I have a theory about airports. The theory is that, in airports, time zones don’t exist. Time travel? Maybe. Time Zones, no. That being the case, should one find oneself in an airport, one has permission to drink no matter the posted time. This is important because I’m on my way to Portland…Maine, not Oregon…and in that fair city I’m going to meet a fair woman, her friends, and my friend Paul, who was supposed to be sitting in the window seat of my aisle.

For now, however, I’m flying solo.

In anticipation of this journey, I swore off drinking for four whole days, but those dry days ended as soon as the TSA gave me the go-ahead. Then it was off to the airport bar at one o’clock, post-meridian. I had an hour before boarding, after all. Why not have a beer in the meantime? Not surprisingly, the beer, after a four-day dry spell, tasted incredible, and put my spirits to the positive before time constraints made it necessary for me to make my way to the plane. I managed this without incident, and occupied seat 12C with plenty of time to spare.

And then I sat.

As alluded to earlier, I had the row to myself because my “friend” Paul had to adjust his flights. He happened to be in Baltimore, working to raise money for one of the startups in which he is employed. Some friend!

Back to me. I was sitting (alone) in the aisle seat, minding my own business, lamenting my alone-ness, when a flight attendant interrupted my meditation on what a bad friend is Paul.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she asked coyly, ignoring all the passengers around me. Certainly, some AI-generated algorithm developed by Frontier Airlines had already determined, to a 99% probability, what my response to that particular question would be. I did not disappoint.

“Hmmm…why, yes. Yes, I would.”

“Great!” She was clearly pleased the algorithm had rightly predicted the outcome of her endeavor. “What can I get for you?”

“Hmmm…Jack and Coke?” I asked, unsure of the extent to which the bar was stocked.

She smiled down at me, the overhead light creating a halo effect around her head. “We have that. Would you like to make that a double? And maybe some Chex Mix?”

Foul temptress!

“Yes. Yes. I would like both of those things.” I tried to tamp down my joy but I’m sure I sounded a tad overenthusiastic, as if I’d waited my whole life to experience the delight of a Jack and Coke.

“I’ll be right back.” I waited in anticipation as she strode to the galley to retrieve the requested items. She was not gone long and, upon her return, she handed me two airplane-sized bottles of Jack Daniels, the Chex Mix, a can of Coke, and a plastic cup full of ice. Delighted, I placed the items in a place of honor on my tray table and, for fun, set myself a challenge—I would maintain the proper balance of liquor and non-liquor so that, ideally, the respective containers would both empty in the same moment.

“That’ll be $27.50. I bundled you to save money.”

I gladly forked over my credit card, feeling safe and warm in her bundle. She was less than three rows away before I attacked the first little bottle of liquid joy, filling the void around me with the crackly sound of its opening.

The drink felt good. It felt good going down my throat and it didn’t take me long to achieve the perfect balance of Coke and whiskey.

And then the Happiness. The Happiness. And with the Happiness came the Counting of Blessings. I sat alone in my row (thanks, Paul!) reminding myself of how lucky I am. Indeed, the Happiness was so overwhelming I even stopped being annoyed with Paul over his efforts to keep his company in business.

Even as turbulence tried to spill my drink, I thought of the person waiting in the cell phone lot at the Portland (Maine) airport, silently listing her qualities as I contemplated opening the second container of miracle elixir. Here was someone who’d borne witness to the wreckage of my last relationship and, at some point, said to herself, “Yeah, I’ll give this dumbass a try.” Plus, she even puts up with Paul, or at least pretends to put up with Paul. For my sake, I imagine.

The flight attendant interrupted the Counting of Blessings, gently shaking a plastic bag as she walked up the aisle. “Trash? Do you have any trash?”

Deep question, I thought. Plenty, was my answer. Plenty to sort through. Plenty to examine.

But not at that moment. At that moment the plane was soon to land and I had a more immediate concern with which to deal—I had more left to drink. I had, as luck would have it, achieved my personal goal of evenly distributing the two bottles of whisky with one can of Coke, and was proud of myself for having done so. It wasn’t a difficult goal. After all, there wasn’t that much to do on the plane except read a book by some other, more successful, author, or play on my phone. So, the drinking challenge served its purpose of passing the time (somewhat) productively.

I was approached again by the flight attendant. “Do you have any trash, sir?”

“Yes, yes I do.” And this time I meant actual, as opposed to metaphorical, trash. I downed what remained in the plastic airline cup and dropped it into the open maw of the half empty—or, perhaps, half full—trash bag. She thanked me for my contribution and moved on to others who, I assumed, were also downing the contents of their cups, whilst I returned my tray table to its upright and locked position.

The whirring of hydraulics filled the cabin as the landing gear emerged from the body of the plane. We were on the ground soon thereafter.

The captain’s voice crackled through the speakers. “The flight crew would like to thank you for flying Frontier and welcome you to Portland…Oregon.”

A vision of Paul having spectacular fun on the waters of Maine with my lady friend flashed through my mind. Blessings be damned!

“Just kidding, folks,” the pilot added. “Just a little airline humor.”