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He flashed some kind of super-mega-platinum membership card to get us access to a snooty rich person lounge, then settled in with a cup of herb tea and a very boring-looking medical journal. Worst vacation reading ever. I was totally antsy, so I left the lounge after about ten minutes and paced around the terminal.
The closer we got to our flight time, the more anxious I became. By the time Wes found me and told me it was almost time to board, I was nearly hyperventilating. “There’s one thing I should have mentioned,” I mumbled, as I bent over and propped myself up with my hands on my knees. “I’m a reluctant flyer.”
“What does that mean?”
“That I’ll do it, but I’ll basically be a basket case the entire time. If it’s not too late, you might want to switch seats so you don’t have to sit with me. This isn’t going to be pretty.”
His brows knit with concern. “What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. It is what it is. Oh wait, I have drugs!” I yanked my backpack off, then sat down on the floor right there in the middle of the concourse and began pawing through my belongings. Finally, I produced a plastic bottle, shook two pills into my hand, and choked them down without water. “I almost forgot I had those. Thank the lord I remembered before we boarded.” I squinted at the label and muttered, “I wonder how long it’ll be before these fuckers kick in.”
Wes took the bottle from me and read the label. Then he said, “You were only supposed to take one.”
“Yeah, but like, I don’t think the doc at the health center fully appreciated how much I was going to freak out when he wrote me that prescription. I know you’re a doctor and totally by the book and whatnot, but trust me, taking two pills is so much better than freaking out and crying on the plane.”
“Have you ever taken alprazolam before?”
“What the hell is that?”
He held up the bottle. “Generic Xanax.”
“Nope.”
“Are you taking any other medications? Antidepressants? Antibiotics? Opioids? Antifungals?”
I made a face and exclaimed, “Antifungals, gross!”
“Well, are you? This is important, because the drug interactions could cause side effects.”
“No. I don’t take anything. Also, the other doc already asked me all that stuff.”
“Okay, that’s good.” He stuck the bottle in his pocket and said, “Come on, we need to hurry and board our flight.”
“What’s the rush?”
“There’s a good chance you’ll be sound asleep in a few minutes, and the airlines tend to frown upon it when you try to carry an unconscious person onto a plane.”
He had a point. By the time we made it onboard and found our seats in first class, I was already feeling the effects.
As soon as I fastened my seatbelt, a cute, obviously gay flight attendant came over and asked us if we’d like anything to drink. I stuck my hand out and said, “Hi, I’m Ash, and you’re adorable. Can you serve alcohol before we take off? I don’t know the rules, because I’ve never flown in the rich people section before.”
The blond shook my hand and smiled flirtatiously as he said, “I’m Chandler, and you can have anything you want.”
“No alcohol,” Wes said. When I glanced at him, he explained, “You can’t combine it with your prescription. The side effects are potentially harmful.”
“That’s sad,” I said, as I flopped back in my seat. “I was looking forward to drinking my weight in margaritas, ever since I found out booze is free in first class.”
Then I blinked a couple times and murmured, “Woah, I feel woozy.” I snort-laughed and mumbled, “Woozy. That’s a funny word. You know what it makes me think of? That part of the Winnie the Pooh ride at Disneyland that goes, Heffalumps and Woozles.” I added a Tigger-like rasp to my voice and called out, “Heffalumps and Woozles!”
Chandler was watching all of this with an expression that landed somewhere between fascinated and horrified, and Wes told him, “He’s taken a benzodiazepine for his anxiety. Don’t worry. I’m a doctor, and I’m pretty sure he’ll fall asleep soon.”
The flight attendant nodded before stepping away to assist some other passengers, and I turned to Wes and asked, “Can I have the window seat?”
“Of course, although you specifically said you didn’t want it when we boarded.”
“I know, but I changed my mind. It looks cozier than my seat.”
After we switched places, Wes fastened my seatbelt for me, and I pulled my hood up and whispered, “Heffalumps and Woozles.” Then I asked, “Have you ever been to Disneyland?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“That’s so sad,” I slurred. “I want to take you to Disneyland, Wes. Then you can go on the Winnie the Pooh ride and see the Heffalumps and Woozles.” I raised my voice and repeated, “Heffalumps and Woozles!” Then I explained, “That’s how they say it on the ride, twice like that. Pooh is on a bad drug trip at that point. Like, we’re supposed to think he’s dreaming, but come on. It all turns psychedelic and swirly, like he’s dropped acid, and Tigger says Heffalumps and Woozles. Heffalumps and Woozles!”
