We’re cruising at thirty-five thousand feet on a cross-country flight, a few hours out of BWI. The Great Lakes are already behind us. At the moment, we’re high over the plains of Iowa. Visibility is unlimited. It’s all checkerboard farms to the horizon, identical squares that date to the early 19th century, when American politicians imposed a precise grid on the landscape, relying on rationality and the rule of law to tame a seeming wilderness.
It’s a full flight, every seat taken, lots of young families traveling to and from vacation. Judging from the white hair visible above the seatbacks, there are some grandparents, too, along with a healthy contingent of Baby Boomers. It’s not exactly the United Nations, but there is some ethnic diversity, although there are fewer black people than you might expect.
This is a Southwest plane. There’s no first class compartment. You get the feeling that virtually all of the passengers are solidly middle class.
There was a lot of talk about the middle class in Washington this summer. It was theoretically in defense of people like the ones crammed into these narrow, six-to-a-row seats that Republicans and Democrats practically came to blows.
“Our evil national debt is destroying the dreams of the middle class! Cut government spending!” the Republicans said.
“The debt is bad, and we need to shrink government, but refusing to close tax loopholes on corporations and the filthy rich places an unfair burden on the middle class!” the Democrats said.
“No job-killing tax increases!”
“No gutting the social safety net!”
But what if pilots behaved the way our elected officials did this summer?
Let’s say a light goes off in the cockpit, warning that the fuel level is lower than it should be. There isn’t going to be enough to get us to Seattle.
The pilot says, “Well, this isn’t good. Looks like that Chinese fuel truck might have shorted us.”
The co-pilot says, “We’d better land right now.”
“We’re over the Badlands. It isn’t safe to land here. We’ve got enough fuel. Let’s look for a better place.”
“How do you know we’ve got enough fuel?”
“Uh, by looking at the fuel gauge.”
“We can’t trust the fuel gauge. Fuel gauges can give false readings.”
“What are you talking about? We have to trust fuel gauges.”
“My gut tells me we’re just about out of gas. Land this plane! Now!”
“I’m not interested in what your gut tells you. Our training tells us to trust the gauge. You can’t just arbitrarily decide to stop trusting fuel gauges.”
“I would literally rather crash this plane than hear any more of your talk about gauges.”
“Seriously? You want to crash the plane?”
“It wouldn’t be the worse thing in the world. But why are we even talking about a crash? There won’t be a crash if you simply agree to land right now.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that if I don’t agree to land right now, in the middle of the Badlands, you’re going to make us crash? Is that what you’re telling me?”
“‘Crash’” is one of your typical exaggerations. I’d prefer to call it a ‘forced landing.’”
“That’s it! It’s go-time!”
The cockpit door bursts open. The two pilots come howling down the aisle, red-faced men in blue suits, their hands wrapped around each other’s necks.
Those of us in coach look on, aghast. Someone takes a poll. The passengers on this side of the aisle seem to think we have enough time to look for a safer place to land. The passengers on the other side of the aisle seem to think that this is a dire emergency, and the best idea would be to set down immediately, even if it means a hard landing.
So we disagree. But everyone, without exception, is appalled by the pilots’ bad behavior. The two of them collapse in an exhausted heap, and set about justifying themselves to the flight attendants, who hover nervously. Then, yawning with self-satisfaction, the pilots fall asleep, dreaming of the next flight, which will surely be smoother, since the other guy is sure to get fired for being so stupid.
Meanwhile, the cockpit door swings open and shut, giving the passengers glimpses of an empty cockpit and an even emptier sky.
The plane seems to be on autopilot, but sooner or later, it’s going to run out of fuel. That much is certain.
We look at each other in disbelief and ask, “What just happened?”
It’s not like anybody in the cheap seats knows how to fly a 737.
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 11 August 2011
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
