Over and Out

Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.Those of you on the left side of the aislesurely have spotted, on this fine Fourth of July,fireworks erupting all around the city.Pockets of color. Ooh baby, look at that.From thirty thousand feet, you never hearthe pop pop when they open. No, they seemto blossom in the dark, in suspended silence—to dilate and fill like delicate parachutesdescending with curious tautness, until at lastthey safely resolve to a shimmer of memorythat lingers like stars, then truly disappears.Or that's what I'm seeing. Excuse the poetry.Sometimes I get carried away up here.I've left the seatbelt sign illuminated,and though we expect no turbulence, weather-wise,I'll ask you not to move about the cabinunless you have to. The truth is we're in trouble.Those of you on the right side may have noteda funny rumble. That's not the fireworks, folks.

I'm going to get this plane down the best I can.I bet you'd trade in every one of your frequentflier points for the real-life parachuteswe lack on this particular budget aircraft.Wouldn't it be divine if we all driftedto terra firma guided as if by wingedangels in parti-colored, ballooning silks?Instead I'm duty-bound to propose that yougather up—not your personal belongings,but any final reflections you may feelwill comfort you. Naturally you hate being reminded your fate is in the handsof faceless authority—that is, me;but my advice is, try to rise above that.

You should have had a third little flask of scotch,some of you are thinking. Some of you galsare wishing our steward Keith, in Business Class,so handsome, were available for a fewminutes, anyway. Triumphant sexwith strangers as the fireworks fade forever—the dizzy thrill of The End? That dream would onlycome true in the pathetic paperbacksyou brought onboard. Real terror, let me tell you,is no aphrodisiac. How stupidlyyou lined up for this trip! How much you caredwho was pre-boarded first, or whether Misty,our blonde in Coach, would start from the front or backwhen she rolled out her little tinkling cartof snack-boxes which, although not fit for a dog,you paid for meekly, and with the exact change.

Let's be frank. This flight is headed foryour longest vacation. Tonight, the only gateswe'll taxi to are pearly: no connectionto the party raging on down there without us.It's far too late to squander precious secondsresenting my sadly true banalities,my jocular despair, my loud, phoned-inphilosophy no button can switch off.I understand, though. You'd like a little peacebefore the eternal one. Well, here you are.Spend your last moments in big-hearted hopewe're going to hurt nobody on the ground.