Ginger Ale Recollections 

Restless on Delta Airlines flight 4034 from Denver to Salt Lake, I finally pull out some pen and paper. I already read the in-flight magazines on the way from Salt Lake to Denver; no need to read them again on the way back. I just finished the book I brought with me (The Book Thief by Markus Zusak, if you’re curious) and struggled to hide my tears from the passengers next to me. I normally don’t read books my mom suggests, but I heard about this one on NPR, so I figure it’s kosher. The book saddens me, but leaves me tingling. I feel like I’ve just had some divine manifestation, some glorious event, and it subconsciously angers me that the other passengers don’t seem affected by my unshared experience. They wouldn’t understand, anyway, I realize, and I’m not even sure that I’m capable of explaining. I know it seems cliché, but I felt like I shared a unique connection with the characters, as though I were the only one who ever heard of their experience. It felt like I’d read a secret. Perhaps that’s why I hid my tears, so as to keep the secret hidden, that and also the fact that I’m a twenty-three year old man. Men my age don’t cry, no matter what we experience. And even though the book was the best thing I’ve read in my life, I feel like I should keep it to myself. I’m often guilty of thinking I’m more special than everyone else, like I have some unique gift that sets me apart from all the other drones in the world. I mostly know that I’m lying to myself; I know that I’m really just like everyone else and that if I have some sort of “gift” everybody else probably has it too, but I don’t like to focus on that reality. Other people aren’t all drones and I’m the same as they are. One day I’ll fully comprehend that fact, but I choose not to for now. It gives me peace to think that I’m unique, even if a small part of me knows that I’m not.

There must be no drink service on this flight because it’s been about half an hour since departure and I’m still without my customary ginger ale. I drink only ginger ale when I fly, and I drink ginger ale only when I fly. It’s a stupid tradition, but the consistency of always knowing what to expect is comforting to me. The first time I flew, I was with only my brother and sister. I was around ten years old and they were around fourteen and sixteen. We were going to Phoenix for the summer to visit my uncle, and none of us had ever flown without a parent before. It made us feel mature to be on our own for the hour or so it takes to get from Salt Lake to Phoenix. When the drink cart came by, I was in the mood to try something different, something I would never order if my parents were around. My sister ordered a ginger ale. “What’s ginger ale?” I asked.

“I always like to get it when I fly,” my sister said, as though that was explanation enough. “It has caffeine though.”

Caffeine, I thought. Sounds daring.I ordered one too.

I found out later that ginger ale doesn’t have caffeine, so it lost its daring appeal. But I kept ordering ginger ale each subsequent plane trip anyway, I’m not sure why, probably just because I panic when options are presented to me. A simple question like, “What would you like to drink” can feel like the lightning round of a game show. If you don’t answer quickly, you lose. Ginger ale became the default answer, I suppose. You can’t lose if you choose ginger ale. I’ve mostly overcome my anxiety now, but the ginger ale preference remains as a reminder. You can depend on ginger ale. It’s always there. Always. Except for today, apparently.

I’m sitting in a window seat with no window. I’m hunched against the wall with the notebook on my lap and the pen working madly in my hand to write this essay. I try to shield my writing from the passenger next to me even though I know I’ll have these words posted on my blog within the next twenty-four hours. Strangers are free to read what I write, but it’s disconcerting to watch them read it. I don’t mind putting my thoughts out there; I just don’t necessarily like to hear a response (positive comments on my blog being the exception of course). It’s nighttime, and we’re flying above the clouds so there’s really nothing to see, but I still feel uneasy without a window. I still feel cheated. I really wish I had my ginger ale now. I need the bubbly, indefinable flavor to calm my overworked mind. I’m mentally exhausted from being stupid, or at least that’s what I’m telling myself. The long weekend in Denver visiting my sister wasn’t nearly long enough. I seem to have gotten it in my mind that I can’t compete in the academic battle of college. It gets to the point that if someone makes a remotely intelligent comment in class, I wonder if I’m smart enough to ever succeed in life. The ginger ale isn’t coming. I’ll have to wring a few last relaxing moments out of this vacation without its fizzy assistance.

My iPod battery is running low, mostly because it’s really really old (2nd generation) but also because I keep skipping song after song in my never-ending search for the perfect song to fit my current, fleeting mood. Cat Power, skip. Rachael Yamagata, skip. Diana Ross, skip. NPR podcast, skip. I always skip songs, and I hate skipping. Sometimes I tell myself that I won’t skip a single song all day, but that commitment seldom lasts long. The Beatles, skip. Justin Timberlake, skip. Lily Allen, skip. I finally settle on a Perishers song featuring Sarah McLachlan. “One may think we’re all right, but we need pills to sleep at night, we need lies to make it through the day. We’re not ok,” they sing. Too true, I think. I’m not on any pills and I usually sleep fine at night, but I somehow identify with the abstract concept of the song, even though I really have no idea what that concept really could be. Drug dependency? Societal unrest? I don’t really know, but I feel a deep connection to it, perhaps with the feeling of desperation created by the repeated line, “We’re not ok”, or maybe it really is the drug dependency. I am rather dependent on Benadryl during hay fever season, now that I think about it. This song is rapidly climbing in my Top 25 Most Played playlist. It’s a dependable song, one that I’m not likely to get too tired of. Nothing will ever unseat Dead Things by Philip Glass as my number one most listened to song though; I make sure of that. It’s an instrumental, so my friends consider it boring, but I love it and sometimes find myself singing along despite its lack of words. My lyrics are a series of “do’s” and “da’s” which doesn’t seem to fit with the melancholy rhythm, but I don’t care. I don’t sing on the plane, of course, but I am singing in my head.

The plane is coming in to Salt Lake now. My ginger ale never came and the flight attendant just advised us to turn off all personal electronic devices. I lean forward to glimpse out the window of the row in front of me. When I left Salt Lake, I found the city lights burdensome. I was glad to leave them. They seemed dirty and cheap, like neon signs at run-down motels and bars. Now I look at them and feel calmed. They are familiar, and though distant, they are warm. Tomorrow I’ll have work to do and classes to go to, and I’ll feel stupid and stressed all over again, but for now I am home, and I’m okay.