Flying High

Flying back east out of LAX on the Red Eye, I noticed frost bite on my fingers and asked the flight attendant for a blanket. He blinked and said crisply, "That'll be seven dollars." WHAT?

I know everyone, including Ruth Madoff, is tightening their belt but this struck me as excessive. "Okay, then. How about turning down the air-conditioning so that my teeth stop chattering?" He smirked and went back to hawking stale sandwiches for - uh - seven dollars. They were not moving well but he sold out of vodka before seat 14D.

Somewhere over "the fruited plain" a jittery line formed to the one working toilet in the back of the plane. There seemed to be some kind of rucus at the front of the line. I heard cursing and loud voices but couldn't figure it out until I was next in line and the haughty attendant said, "That'll be seven dollars please."

"For what?" Why for using the john! "But, but, you have to let passengers pee!" I cried. "Actually, ma'm, according to the FAA, we don't," he sneered. "It's up to each airline to decide. Now will that be cash or credit?" In a hushed voice he added, "I can get you into the First Class toilet for fifty bucks."

I staggered back to my seat, determined to hold "it" in for another three and half hours. I took an Ambien and tried to sleep but it wasn't easy. The passenger next to me was getting a lap dance. It's amazing what seven dollars will buy at 50,000 feet.