Article - Sydney Morning Herald - April 14, 2006
In economy class the screams are all silent, peanut or no peanut
By William McInnes
April 14, 2006
ON A plane flying across the Pacific you find out certain things. Only when you are locked in the battery hen confines of economy class can you truly appreciate the glorious ruthlessness of economic modelling.
What brain, for instance, came up with the most economically rewarding space between the seats? I would like to meet that person. I think this he or she would be descended from a long line of battery-chook farm owners or perhaps various proponents of crimes against humanity. I am certain this person would never fly economy long-haul.
This is where I find myself. Locked behind a man who decides that his seat should be reclined as far back as it can go and does it as soon as he has the all clear on the flight. I feel like Gilligan would have felt if the Skipper had taken the top hammock on Gilligan's Island.
The safety demonstration video hasn't even finished and the Skipper crashes back into my stomach and stays there for my journey across the Pacific. He likes to recline. In fact, he is the Great Recliner.
The demonstration video! Now there is a piece of work with a sense of humour. "Subtly all planes are different." Yes, they are. Especially the mock plane on the video. The demonstrating models are doing aerobic exercises in unimagined comfort and space. It looks like an old Jane Fonda exercise tape when you compare it with the space actually provided by the plane's seats and the economic modeller.
The brace position is a happy little idea, but the Great Recliner in front of me rules out any realistic attempt at the pose adopted by the happy model in the verdant space of the video plane. I am so close to the Great Recliner's head I can rest my chin on his scalp. Who needs in-flight entertainment when I can happily content myself with counting his hair follicles?
I force my eyes away from his forests and scan the cabin for empty seats. No joy. But I do see the choice of reading favoured by my fellow passengers. Big, thick bulky books by people with names like Wilbur and Clive and Dan and Eric. Books with stories about terrorism and nuclear bombs in suitcases and planes plunging into remote jungles and psychotic killers and conspiracies and a total disregard for human life. I look at a woman reading such a book by a man called Clive. She smiles at me. "Just a bit of light reading to pass the time." Holiday reading. The world is going mad. I smile back.
The in-flight entertainment is good. A small video screen rests in the back of every seat. Its bluish glow shines on various faces. A channel selection lets you see an animated version of our trip. A clunky little plane ekes its way across the ocean.
Somewhere along the way I remember the voice from the in-flight video and the bland tones informing us to remember to exercise our legs during the flight. I squeeze and heave from under the weight of the recliner in front and take a walk. I do this a fair while into the flight. The sights I see as I stagger through the seats are like some ghostly trip through the evolution of the human species. Lit by the eerie glow of the small television screens in the backs of the seats I see about 500 of my fellow human beings at their most vulnerable.
It's humbling to walk through rows and rows of open-mouthed spread-eagled people dead to the world. Some seem to manage better than others. Some, unbelievably, seem to be content. Some have peanuts around their neck, those travellers' cushions. I know these are called peanuts because of the elderly man with the foghorn voice sitting across the way from me. He bellows to his wife. "I have to have a peanut. Did you bring my peanut?"
I stare at him and he looks at me with his watery eyes. "You gotta have a peanut … yes sir, you gotta have a peanut." He waves a flaccid little bag at me and then blows into it. Sometimes he makes a noise like a whoopee cushion. When he is done he holds it out to me and then pops it behind his neck.
"There, my peanut … you gotta have a peanut." He contentedly sleeps with his mouth wide open. It suddenly appears to me as I look around the cabin that all the people asleep, peanuts or no, look like Edvard Munch has painted them. An aircraft full of The Scream.
Save for two elderly men. Two old Aussie football legends who are playing checkers. Their giant dislocated hands dance on the controls of the video screens and the grandpa glasses dangle on their noses. Their rumbling laughter wafts up the aisle as they counter each other's moves. Only instead of streaking down the members' wing at the MCG they're shoulder to shoulder in economy high above the waves.
We are now south of Honolulu. The picture on the screen on the back of the seat tells us so. Over the South Pacific. A name that conjures up a ream of romantic images.
It's only because The Great Recliner has lent back so far that I can see through the gap between the two seats. A computer screen. A laptop. A woman is writing. At first I thought it was the seat's video screen. But no. I stopped when I realised what it was.
"I have never written a letter like this before. But I must in answer to your note. When you said you loved me I was speechless … but heartbroken…" I looked away. The Great Recliner heaved. I yelped. The man with the peanut woke up and muttered something about hardware shops in Portland.
When I settled and all was Munch-like again on the plane, I snuck a look back between the seats again. The laptop had been folded away and we, all of us in that little clunky plane on the animated screen were flying high above the sea. I closed my eyes and thought of broken hearts and friendly footy legends and Edvard Munch and peanuts and … fell asleep.
By William McInnes
April 14, 2006
ON A plane flying across the Pacific you find out certain things. Only when you are locked in the battery hen confines of economy class can you truly appreciate the glorious ruthlessness of economic modelling.
What brain, for instance, came up with the most economically rewarding space between the seats? I would like to meet that person. I think this he or she would be descended from a long line of battery-chook farm owners or perhaps various proponents of crimes against humanity. I am certain this person would never fly economy long-haul.
This is where I find myself. Locked behind a man who decides that his seat should be reclined as far back as it can go and does it as soon as he has the all clear on the flight. I feel like Gilligan would have felt if the Skipper had taken the top hammock on Gilligan's Island.
The safety demonstration video hasn't even finished and the Skipper crashes back into my stomach and stays there for my journey across the Pacific. He likes to recline. In fact, he is the Great Recliner.
The demonstration video! Now there is a piece of work with a sense of humour. "Subtly all planes are different." Yes, they are. Especially the mock plane on the video. The demonstrating models are doing aerobic exercises in unimagined comfort and space. It looks like an old Jane Fonda exercise tape when you compare it with the space actually provided by the plane's seats and the economic modeller.
The brace position is a happy little idea, but the Great Recliner in front of me rules out any realistic attempt at the pose adopted by the happy model in the verdant space of the video plane. I am so close to the Great Recliner's head I can rest my chin on his scalp. Who needs in-flight entertainment when I can happily content myself with counting his hair follicles?
I force my eyes away from his forests and scan the cabin for empty seats. No joy. But I do see the choice of reading favoured by my fellow passengers. Big, thick bulky books by people with names like Wilbur and Clive and Dan and Eric. Books with stories about terrorism and nuclear bombs in suitcases and planes plunging into remote jungles and psychotic killers and conspiracies and a total disregard for human life. I look at a woman reading such a book by a man called Clive. She smiles at me. "Just a bit of light reading to pass the time." Holiday reading. The world is going mad. I smile back.
The in-flight entertainment is good. A small video screen rests in the back of every seat. Its bluish glow shines on various faces. A channel selection lets you see an animated version of our trip. A clunky little plane ekes its way across the ocean.
Somewhere along the way I remember the voice from the in-flight video and the bland tones informing us to remember to exercise our legs during the flight. I squeeze and heave from under the weight of the recliner in front and take a walk. I do this a fair while into the flight. The sights I see as I stagger through the seats are like some ghostly trip through the evolution of the human species. Lit by the eerie glow of the small television screens in the backs of the seats I see about 500 of my fellow human beings at their most vulnerable.
It's humbling to walk through rows and rows of open-mouthed spread-eagled people dead to the world. Some seem to manage better than others. Some, unbelievably, seem to be content. Some have peanuts around their neck, those travellers' cushions. I know these are called peanuts because of the elderly man with the foghorn voice sitting across the way from me. He bellows to his wife. "I have to have a peanut. Did you bring my peanut?"
I stare at him and he looks at me with his watery eyes. "You gotta have a peanut … yes sir, you gotta have a peanut." He waves a flaccid little bag at me and then blows into it. Sometimes he makes a noise like a whoopee cushion. When he is done he holds it out to me and then pops it behind his neck.
"There, my peanut … you gotta have a peanut." He contentedly sleeps with his mouth wide open. It suddenly appears to me as I look around the cabin that all the people asleep, peanuts or no, look like Edvard Munch has painted them. An aircraft full of The Scream.
Save for two elderly men. Two old Aussie football legends who are playing checkers. Their giant dislocated hands dance on the controls of the video screens and the grandpa glasses dangle on their noses. Their rumbling laughter wafts up the aisle as they counter each other's moves. Only instead of streaking down the members' wing at the MCG they're shoulder to shoulder in economy high above the waves.
We are now south of Honolulu. The picture on the screen on the back of the seat tells us so. Over the South Pacific. A name that conjures up a ream of romantic images.
It's only because The Great Recliner has lent back so far that I can see through the gap between the two seats. A computer screen. A laptop. A woman is writing. At first I thought it was the seat's video screen. But no. I stopped when I realised what it was.
"I have never written a letter like this before. But I must in answer to your note. When you said you loved me I was speechless … but heartbroken…" I looked away. The Great Recliner heaved. I yelped. The man with the peanut woke up and muttered something about hardware shops in Portland.
When I settled and all was Munch-like again on the plane, I snuck a look back between the seats again. The laptop had been folded away and we, all of us in that little clunky plane on the animated screen were flying high above the sea. I closed my eyes and thought of broken hearts and friendly footy legends and Edvard Munch and peanuts and … fell asleep.
posted by WilliamWatch at 12:11 PM
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