Make That the Whiskey Plane

The once-weekly flight to Kyiv is four and a half long hours, stuffed to the gizzards with aromatic human cargo and fish and fruit masquerading as luggage. Passing through customs is hellish with four screeners and hundreds of disgruntled, pushy passengers trying to wedge their way through. Entire families of eight fly with seemingly every shrinkwrapped belonging they own, children wearing oversized nutpunching backpacks and gum-toothed babushkas assaulting anyone in elbow range. I have yet to master the mathematics of line choosing, always opting for the slowest or the one with the most relatives suddenly appearing from the back. After an hour I make it on board, ten minutes before it is scheduled to depart.

Being in the middle seat in an Airbus 310 is no fun, but Alona, the bleach blonde was determined to make the best of it. After takeoff, as soon as that safety belt gongy bell sounded, her chrome-polished fingernail whipped out of its holster and onto the call button overhead. I probably could have telegraphed what would soon transpire when she ordered an Azil, but since drinks are free on these flights and Russians define beer as a soft drink, I didn't think much of it. Besides it was already 7am.

By the time breakfast came, itself a nightmarish concoction of pungent meat/fish/jelly/bread, she was on her third bottle, two empty ones crammed in that upholstery flap in front of my knees. It was on Alona's fourth attempt that her beer wagon had been shut down, the flight attendant explaining that she was pushing the freebie drink concept. Temporarily thwarted, she tried to engage in nasalvoiced conversation with me and the portly man with the bad haircut in window seat 23K. She said she was a fashionsomething, but, though pretty, she was too old to be a model. An acquaintance in Moscow once told me that Eastern Europeans age in dog years, a mean-spirited and somewhat correct comment. In truth, the multiplier is less than 7 but definitely greater than 1, but again, I haven't worked out the math just yet.

Once the dutyfree cart made its appearance, she was back in business, flicking a $100 bill in the direction of the flight attendant and grabbing a fifth of Jack Daniels. I dozed off for about twenty minutes and awoke to the sight of a quarter empty bottle next to me and a bejewelled, too-tanned hand on my thigh, holding her balance. Each drink followed the same algorithm, ice cubes brashly plunked down into empty plastic cup, followed by Jack then coke then Jack. A laugh followed each drink and then something incomprehensible about life, the world, puppies, godknowswhat.

By the time the bottle hit the halfway mark, it was bathroom time. Passengers awoke from their slumber as the bleachblonde bomber yanked her way seat by seat to the toilet, eyelids drooping, brastraps at half-mast. Her return was even more flamboyant, with her arms mimicking airplane wings as she continued to laugh at her private conversation. Once seated, she returned to her schedule of drinking, slurring, hand on thigh, repeat.

The bottle was exhausted upon landing, her speech now inhuman, her breath subhuman. She needed me and Flattop Monobrowski to help her deplane, gucci bags penduluming back and forth as she teetered on her white high heels.

Unsurprisingly, we were met by her angry husband and two air security goons in the transfer area. I caught a glimpse of her half-smile, which seemed to indicate she thoroughly enjoyed the spectacle she had created, if in fact she even knew where she was.

I am now in Odessa and had my own episode in Kiev, but that will have to wait until my next post.