The Martyr

An interesting fact—Air Tran will no longer accept cash for their beer or cocktails. Only a credit card which they swipe right there in the aisle. It’s like "1984" and I for one am not amused. The sole reason to use cash is to blissfully lose track of absolute consumption. Now on my credit card bill at the end of the month, my affliction will be staring me back in $5 increments.

A second interesting fact is that the stewards/stewardesses are not allowed to sell beer during the plane's final descent. “No sh!t, Sherlock!” any red-blooded, beer swilling American is probably saying to themselves. However, when I politely inquired whether their policy specifically prohibited “serving” or just “selling”, he looked bewildered. So I asked if he could “serve” me a beer in return for my patronage over the last 3 hours? “Umm, let me see what I can do.” Well, the steward returned with a free Bud Select for your’s truly. It was in a different color can than the x * $5 beers I’d had already (x=1 to mom, x>4 to God.) Checking the born on date confirmed my suspicions. September 7, 2007. The numerous dents in his can gave insight into his story.

I had in my hand a fermented gladiator. I've long suspected that when a plane arrives at a new terminal welcoming passengers to [insert crappy city name here], with a sign proclaiming said sh!thole the greatest city in the country, that when the beverage cabinet was restocked and the cabinet door closed, a melee ensued. Cans and bottles jockey for position, all fighting for what Rosie Parks protested against-- a seat at the back of the bus. Landing after landing, my beer fought his way to the back, elbowing out Pepsi’s and shouldering the Miller Lites. When the door reopened mid flight, this aluminum armored warrior had once again won the battle to the back of the cabinet. He was no whore, waiting to be sold to the first bidder. He wanted to live, damn it! 48 states, 90 cities, his scars would not be peddled in vain.

But he knew his days were numbered. He had a purpose, after all, and time was no friend to that. As I looked at my reflection in the dented mirror he offered me, I knew he had chosen his time. Not bought, but gifted. Not to some passenger who couldn’t decide between a vodka-cranberry or a “light beer”. No, he gave himself to a disciple. He didn’t go out sipped quietly at 36,000 feet, but instead savored in an unpermissed communion. His last blood was spilled in a fury of speed as the pilot hit reverse-thrust at touchdown, one finger (or pull-tab, as the case may be) raised in protest to the man.

He was waiting for me.