examine it and put it in my wallet. The man behind me is mentioning the in-flight magazine to what I can only assume is his wife. I want to warn you that nothing extraordinary happens on this flight. But, it just goes to show that it doesn't, but it just might. I head to the bathroom to wash my armpits. This sounds offensive, but I have this slick feeling and it annoys me. When you wear thousands of dollars of clothing it's a waste to have pits that are constantly ruining them. In the bathroom I find three lines of coke that someone has left on that little spot on the left of the sink where soap would go. I photograph them with my phone and then use an Amex card to send them down the sink. I don't like drugs and I feel that they cheapen my overall experience of anything, even this cheap flight into a third world hellhole. I feel the same about the homeless and pigeons. Everything can be so perfect and then some unwanted disturbance comes and wrecks it. I think I would feel the same about the cockpit opening up and sucking the crew, and finally myself out of the plane. There's really no difference to me. Everything is pure or it's not. In fact, I feel so upset about the coke that I just stare in the mirror until I feel it's an appropriate time to leave the washroom. My armpits mean nothing now. I start to cry. The trip has been sullied and there's nothing I can do to stop that. I have little to no hope that when I reach Mexico anything will make up for any of this. I suppose I don't blame the person who left the coke; I can see that this is just a part of my life and I'll have to cope. I shudder when I think of the clouds outside the plane and how for a few moments I felt good about my surroundings. On my way back to my seat a steward confronts me, or at least I think that's what you call them. I think, briefly, that this man might be gay and instead of feeling threatened I try to be as friendly as possible. He's telling me that I need to return to my seat. I can't be sure, but I'm pretty sure he emphasized, "seat". I continue to be non-threatening, even though his very existence is like the coke in the bathroom. As he ushers me to my seat I remind myself that I subscribe to a higher law. Back at my seat the stewardess hands me a bottle of Budweiser and a glass. I will not only not drink this beer, I will also dump it on the floor as I exit the plane to punish these people for even thinking that I would drink such a thing. I know how this might sound, but I am a US Senator. Having said that, I'm sure I have changed the vibe of this narrative. However, there is a certain tradition, along with the Constitution, that needs to be upheld. Namely, in this instance, the idea that a leader of peoples isn't treated like the people. I'm sure this comes off as arrogant, but if you are entrusted to preserve a state, you must respect yourself. Those that think any different might as well be state senators or congressmen. There's a real lack of respect for myself and other higher officials. I won't say what party I subscribe to, because it doesn't matter. We operate under the same narrative: we are the horns of this beast you might call America. I slide the Budweiser to the side of my tray table so that the stewardess knows I don't want it. When she comes by for glasses I explain that I'll drink it when we are landing. She doesn't get my humor: that the landing will be rough and I'll need an alcoholic drink to get through it. I nod and ask for a Perrier. I'm fully aware that Perrier is an elitist drink, but I want to drive home the point that I'm not just another passenger. My suit should say this, but I'm flying coach, so I understand that I should be treated like your average Joe. Even though I'm not. Even though I should be on a private jet, but after some calls for budget restraints I must fly on this flea circus to prove to your common man that I am the salt of the people. Even though I'm not. I am the gold standard of society. Never touched a dollar I didn't earn. Never touched a woman that wasn't my wife. I am on a trip to Mexico to deliver a briefcase I am not allowed to open to a general on the orders of my President whom I do not like or trust: more lines of coke on a sink in an airplane. I believe I was chosen because I am not corrupt. Or, rather, I am the lighting rod of Christianity and good morals. I play cards. The only relief I get from my obligations. A lot of men only play cards for money. I, on the other hand, will only play when there is no money on the table. Gambling – more coke on a sink. As the plane prepares to land I try to think of more things I'm interested in - golf, but only on TV. Some of the cooking shows you see, but only if it's not seafood. It seems to me that when they get seafood going anything goes. They'll start with salmon and then it's eel in kelp sauce with flecks of dolphin. More coke on the sink. Of course I'm interested in our Lord Jesus Christ, but I don't like getting into it too much, because most of the time you end up with these Catholics and all their stained glass windows and stuff about Mary and you just want to stab them with a pen – but the plane has landed and it's time to pick up, dump a beer on the ground and wave at NAFTA's orphans. I stand behind a man who has stowed a bag that is obviously too big for the overhead compartment. The rage that seethes in me is very hard to control. But I must hold it in. Another fiasco like New Orleans and I could get in some very hot water. And I have things I must accomplish on this trip and cannot be sitting in an airport jail as the world burns.