19-20.06.12 (written while en route to Heathrow)

19-20.06.12 (Seat 53H) - On the airplane I waste no time. Dock my tiny carry-on under the seat in front of me, tuck the flaccid free-of-charge pillow automatically against my lumbar, and proceed to adjust the headrest to the desired height (I'm 6'3" and British Airways is built for short people). No sooner do I begin fiddling with the headrest do I dislodge it from its sliding track and lob it onto the floor at the feet of (the nametag reads) Junior, the airline attendant who manages my side of economy class. He stares at the misplaced cushion and then lets out a bellowing laugh.

"Now you did it," he says, giving me the business.

"Don't know my own strength," I say, trying to be casual, but the idea that I somehow easily dismantled part of a vehicle that's supposed to maintain altitude at 40,000 feet has my stomach in knots.

I pick up the headrest while Junior just watches and then he mocks as I work the cushion onto its sliding track. "Have you got it?" he says.

I say yes, but the rest of the passengers, who have been boarding all the while are watching me work the headrest into its spot, chuckle each at different speeds. Junior returns to his duties and begins beckoning in lost passengers. When I finally get the cushion on the back of the seat, I relax and put my ear-buds in, turn the music up, and close my eyes.The plane noses up and we're away.

There are only two seats this far back in economy class, and the man next to me  is (whose name I don't catch) from Croatia. He's returning there with his family and his grand kids for holiday. We discuss some  general problems with the justice system in the States and then Junior arrives with a tray of beverages.

"Would you care for a drink, sir?"

"What's free?" I ask.

"Everything. Everything's free, except for me," he says. His laugh is rather loud this time.

"Do you have whiskey?" I ask.

"How old?" he says.

I think about it a moment. "Oh, I dunno. Ten or twelve is fine."

I unlatch my food tray.

"You are ten or twelve years old?"

"I thought you meant the age of the whiskey," I say. He looks at me as though he's concerned, pondering whether he should be giving anything alcoholic to me at all. He digs in a bucket and reveals a shot-sized sampler of Johnnie Walker Red Label.

"The Johnnie Walker? or..." finding another sampler, this time of Jack Daniels, "...this one?"

"How 'bout both?" I say, figuring these are rationed and my visible drinking problem will just become another good laugh for him.

"Sure," he sets them on the tray, "Coke?" He sets these on my tray as well. British Airways is awesome.