I found a crumpled blurb about my flight to Holland this summer:
“I would love to get you a fan-TaH – but, you see, we have a system here,” he says, gesturing at the aisles behind him. The dim fluorescent lights reflect off his bald head. “It involves passing out as many meals as we can and then serving drinks.”
My head jerks back. My eyes widen. I think, ‘The same system that missed me the last two times?’
“Well,” I sift through diplomatic excuses, “I was going to put my headphones back on, so-”
A wrinkle forms across his scalp.
“So, I – so I wasn’t going to be able to hear you anymore.”
Straightening his back, he poses regally. His eyes become slits. His head becomes shinier.
“And you asked if I could serve you before everyone else out of politeness?” he smirks, spitting the word. “In that case, I would be very happy to get you a fan-TaH. It’ll just be a few minutes!”
Smiling, I say, “Thank you,” as he swivels sharply and returns to passing out meals. The 20-something woman in front of me oozes a combination of German, Dutch, and English words, giggling at his jokes.
Three minutes pass. He is muttering a few French words to another woman.
