OutLoud
by Sally Sheklow

FRIENDLY SKIES

In the air and hungry, Sally connects with a member of the tribe

Ever notice how hard it is to find the LGBTQ people in airports? Air travel sure throws my gaydar all out of whack. Homo-looking guys turn out to be het men who’ve been Queer-Eyed. Sauntering women with dykey haircuts are just Canadian.

The moving walkway carries me past unidentified strangers to my connecting flight. At least I see my people on TV. In all the waiting areas, every newscast blares some same-sex marriage-related story. Go team.

I haven’t eaten since dinner last night and am looking forward to some good old airplane food. Flying across time zones, they usually manage to have you in the air between meals. But this flight takes four hours, and no matter how you slice it, includes lunchtime.

I’ve still got an hour’s wait. An airport gift shop/newsstand is selling single pieces of fruit—the only living food on site—for $1.75. The apples are so shiny even Snow White would be suspicious. I pass, but salivate a little anyway.

Eventually I board, find my aisle seat, and buckle in. Our flight attendant is very faggy. The straight men who work in this swishy profession always act extra macho to defy the stereotype, but this guy is a total queen. If feather boas were part of the allowable flight attendant uniform, he’d be flouncing one across his shoulder while he reminds you to stow that bag completely under the seat in front of you, Mary. Thank God(dess) another member of my tribe is onboard. If I can make contact, he might slip me a packet of snack mix before takeoff. That would hold me until lunch.

Then we get the bad news—no food. Airlines no longer offer in-flight meals. Who knew? On this 1,700-mile flight they don’t even serve pretzels. My belly gurgles disappointment. We’re told we can purchase a restaurant-quality sandwich or salad for $10. The nerve. I do not have an extra $10 to spend on what’s supposed be included in the deal. It’s the principle of the thing. Airline meals are part of our culture. You can’t change the rules. It’s unnatural. It goes against tradition. Even the Bible says, “Let all who are hungry come and eat.” Where’s the constitutional amendment codifying the institution of air travel as a sacred union between one person and one meal? (Rumor has it that a few renegade airlines follow a higher law and issue meals anyway.) Why should I have to pay for airplane food—something first-class passengers take for granted? It’s not fair that some of us are treated as second class. Unequal. Under less-famished conditions I’d raise hell, but there’s no fight in me. I’m too hungry. I will have to tough it out.

The crew closes the hatch, and we are sealed into the oxygen deprivation chamber, a.k.a. the cabin. Nice word choice, but this cabin has no burbling brook nearby. No fireplace. Not even a moose head, although some of us passengers could pass for dead animals, we’re so lifeless from breathing recirculated jet fuel fumes. The flight attendant sashays down the aisle checking seatbelts. I try to send him homo vibes.

After takeoff, I open my tray table and set out my travel journal, my wedding photo on the cover. Miss Thang rolls by with his beverage cart. I make a point of glancing at the portrait of Wifey and me, and then up at him, flashing my best “We Are Fam-i-ly” smile. My stomach growls, but you can’t hear it over the engine noise. Apparently I’ve made contact. “Are you hungry?” I nod with my sincerest LGBTQ-solidarity look. He leans in close. “I’ll see if we can get you something. Don’t tell anybody.” At last, I get to cash in on those special rights we’ve heard so much about. Other passengers don’t know I didn’t pay like they did. Flyboy serves my food with a conspiratorial wink. I’m happy, in a carbon monoxide kind of way, all the way home.

Sally Sheklow and her wife live in Eugene, Oregon, and now include snacks in their travel bags.

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