Meredith and I had arrived to the airport late and stoned and were greeted by a shaming British attendant who seemed to know about a problem with my ticket. She said the plane was full and there was nothing she could do accept bump me up to First Class, which on Virgin Atlantic translated to Upper Class, a term I far prefer.
Meredith looked pissed, but I didn’t spend much time remembering how pissed as I made my way to what I learned was a secret lounge built into JFK. Like the entrance to Hogwarts. 4-stories up I sped-ordered roughly three drinks as “Chef” cooked me a 4-star meal. The food was so good it was actually made of 4 individual stars, thin-sliced and broiled over a vinegar reduction.
I made it back to the boarding gate just in time to see Meredith looking far less Upper Class than me, and in a slightly British accent I told her about the reduction.
We didn’t chat for long though, the plane began boarding and those posh enough were requested to board first. I scuttled towards the gate, and golden ticket in hand boarded the plane as if I could have flown it. As I slip-and-slided my way directly into my seat I took a moment to appreciate the act of sitting down the minute you step on a plane. There was no journey to the grumbling rear, running a slalom through the frustrated and the poor, just a wink and a point and a large seat with the Spice Girls’ choreographer sitting next to it.
Face and I got along like old mates. I learned she was the Spice Girls’ choreographer as a sexy number in a tight red dress and Virgin Atlantic pin asked me if I’d like my massage before or after my champagne. I said that after would be fine as %90 of my available brainpower was pouring over the degree to which I’d never been asked that question before. She slunk away as Face and I, tittering, cheeresed the champagne she had just poured. With a toast I clicked stems and settled into my upper class life - If the paparazzi was present I would have looked pissed, but grateful.
The night flew on as Face and I chatted about all sorts of things. Becks. The Girls. The new album. I suggested a sking trip to Luzerne.
A couple off hours in I peeked my head behind the double-mirror to see if Meredith had managed to make a crude shelter in the scorched deserts of coach. She looked uncomfortable, so pacified, I played Face in a game of Uno.
After a couple more rounds I grew weary from work and a steward came over and asked if I’d like to turn down. At that point I didn’t feel like turning anything down but then realized it meant go to sleep, and yawning, said yes. She disappeared behind the sauna and brought me back a small bag with these pajamas in them. I slipped them on in the grand bathroom and felt a deep sense of place. They were the most comfortable things I had ever worn. In these pajamas I was king of the plane, and Face was my queen.
We landed and Face and I traded mobile numbers, promising to keep in touch and stay mates. I texted a couple of times, but she never got back to me, which is fine because she must have been too busy with the Girls. I was sure she would soon.
As the years have passed since that Thanksgiving in London, I have worn those jammies into an abused submission, hoping to reclaim what once was. The cruel reality of my lack of a castle would come crashing in as my humble roots began to strangle the tree. I can only imagine the deep shame of those Jammies when landing in New York they were brought to farthest Brooklyn and not the Central Park East of their destiny. My abuse was palpable, my intent malicious. There’s no way those Jammies could know what I was feeling.
Five years later the patina of their once elegant existence is but a sad shadow of their workaday life. The bottom of the legs look like zombie pants, and the pull-string is pulled off - requiring this hobo belt I hijacked from a pair of cargo-shorts with no button. I cannot bring myself to throw them these jammies out, and I don’t think I will anytime anyway. They remind me too much of a time when so much worked, and so little mattered - a time when champagne was endless, and sleeping on a plane was possible.
A time when I was Upper Class.
And so, I sleep in these jammies, and dream, of tomorrow.
I’ll wear them until they whither and rot off of me.
Just like the Spice Girls did.
