YYZ to DUB

The plane departed Toronto Pearson Airport for Dublin hours ago. Onboard, two men sit side-by-side under the glare of overhead lights; one man sips a vodka soda, the other, a glass of white wine. A steward offers the latter a glass of ice, and the man empties half his mini bottle into the plastic cup. A baseball cap is drawn low over his face, but still, one can make out the white-ish stubble on his chin and his sunken undereyes. His friend is speaking, in a gritty voice that carries across many rows of seats. He wears a bomber jacket, his hair cropped close except for a swirl at his crown. He’s delivering a sermon of sorts, about the duties of fatherhood.

“My delivery may be one of a tyrant, but something’s gotta give if they’re only getting coddling from their mother. If one of my kid’s being stupid, I’m gonna tell them they’re being stupid. If one of them’s getting fat, I’m gonna tell them they’re getting fucking fat.”

The baseball-capped man takes a long drink and then another. His swallow can be heard from the seat behind. He pours out the rest of his wine and downs that too. A button is pressed; the steward returns for a refill.

Dublin will be their final destination. Before they ordered their drinks, they had mused whether Ireland is part of the United Kingdom and came to the uneasy conclusion that it must be, somehow. They travel together, separated from children, from wives, and each wants to hit a smoke and a Guinness as soon as they can. They’ve been told the Guinness tastes better in Ireland.

“If you were a good parent to them before, they won’t take the criticism out of context. They’ll get it,” the man continues. “They might call me a crazy motherfucker when they’re 25, but I’ll have done my duty.” He pauses. “There’s no real reward to being a parent. Your children are your children.” He says this last part slowly, a true statement that sounds sad. His friend stares straight ahead, saying nothing.

The seatbelt sign turns on. The plane jolts in the choppy air. Screens go blank. The man with the baseball cap presses uselessly on his black screen.

“Fuck me. The TV isn’t working,” he says.     

“Let’s have another drink. And then maybe we can score a pod in first class for a nap.”

But after an exchange with a steward, they’re unsuccessful in their bid. The screens aren’t working and there’s nothing the crew can do. There’s no room in first class. The men have to stay where they are. Seated in front of the bathrooms with the occasional chemical assault every time the doors open and shut. Both of them are on their third drink, their fingers tapping their screens. But still, nothing works.

The hatless man, having nothing else to do, continues talking, continues his self-reflection for the benefit of himself, for the benefit of his friend: “If I die tomorrow, I hope my kids have half my mental discipline. Get in on investments, like Bitcoin. Crypto. They need to build something for themselves. They can’t just live day-to-day. You can’t make good decisions living in the moment. Your life is your life.”

The turbulence is gone now, the plane passed through the pocket unscathed. A ding and the steward appears again. He clasps his hands together and smiles in a way that isn’t friendly, before asking, “and what can I get for you gentlemen?” And they request the same: vodka soda, white wine. The men sip their drinks more slowly now, the initial urgency long since satiated.

“You know, it’s a big fucking deal, being a family guy. My dad had stage IV cancer and me and my wife had to carry it all; the consultations, the driving, the radiation, the chemo. And you know, I don’t mind now, looking back, because he came out a winner. But if he came out the other end and he wasn’t a winner, I’d have a lot of other fucking feelings.”

The baseball capped man mutters something, but his friend either doesn’t hear or doesn’t care. He continues, “I love my wife. I love buying her shit she wants. Even if she doesn’t wear it. I love buying it for her…I’ve been a good husband. A decent husband. A truthful husband. My wife is going to be around a lot longer than me. She’s a decent mom. A decent wife. You, on the other hand, fornicated with the wrong vagina.”

It’s unclear what is meant by this; if it’s that his wife is younger, more desirable, more submissive than the wife of his friend. But his friend doesn’t seem to take any offence. He’s silent on the issue. He might even agree, that yes, he did marry the wrong woman; he may have fucked it all up spectacularly. But the fourth white wine has likely blunted this shame, and he leans into his chair, looks out into a lightening sky, that is still living darkly.

The Captain announces the plane’s imminent arrival. Soon the seatbelt sign will be turned on. The hatless man needs to ‘take a leak.’ He stands up and stretches cat-like before he leaves his seat. He’s gone for many minutes. And then the door opens and everything smells like piss.

The plane dips downward. Not much can be seen, but all passengers are certain land awaits. The men are buckled in, their heads woolly, their breath warm. The crack of the landing gear releases, and the plane glides, full force, rumbling onto the runway.

Before the passengers unbuckle, then stand, then walk the tired aisle to wherever it is they’re destined, the men have gathered their belongings, wiped their mouths with their palms, rubbed their bloodshot eyes.

Their decisions are their decisions, and the latest one has led them here. 

“I can’t wait,’ one of them says. ‘I can’t wait for that cigarette and beer.”