Napalm and Silly Putty

HIGH ON THE PLANE

Airlines disappoint me. Why don’t they have a fight attendant whose job it is to hand out drugs? They’re certainly aggressive enough when it comes to alcohol. Even before the meal begins they’re in the aisles: “Champagne, red wine, white wine?” Can’t they spare one person to wander around muttering, “Coke? Smoke? Chance to get high. Crank? Acid? Smack? You’re high in the plane, now get high on the plane!”

For me, on a long fight it used to be that gettin’ high was half the fun. Hell, even a short fight. Lockin’ myself in the bathroom, firin’ up a joint. That’s what flyin’ was all about. Now you can’t smoke anything at all, not even a good old-fashioned ready-roll. They have smoke detectors. Jesus! The people in this country have really become a pack of fearful, ignorant sheep. Everybody’s a God-fearing, law-abiding ass-hole now. Fair warning, my friend: if you’re gonna smoke a joint on the airplane these days, you better be an old pro.

In the old days I always did my pot-smoking in the forward lavatory, because I fantasized that the mirror was two-way, and the crew could see me. I can’t help it, I just like an audience. But I knew my manners; I always offered the crew a hit or two. I’d make little gestures with the joint toward the mirror. “C’mon, boys, lighten up. Life isn’t all azimuth indicators.” Never any takers; real straight folks up there.

Now, I’m sure all of you high-minded, non-chance-takers out there are thinkin’, “What about the smell? Doesn’t the bathroom fill up with pot smoke?” Well, folks, this is where a background in physics comes in handy. Follow me closely on this.

Before the airlines introduced those fancy new toilets, the ones that tear your genitals off when they flush, the old toilets, in order to control odors, had a slow, steady stream of air that flowed from the lavatory itself down into the bowl. And you could increase the speed of that air flow by simply sitting on the toilet, thereby reducing the size of the air passage down to that little wedge-shaped space between your thighs. Narrower channel, stronger flow. And your cheeks acted as a gasket, sealing off the rest of the opening.

Then, if you carefully pointed a lit cigarette down into the toilet between your thighs, all the smoke got sucked away into that mysterious, blue-chemical void. No smoke, no smell, no problem. By the way, I cannot overemphasize the importance of the word carefully in the above sentence.

Of course, not all planes had equally strong airflow, so a system test was always in order. A good physicist never proceeds without checking conditions. In this case, we use a common match. A lit match, quickly extinguished, produces a small, visible wisp of smoke. If the match is held deep in the bowl, one can observe whether that smoke is sucked straight downward or rises gently back into the lav. In the former case all systems are “go,” in the latter case the No Smoking sign is wisely observed. Unless, of course, we decide to go to Plan B. One must always have a backup.

And so, we turn our attention to the sink. The sink is a magnificent device: it fills with water, holds it awhile, and then, when the drain is released, it empties. And on an airplane, when it empties it is helped along by what? Why, it’s helped along by our old friend, Mr. Air Pressure! And, whaddaya know, just by pressing down on the drain-release plunger we can produce an even stronger flow of air than we can with the toilet, because the sink drain is so much smaller. A quick test with a lit match confirms this.

But remember, the drain-release lever is spring-loaded, and therefore if the air flow is to remain constant, the plunger must remain depressed and open during the entire period the joint is lit. And that means we have to prop the drain cap open by wedging some object underneath it. A matchbook cover, or perhaps one of those little bars of soap the airlines used to leave near the sink. Isn’t science fun?

All right, gang, we’re almost ready to light up and get wasted, but there is still one further consideration. If you’re going to smoke a joint while seated on the toilet (as opposed to standing up, leaning down into the sink), at some point, you have to decide whether or not you should pretend to be taking a shit. In other words, whether or not to pull your pants down.

If you really have to take a shit at the time, that’s great; you’re all set. But if you don’t, you have a decision to make. Because, although ethically there is nothing wrong with taking a fake shit, in a practical sense if the crew thinks you’ve been in there too long, and they decide to break down the door, you want to be sure that when they arrive you appear to be taking a genuine shit. Don’t forget, they’re going to check. And nobody wants to be arrested for shitting with his pants on, am I right? Although personally I can tell you I don’t care what the charge is as long as I get rid of the joint. Besides, shitting with your pants on is only a misdemeanor. And in my case it would be a first offense.

Which brings us back to my own personal airline-bathroom experience. One problem I always had was that after I got high I would wind up staying in the bathroom way too long. Pot brought out the super organizer in me, so once I’d had a few good, deep hits and was securely locked in, I tended to go to work.

First thing I did was open up all those little compartments under the sink and rearrange the supplies stored in there. I’d restack all the sanitary napkins according to strength: regular, super, jumbo, teeny-bopper. I’d remove the outer wrappers from the spare toilet paper, making it readily available in the event some nasty bacterium found its way into the first-class entrees. Then I’d re refill the paper towel dispenser, being careful to pack it so tightly that the towels would not come out without shredding. And—again, the old days—I’d make sure there were plenty of those little bars of soap lying out for people to steal. In the occasional instance when cologne, after-shave, and other amenities were made available, I would be sure to take them home for further quality-control testing. Ford is not the only place where quality is job one.

Then, my chores done, I would relax somewhat and reflect on the environment around me. I’d become fascinated by the little slot they had for used razor blades, and I wondered whether or not the blades actually dropped out of the airplane and fell on people’s houses, or if they just rusted and rotted somewhere behind the wall. I’d read the various signs posted in three languages and try to translate precisely the corresponding words in each language. Then, finally, a long, lingering look in the mirror, usually resulting in the discovery of some hideous facial flaw, previously undetected.

And then, suddenly, the little lighted sign would flash on telling me to Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin! Return to Cabin!

I’d think, Oh shit, trouble in the cabin. They need me. I should never have left them alone. I’d better see what’s up. And then on my way out, I’d spot one last sign: Please Leave Lavatory Clean for the Next Passenger. Well, that’s all I needed to see. And because I’m really into detail now—and even though I didn’t make a mess—I’m experiencing “felon’s guilt.” And I decide to clean up for the next person.

I rinse and dry and thoroughly polish the entire sink area, scouring all the burst-pimple residue off the mirror, and I even wash off the dried, gray dirt bubbles left on the soap by the previous person. Now I’m gettin’ into it! Pretty soon I find myself washing the walls and ceiling, throwing open the door, and yelling, “You people got some Spic and Span and a hard-bristle brush out there? I think I can get these blue stains off the toilet!”

And suddenly I realize my fantasy world has collapsed; the real world is watching. Adjusting quickly, and relying on my identity as a comedian, I chuckle weakly and say, “You gotta clean up for the next person.”

Then, as the fat woman waiting to take a shit passes me on her way into the john, I hiss, “Don’t fuck it up, lady. I worked my ass off in there.” And back to my seat I go, secure in the knowledge that, once again, thanks to my highly developed work ethic, along with some great Humboldt weed, I’ve managed to make the skies a little friendlier.