About ten years ago, a gaunt, bald man in sandals walked up to me at Logan airport in Boston and handed me a book. “This is for you, friend,” he said, smiling. “I wanted you to have it.” The unsolicited gift turned out to be a hard-bound copy of the Bhagavad Gita, the holy Hindu poem, done up in leatherette and faux-gold lettering with lots of illustrations. I was grateful for it, if a little confused, and under normal circumstances would have stayed to talk to the man for a while. But I was late for a plane to California, so I thanked him quickly and started off toward my gate. He stopped me before I’d gone three feet.
“People usually give a $ 15 donation for the book,” he said.
Suddenly it was clear: This guy was a Hare Krishna, doing his fund-raising shtick. Only the fact that I was in a hurry had kept me from seeing it earlier.
Well, I said, that’s great, and I appreciate the book, but I’m not going to give you any money. Sorry.
A brief but intense argument ensued during which I attempted to explain the concept of Indiangiving. He didn’t buy it and just got madder, poking his finger at me as we walked through the terminal. Just before we got to the X- ray machine, the man turned to me, eyes bulging, and spat out his parting words: “Something bad is going to happen to you, man. Something real bad.”
My plane to California didn’t crash, but in another way something bad did happen to me: I became afraid of flying. Whether because of the Krishna’s curse or not, over the next decade I came to dread air travel.
One morning several years ago, as my plane taxied down the runway on a flight out of Hartford, I decided I’d had enough. Marching up the aisle toward the cockpit, I informed a stewardess I’d like to get off. Turns out I just don’t feel like flying today, I explained. Thanks anyway. With no trace of the usual professional perkiness, she told me to sit down and be silent or face arrest.
Most of the time, though, it wasn’t abject terror I experienced when I flew, but gnawing anxiety. Planes I boarded seemed to have an inordinate number of problems: An emergency landing on an airstrip in Georgia because of hydraulic failure. An electrical malfunction that forced an unexpected detour to Louisville. Weather so rough the flight attendants were sick. On flights like these I spent hours in gut-churning dread, moist palms gripping armrests, smiling weakly at strangers across the aisle.
Then, about a year ago, it struck me: I don’t have to go through this anymore. There is, as the Krishna in Boston might have said, a Better Way. So I declared myself powerless and entered a treatment program. Instead of 12 steps, my recovery regimen only had two: Head for the bar. Drink till you feel better. No reassuring tours of the cockpit or lectures about the statistical safety of air travel. Just vodka screwdrivers, usually doubles.
After about a year in the program, I’ve become convinced of two things. First, there’s no use being embarrassed or furtive about drinking in airports. Recovery is a process, after all. Second — and call me superstitious if you want — good things happen to those who drink before they fly.
The proof came last spring when I found myself in an airport in Fort Meyers, Fla., waiting for a flight to Dallas. I located the bar and before long was having such a good time listening to two mid-level insurance executives from Michigan argue about basketball that I lost track of my reason for being in the airport in the first place. By the time I made it to the gate my plane was boarding. Only, as I soon discovered, it wasn’t my plane. This plane was going to Cleveland. My plane had left an hour before.
All around, it was pretty bad news: The departed jet had been the day’s last flight to Dallas. I had an interview at 8 the next morning in Texas. Severe thunderstorms had closed just about every major airport in the region, making the chances of getting a connecting flight remote. Under ordinary, sober conditions I would have been upset. As a fearful flyer in recovery, I didn’t bat an eye. No problem, I thought: I’ll charter a Cessna! In my condition, heavy turbulence in a rickety two-seater seemed an entertaining prospect.
Thanks to a sympathetic desk agent, I never had to find out. Sensing immediately that I was a two-stepper, the kindly woman charted a circuitous course for me through a couple of southern cities, getting me to Dallas with time to spare. Then she upgraded me to first class. Big seats. Ample pillows. Free drinks.
I was sincerely grateful, yet somehow not surprised. The agent smiled knowingly. “It’s on the house,” she said.
TUCKER CARLSON
