The wrong way to fly

Public Spaces, Private Faces

By Rick Horowitz

Thanks to Reggie Miller and his hoopster friends, the world -- or a random slice of it, at any rate -- can watch me panic at 32,000 feet.

This is supposed to be an ordinary flight, on an ordinary night: Milwaukee to Washington -- one hour and forty minutes. Nobody said anything about flying backward.

It's not the plane that's flying backward; that's not the problem. The nose is pointing essentially east, the tail essentially west, exactly where you want the nose and tail to be pointing when you're flying from Milwaukee to Washington. That's not the problem.

I'm the problem. I'm flying backward. My seat is facing the wrong way.

"This is the plane the Bucks use," the flight attendant explains. "Used," actually. Those would be the Milwaukee Bucks, who until just days ago were jetting around the country playing basketball. Until, that is, Reggie Miller and the other Indiana Pacers tossed them out of the playoffs and into their various summer vacations.

Suddenly, the plane is available for the rest of the population. And what a plane! You've never seen such legroom on a plane. Miles of space between this row and that row -- no gnawing on kneecaps for those guys, not even the seven-footers.

And then there's Row 10. My row. Which is equally roomy -- but facing entirely the wrong way.

It's facing the wrong way, apparently, so that Row 10's regular occupants can play cards with their teammates in Row 11. There's a table, you see, between Row 10 and Row 11 -- glossy wood veneer, cup holders, the works. It's perfect for card games, or conversation. For all I know, they do jigsaw puzzles up there -- whatever it takes to amuse folks with plenty of leg and plenty of time on their hands.

Maybe they're used to flying backward, Row 10's regular occupants. I'm not used to it. Not a bit.

There are things you take for granted when you put yourself in an airplane; you barely think about them. A plane takes off -- a normal plane -- and your knees go up, your shoulders tip back, your head presses gently into the headrest. That's just the way it is. Not this time. This time, your knees go down, your head and shoulders lean forward. Your seat belt and the laws of gravity are fighting for control of you.

Then there's the ground. You don't even notice the way the ground normally falls away, the angle and the direction of it, until suddenly it's all wrong. All backward. This is highly disconcerting.

You can't see where you're going, of course, when you're flying backward, but only where you've been. I can handle that kind of suspense in a commuter train, where the seats face every which way. Zipping butt-first through the clouds, on the other hand, is something else altogether. I don't like it.

And the worst part of all is the eye contact.

In a normal plane -- you don't even notice it until you're missing it -- you're mostly in your own private space. You see the backs of heads, a few profiles and three-quarter views, the occasional face when somebody walks up the aisle. That's it. If you're feeling a trifle edgy (or worse) at the latest goings-on in the wild blue yonder, you can keep it to yourself.

Not when you're flying backward. Not in Row 10. I've got a dozen pairs of eyes in Row 11 and beyond -- young and old eyes, male and female -- pointed in my direction. Imagine a 600-mile elevator ride where you're not allowed to stare at your shoes or at the numbers blinking above the door. There's simply no place to hide.

The pilot comes on to tell us about gusty winds up ahead; can my fellow passengers see my jaw start to tighten? You bet they can. We bounce our way through a tiny patch of turbulence; can they see my eyebrows go climbing in search of a calmer cruising altitude? No doubt about it.

The woman in Row 11 watches me watching her watching me. The plane settles down for a moment, and we smile tight smiles at each other.

The flight attendant stops by, glances at the table with the glossy wood veneer and the cup holders.

"Boy!" she says. "This is the life, huh?"

The best I can offer is a distracted shrug. I'm flying east at nightfall, gazing at the setting sun.

Posted 5/22/99. Fresh stuff right here twice weekly!

Search the Web Search Rick's!