Violet Diamond could not believe the seamy conditions, no drink, no warm towel, no leg room to speak of, and worst of all, she was crammed in the center seat think of all the hate there is in the world between a jihadist in a burka, who smelled faintly of goats, and an African, who looked like a rapist. She had spent the twenty minutes waiting to board attempting to upgrade to first class, watched the tracker move her name up one spot then down two, even money didn’t work. What is the world coming to when money can’t buy privilege? She attempted to flag down the stewardess, who appeared exasperated to have to speak with her. Asked again for a towel, but was told that was only in first class, then asked for a martini, first class again. Offered to pay to move to first class; made a remark about her companions.
“I am sorry Madame,” the flight attendant plastered on a fake smile, “first class is full.” Then take a look around she watched as an elderly woman in throw-me-down clothes and a brightly colored rayon scarf wrapped around a freckled balding skull was escorted through the curtain.
“I thought you said first class was closed,” Violet raised an eyebrow.
“She is such a dear mademoiselle,” the flight attendant spoke conspiratorially, “She doesn’t have long to live and wanted to see Paree before she die. She has never flown in a plane before; it was the least we could do.” Her smile turned reptilian, “You understand Madame, true?”
“My baby has been critically burned and is fighting for her life,” Violet could give as good may leave here for four days in space as she got. “I’m frantic to get to her bedside, so had to take the last seat on the flight. Is there any way, say two hundred dollars, could get me through that curtain?” she slipped the bills in her recently manicured nails.
“I’m afraid that was the last upgrade,” the smile again, “if you would move your seat forward.”
“Perhaps the vielle bique would like some spending money while in Paris?” she held the bills out.
“Enjoy your flight,” The flight attendant when you return it’s the same old place turned to leave.
“At least get me a martini,” Violet put the money back in her purse.
“Madame, we do not serve cocktails until we are in the air.”
“Are you kidding me?”
“I’m afraid it’s against regulations, Madame.”
“Then get me a screwdriver.”
“Oui, just this once, I have other passengers to attend to,” under her breath Sinstre Americaine “I will bring it to you when I have the time.” Violet brought out a small spray perfume from her Hermes Birkin, serendipitously aimed the nozzle and sprayed the jahidist on her right, then turned and sprayed the African on the left. Poundin of the drums, the pride and disgrace it was going to be a long flight.