This morning her alarm isn’t working. The soon to be late girl is staring out at the wall. She stares with open eyes, from a level head in a hotel bed. Consciousness came to gently to be discerned or recalled. Cold air circulates above her naked skin and makes all her silky little hairs stand on their ends. On the drive to her next flight she considers the tenuity of life while her idle mind allows her to suspend all mortal fear. Her fingers brush along the wheel, macabre and playful, barely touching. Vaguely aware that almost nothing separates her from disaster, flying at her so much faster than she could avoid. Between bated breaths, flushed thighs and breasts, a conscience tells her, “no.” A virgin’s who can’t quite decide how far she’s gonna go. She knows that within this curious grip she’s not currently fit to drive. It’s a thrilling, risky freedom, too addictive to survive.
His uniform is nicely starched, but he’s got some quirks that could use ironing out. He’s got stripes sewn on his shoulder-boards and wings across his cap, but unfortunately our captain is without; hand eye coordination, strong relations with the crew, confidence or experience, and he’s got everything to prove. He’s got sex appeal when he’s not flying a plane. He’s got the heart and soul of a pilot, but not the hands or brain. People complain that his landings are rough. He seldom comes down level and the tower’s had enough. They’ve got too much on their plate without this dipshit landing planes at their airport almost twenty times per month. So they put him on probation, made him take a ride along, but even pilots piss and while the other one was gone, he closed the cockpit, locked it, and now to everybody’s horror the flight attendants are screaming and pounding at the door…
(chorus) Fly that airplane Roger! Try to hit the runway straight. Come on, Captain, gotta concentrate. You’ve gotta get these people where they’re going safely.
The sky marshal’s outside. We’ve tried to no avail to get you to come to some sense. He’s got his gun in hand, if we land before you open this door he’ll put you under arrest.
I think the flight attendant is lying to you, she’s lying to you. She’s just afraid. She thinks you’re cool and brave. She’s fucking lying to you, lying to you!
So now she’s late. She must have missed her flight. He’s comforted by imagining that she’s lost her life. He’s tired of lies and excuses. He adores her but she refuses to belong to anybody but herself. He’s walked back and forth between baggage-claim and security for hours holding his cell-phone, car keys, and a fresh bouquet of flowers, hoping she’s injured and stranded or that her mother died; anything to explain why she hasn’t called tonight. A couple hundred miles away, hours earlier that same day, the girl flew through the guardrail of the interstate. It made the local news somewhere too far away to let him know if she survived. The alternate pilot decided he couldn’t take anymore. He lost his shit and took a flying leap at the cockpit door. He smashed into the flight controls and knocked himself out, and as the aircraft took a nose-dive we all started to shout…
(repeat chorus)