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“Don’t. I already told you, Fred. Don’t do that.”
“What, I can’t call you ‘kid’ now?”
“You know that’s what I’m talking about,” I said.
"All right, don't get your panties in a bunch, Larson. I just like nicknames, but if they really piss you off that much, I won't use them anymore. Or I'll try, okay? That's the best I can commit to. I'll try, but you should try to lighten up some. You take things so seriously. You gotta lighten up."
“Don’t you think you’re already doing that enough for the both of us?”
“Woah!” Stevens half-laughed, half-shouted. “What’s this shit? You mad at me about something else? Is that it? You mad that you had to handle the second half of this shit on your own?”
Stevens was right about one thing. I was mad. I was fucking livid, actually. Everything about the way Fred Stevens had behaved, from the moment I'd met him, right up until that exact moment, had been unprofessional as shit. It had been bad, even leading up to him taking his little bathroom break, but after that? The things he'd done were bad enough that he didn't deserve to be speaking to me at all, let alone be making jokes or trying to belittle me.
A man who couldn't even keep his shit together during a single flight didn't deserve to do anything but sit there in shame. The fact that Stevens was arrogant enough to talk to me like I was some whiney little boy took my level of anger from high to dangerous, and the amount of self-restraint it took for me to keep from strangling him was enormous.
If I didn’t love my job so much, there was a good chance that I would have hauled off and decked him anyway. There would have been consequences, but it would have felt fucking fantastic.
I didn't even want to look at him, I was so disgusted. I didn't want to be anywhere near him, and yet there I was, stuck in a tin box sitting right beside him. If he'd known what was good for him, he would have kept his mouth good and shut, but something told me that Fred Stevens wasn't the kind of man who did the things that were good for him. I didn't know him, but I had learned enough to know that much.
“Come on, kid. Or Drew, I mean. What’s your fucking problem? You landed the plane, right? You’re a fucking hero, if not in my eyes, then sure as shit in the eyes of that pretty piece of ass that was sitting in here with you. Isn’t that enough?”
“No, Stevens,” I answered through a jaw clenched so tightly it actually hurt. “It’s not enough. It’s not nearly fucking enough.”
“Again, I ask you, what the hell is the matter with you? What’s bringing all of this crap on? I don’t get it. I really and truly don’t.”
“Do you think I’m a moron, Stevens? Is that it?”
"A moron?” he asked. “No, not that. A stick in the mud prick? Maybe that. I'm not sure yet, but I'm getting that vibe off of you."
“You’re drunk, man. Okay? Do you understand things a little better now? You’re drunk in the middle of a goddamned flight.”
“Bullshit I am,” Stevens answered, trying to sound powerful, but barely managing something above a whisper. “You don’t have any right to make an accusation like that.”
"Don't I?” I asked. “You left in the middle of a flight to drink, and it could have gotten people killed."
"Don't be so fucking dramatic, Drew. Nobody got killed. Like I said, you were here, and it was nothing you couldn't handle. Even if I had been drunk, and I'm not saying that I was or am, you had it all handled."
“But what if I hadn’t?” I exploded, slamming my fist onto the side of my chair so hard it drew blood. “You don’t know me! You’ve never flown with me before! What if I had been some wet behind the ears kid who didn’t have a clue what I was doing? Do you realize how bad things could have gotten? And all because you needed a fucking drink.”
“Stop it! Stop saying that, will ya? I haven’t been drinking.”
“Oh yeah? So tell me about the fact that you’re still woozy, Stevens. Why don’t you tell me about why you hit your head in the first place, or why you were in that fucking bathroom for so long? Why don’t you tell me about why you’re fucking speech is slurred?”
"Because I hit my head, Drew. If my speech sounds off, that's got to be why. As for the amount of time I spent in the bathroom, that's none of your goddamned business. I'm a grown man, and I can take all of the time I need in the john. And I hit my head because of the turbulence. Any jackass could figure that out on his own."
“So then tell me about the smell,” I demanded. “You’ve got a perfect answer for everything, right? So then tell me about the smell.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I can smell the alcohol on your breath. I can smell it all over you, Stevens. And something tells me I’m not the only one. I bet if I were to ask any of those flight attendants, they would say the same thing. Whiskey has a pretty distinct smell, Stevens. It’s pretty hard to blame it on anything other than what it is.”
For the first time since this shitty conversation had begun, Stevens remained silent. That should have made me feel better, but instead, the urge to punch him in the face only grew stronger. The whole thing was disgusting, the worst kind of abuse of power, and the fact that it wasn't an uncommon thing didn't make me feel any better. This man was at least ten years older than me, and he had made a selfish decision because he had thought it would feel good. Men like him were the worst kind of people there were, and that was something I believed with all of my heart. It was something I understood better than I wanted to, too.
“I’ve had about enough of your shit, do you understand me?” Fred said forcefully, his voice steadily rising. “Last time I checked, you aren’t my boss.”
“So this is the part where you get all pissed off and indignant? Because that’s textbook, Stevens. You’re behaving like every other man who fucks up and does what you did would behave. It’s not helping your case.”
“There is no fucking case! That’s enough! Everything is fine! If there hadn’t been a storm, everything would have been fucking fine!”
