FIRST CLASS: HIGH AVIATION
Not for just anyone, least
of all the "Cattle Class"
(Looking for an Upgrade)
A comedic farce in one act and four scenes
by Benjamin Gavarre
SYNOPSIS
FIRST CLASS: HIGH AVIATION (Not for just anyone, least of all the
"Cattle Class") is a farce that strips
bare the classism and absurd pretensions of the chaotic airport world. At the
immaculate First Class counter of a prestigious European airline, in an
imaginary London Heathrow, Alistair, a supervisor obsessed with
"first-world" etiquette, rules his little marble empire by belittling
his own compatriots and denying a well-deserved perk to Tommy, the highly
qualified tarmac mechanic. However, the strict illusion of European superiority
and rigid protocol completely crumbles with the arrival of a Traveler (Jack)—an
eccentric, laid-back billionaire who travels in flip-flops and with a
first-class ticket paid for in cash. Amidst blunt truths, peanuts scattered
across the carpet, and a storm that unleashes heavenly delusions, the employees
will end up saying to hell with their tight uniforms to remember, between
laughter and shots of tequila, where they really come from.
CHARACTERS:
- ALISTAIR
(Gary): First Class Supervisor at a famous
international airline. He wears his uniform as if it were Parisian haute
couture, as if he were the fuselage of a plane—impeccable and tense. He categorically denies his working-class
roots.
- FIONA: Counter agent.
She’s been force-smiling for fifteen years. Her feet are destroyed by the regulation heels.
- OLIVER: Gate agent. A
chameleon-like snob... His eyes wander after the pilots and even the
co-pilots. Sometimes he remembers he’s just a lad from the East End and
forgets his German...
- TOMMY: Tarmac mechanic.
His dream is to travel First Class, or at least in “Club World”. He
observes the Counter Circus with irony... He always has a bag of peanuts
on hand. Simple,
good-natured, always wearing his favourite trainers.
- THE
TRAVELER (Jack): Premium First Class Passenger. Long
hair, flip-flops, board shorts. A laid-back, eccentric billionaire who
loves street slang, relaxed and completely immune to status pretensions.
MAIN SET DESIGN:
The immaculate First Class counter of a European airline. High above,
crowning the scene, a gleaming and ostentatious golden sign reads: "PRESTIGE". This sign should operate almost
like a physical character; at the beginning, it shines with an unbearably
elegant, pristine, and blinding white-and-gold light. On the floor, a spotless
red carpet that seems untouchable. In the background, an immense window
dominates the view of the airport runways.
SCENE I: THE BLUE SKY AND
THE SWEAT OF MORTALS
(The stage is illuminated with a bright, warm light. Through the window,
airplanes can be seen in a dreamy, clear blue sky, crossed only by faint white
contrails. Everything is artificial peace. The "PRESTIGE" sign shines
in its maximum, arrogant splendor.
ALISTAIR is standing in front of the counter, meticulously brushing the
sleeve of his jacket. FIONA types on her computer with an expression of dull
pain. OLIVER checks an electronic tablet with military bearing).
ALISTAIR: —(Without stopping his brushing,
looking at the horizon with superiority) When a First Class
passenger looks at us, Oliver, they don’t see a mere mortal; they see the
aspirational paradise with wings. Check your appearance. The crease in the
trousers must be as tense and straight as the runway at Frankfurt. We must be
serious in this company. Here we operate with the alphabet of high society, the
international alphabet. For example: Alpha, for Aston Martin, the premium motor I drive which is
clearly not for the poor. Bravo, for my
excellence. And Charlie... for King Charles,
obviously my inspiration. This uniform is civilization in its very cream and
nectar. Voila, N for Nectar.
FIONA: —(Massaging her temples,
dragging her words) And Delta for Definitely quitting soon. Right, we are expecting two
or three illustrious passengers: the widow of the Geneva ambassador... and the
MP from the new black-force Spanish party... hm... sounds
"important". The Hungarian Abbess of the Seventh Seal, the Swiss
consultant of the Church of the Latter Skies...
ALISTAIR: —(Enraptured, closing his eyes)
The crème de la crème of the Northern Hemisphere. Yesterday, Captain Müller
greeted me by name in the hallway. "Guten Abend,
Alistair", he told me. He smelled of Alpine black pine and
international skies.
FIONA: —Müller doesn't even speak English, Alistair. He
probably sneezed or had a hacking dog cough. My bunions hurt so much I feel
them throbbing in Morse code. Can we sit down for a second? The terminal is
empty, not a fly in sight. The important ones always arrive late.
ALISTAIR: —Sacrilege! A First Class agent never sits! Bent
knees belong in Cattle Class, to people who travel squeezed together with their
packed lunches. Keep smiling, Fiona. Your rictus is the only thing separating
us from the third world. Let's stick to the protocol, the eyes of the world are
upon us. Let's see, Oliver, what's next?
OLIVER: —(Standing at attention, like a
soldier) Hotel-Nectar, Mr. Alistair!
ALISTAIR: —Exactly... Hotel-Nectar-Whiskey:
We Hope you enjoy your trip in our delicious First Class beds,
that is what we must say to passengers with the platinum black gold VIP card. (Fiona makes a face of disgust and sticks her finger in her mouth
behind his back. Alistair turns to look at her immediately). Ahem!
We are working. No faces. I am watching you, Fiona.
(TOMMY enters. He wears his mechanic overalls tied at his waist and
clutches a massive wad of worn, paper boarding passes to his chest, held
together by a rubber band. He walks cautiously to the edge of the red carpet).
TOMMY: —Excuse me, good afternoon... Mr. Alistair, my
flight leaves in forty minutes. I’m going to see my dear old mum. Look... (He proudly pulls out the wad of papers and carefully removes the
rubber band). I've collected every economy boarding pass I’ve been
given in my ten years working here. It’s over a hundred clean segments. The
system shows five empty seats up there, right in First Class... and I wanted to
see if you'd give me the employee benefit upgrade. I swear I've been good.
ALISTAIR: —(Looks at him as if he had just
seen a grease stain on his clean lapel. He lets out a cold, fake laugh)—
An upgrade? To First Class? You? Oliver, please, come look at this piece of
archaeological collection. He brought thermal-printed tickets from the last
century!
OLIVER: —(Sashays over, looks at the wad
of papers with disgust, and mocks him using Alistair's alphabet)—
Oh, no! How ghastly. That’s not a plane ticket, that’s code Sierra-Tango-Foxtrot-Zulu: just needs to start dancing the
Macarena... That man is one of those who smells like the London
Underground and stale sausage rolls in the waiting lounge.
ALISTAIR: —Exactly, Oliver. Tommy... in my Premium cabin,
passengers enter with designer loafers that go "clack-clack" on the
Carrara marble. And what are you wearing? Trainers?
TOMMY: —(Offended, lifting his foot to
show them off)— These aren't just any trainers, Mr. Alistair!
They're original, special edition Shell-toes.
ALISTAIR: —(Puts a hand to his chest,
horrified, as if he were having a fainting spell)— Ugh! Mmm!
Shell-toe sounds like an insult. What sacrilege! I’m going to have a
conniption... Oliver, get out the disinfectant spray. Tommy doesn't know his...
footwear goes "squish-squish". If it steps on the red carpet, it
destabilizes the aesthetic centre of gravity of the entire plane. Those
wrinkled little papers and those smelly trainers won't even get you a sniff of
the lavender-scented hot towels. And no, you won't be tasting the First Class
Catering... Not you. Denied.
TOMMY: —(Clutching his papers,
swallowing his anger)— But I’ve spent ten years taking apart and
cleaning your turbine engines so your British captains can fly safely! I secure
the sky for you! Well, at least for the captains and co-pilots who don't even
give you the time of day.
ALISTAIR: —That is what you think, Tommy. We are great
friends. They must look at you like an ant approaching their fine Oxford shoes.
The sky of our company thanks you, Tommy! But cleaning the engine doesn't give
you the right to sit next to those who pay for the fuel. Let alone their Very
Special Users. So abort your poor man's illusions. Put your rubbish collection
away and step back... far from the carpet. Ugh, shoo... Look, go over there, to
the low-cost airline in Terminal 2. Over there they allow rubber soles, canvas
rucksacks, and cheap Primark Teddy blankets! Bon voyage!
(Alistair and Oliver let out an arrogant, mocking giggle, turning their
backs on him. Tommy, deeply humiliated but with his dignity intact, ties his
boarding passes back up with the rubber band. He takes it on the chin. He
doesn't leave the terminal; he drags his feet toward a shaded corner of the
stage, pulls out his metal toolbox, slams it on the ground, and sits on it,
crossing his arms, shooting them a "we'll see about that" glare as he
waits to see if a miracle happens).
SCENE II: THE ARRIVAL OF
FREEDOM
(The blue of the window begins to lose its shine. Faint grey clouds
start peeking through the edges, dense and heavy with a storm. In the terminal,
the atmosphere feels a bit heavier, more suffocating.
A cheerful, deep whistle, mimicking the ocean wind or the song of a
tropical bird, interrupts the solemnity of the counter. The three employees
freeze.
THE TRAVELER (Jack) enters. He walks slowly, dragging worn leather
flip-flops that make an organic echo. He carries an immense backpack covered in
patches from remote, wonderful countries, perhaps from an exotic fantasy... You
can read Polybreeze, Sea of Happiness, Party Islands... The Traveler wears
board shorts and an open linen shirt. He chews on a toothpick with absolute
nonchalance).
THE TRAVELER: —So elegant... mates. Your
backs are so tense it looks like you're clenching your will to live. (He winks at Fiona, with a magnetic smile). It’s
sweltering outside, darlin', and in here you guys are like the luxury
servants... Are you expecting a lot of all-expenses-paid MPs and Congressmen?
Is this where the metal bird leaves to cross the pond to Bali? Ah, but first I
have to connect in Frankfurt, natürlich.
ALISTAIR: —(Icy, stepping forward to block
his path with his chest puffed out) Sir. Have you lost your travel
route? Did you get your information at the Bargain Bucket Travel Agent before
coming to the airport... The flight to Frankfurt, economy Cattle Class
fare—without the right to luggage or dignity—is in Terminal 2. Follow the yellow
line on the floor and look at it closely, and don't stand up straight like us,
that is only for the well-born.
THE TRAVELER: —(Laughing with a deep voice, tapping the marble counter gently)
Terminal 2? Nah, mate, I like the air on this side. It's not bad to stand up
straight, but it looks like you had a stick shoved up your... (He tosses his worn leather passport onto the marble).
Seat 1A. Paid in cold, hard cash, brother. Upfront and without asking
permission.
(Fiona types with trembling fingers. The screen emits an intense green
flash).
FIONA: —Alistair... the screen turned green. It's VIP
Imperial fare. Full Flex. Fifteen thousand euros paid in cash... with notes
that smell like the ocean.
ALISTAIR: —Critical system failure! (He backs away, terrified by the contrast between the flip-flops
and the money. He touches the intercom on his shoulder, hysterical).
Oliver, Fiona! We have an emergency! An Oscar-Papa-Lima at
the counter! A dangerous civilian! Prepare protocol!
THE TRAVELER: —(Leaning on the counter, looking at him with a mix of pity and
amusement) Relax, mate. Don’t get your knickers in a twist with your
military alphabet, you're going to wrinkle your suit and have a heart attack.
Let's see, slick... since you’re acting like such a hotshot spelling out the
aviation letters, let me throw the code back at you. Let's see if you're so
clever. What does this mean in your manual: Golf-Alpha-Romeo-Yankee?
(Alistair, Fiona, and Oliver freeze. Alistair's eyes widen enormously).
OLIVER: —(Trembling, calculating on his
fingers) G... A... R... Y... Mister Alistair, I deciphered the
message! It's a highly secure encrypted code! Great Alliance of Royal Yachts....
Mmmm... Doesn't make sense... Maybe: Gentlemen Always Respect Yachts...
No... Not that either!
ALISTAIR: —(Sweating cold, touching his
shirt collar) No! That's classified information! It's GARY, you
incompetent fool. But nobody, nobody has called me Gary in years! My name is an
aeronautical state secret!
THE TRAVELER: —(Gives him a gentle pat on the cheek) G.A.R.Y. Relax,
Gazza. It's not such a bad name... It's short... Humble... Nice... But you guys
live so stressed out in your little paper castle. Life is passing you by
guarding a marble counter like pedigree bitches... Stress wrinkles the skin.
The world out there is very big, enjoy it, it's free.
SCENE III: PEANUTS, TATTOOS, ROCK AND ROLL
(The view through the window changes drastically. The blue sky has
completely vanished. The backdrop is now a leaden grey and lightning bolts
begin to illuminate the clouds. The "PRESTIGE" sign flickers with an
unstable light and a faint, strange sound is heard.
The Traveler pulls an ice-cold beer from his backpack, pops the cap off
with his belt in one clean strike. The sound of the gas escaping sounds like a
sigh of freedom. He takes a long gulp).
TOMMY: —(From his corner, bursting into
a clean, free laugh) Hahaha! He played you like a fiddle, mate! Hey,
traveler... fancy some peanuts for the long... wait?
THE TRAVELER: —(Turning to look at him with a look of absolute complicity)
Too right, brother! Come over here, my man. But come closer, you look like a
scolded dog all shrunk up over there. This red carpet is real big and there’s
room for all of us who know how to walk comfortably and without hard shoes.
(Tommy hesitates for a second, looks at his wildly expensive sneakers,
but the Traveler's invitation has a savage magnetism. He walks straight to the
centre of the red carpet. They high-five like old mates from the road and start
sharing peanuts, chewing loudly and ignoring the rules).
ALISTAIR: —(Unhinged, falling to his knees
as if witnessing the end of the world) FUD! FOXTROT-UNIFORM-DELTA right in the VIP zone! Penny
peanut crumbs are contaminating the Senator carpet! There is a premium
ecosystem, did you know, you two savages! You are nobodies: NOBODIES.
THE TRAVELER: —Too much carpet, too much
shine, and too much show, Gazza... but I'm not feeling too comfortable here,
too much protocol and too many stuck-up noses. Chill out, pop a peanut in your
mouth and take out that stick they shoved up your... this morning. (With a slow, almost ritualistic movement, he takes off his linen
shirt, left wearing only a white vest). Ah... much better. Let the
world's breeze flow.
(As he removes his shirt, he reveals tanned arms, weathered by the sun
of the seas, covered in elaborate, exotic imaginary tribal tattoos, ancient
maps, and lines of waves that snake across his muscles with a hypnotic beauty).
FIONA: —(Fanning her face with a
boarding pass, completely dazzled, staring at his arms like someone seeing an
exotic landscape for the first time. Her voice loses its rigidity and becomes
floaty) Mother of heaven... look at that... he has a Polynesian
tattoo that looks like a map of an island... it goes all the way up to...
OLIVER: —(Completely breaking his German
accent, eyes wide open, hypnotized by the man's image of freedom) ...to
his deltoid. Look at that triceps... it looks like wood floating in the sea.
Bloody brilliant.
THE TRAVELER: —(Looking at the three agents with a deep, almost mystical
compassion) Why do you defend a carpet with such rage that they
don't even let you step on barefoot? Look at your faces. Your eyes are full of
numbers and your souls are full of schedules. You look like wax dolls stuffed
into a ridiculously expensive case, about to melt because there’s a real storm
outside. The world is falling apart out there and you're worried about the knot
in your tie.
ALISTAIR: —(Shooting up, trembling with
fury because he feels the Traveler's speech piercing his armor) Don't
listen to him! He's a virus in the system! Oliver, arrest this millionaire
hippie! I order you by the London procedures manual! Get him out of my
airspace!
[STAGING NOTE - CHOREOGRAPHY OF LIBERATION: The following block must be
executed with absolute, cathartic, and deeply theatrical physical exaggeration,
breaking all previous rigidity right before the storm breaks].
OLIVER: —(Looks at Alistair. Looks at
the Traveler. Looks at his own tie. He stares fixedly at the tattoos on the
Traveler's arm, hypnotized). Arrest him? (His
voice changes, loses all aristocratic falseness and becomes soft, yearning).
Those ships... those waves on your skin... I wanted to see the ocean
too, Gary. I studied languages to travel, not to stay locked behind a bar
pretending I was born in the Alps. (With a violent, beautiful, and
liberating gesture, he rips off his tie and slams it against the floor,
laughing). To hell with the manual! To hell with Bavaria! I want my
own map!
FIONA: —(With tears in her eyes and a
manic smile, looking at the floor). Fifteen years without touching
the grass... without looking at the world without stress. (She yanks off her regulation heels, breathing deeply, and kicks
them into the air with joyful fury). Freedom! Look... the blessed
freedom of letting my bare feet out! (She steps hard onto the red
carpet, spreading her toes). The earth is alive! I can feel the
earth!
SCENE IV: THE CELESTIAL
VOICE AND THE DELIRIUM OF FREEDOM
(A deafening clap of thunder shakes the entire set. The terminal lights
go out all at once. Only the strobe light of the lightning remains,
illuminating the torrential rain behind the glass. Emergency alarms flash a
blinking red.
Time seems to stop for Alistair. Everything falls into a sepulchral
silence, except for a strange reverberating echo).
[STAGING NOTE - THE CELESTIAL VOICE EFFECT: Over the loudspeakers, a
deep, immense, authoritative, and divine voice begins to sound. The audio
design at this point should employ a deep, cavernous, stadium-like echo, making
Alistair's hallucination visually and auditorily hilarious, but also the climax
of his own mental prison].
CELESTIAL LOUDSPEAKER VOICE: —Attention.
This is the Supreme Controller speaking. Passenger golf-alpha-romeo-yankee...
Yes, you, GARY: Gazza. The one with the tight tie and tense knees. Your
prestige has been cancelled. Leave the carpet alone. The sky is closed.
ALISTAIR: —(Totally unhinged, in a fit of
panic and hallucination. He falls to his knees, crawling forward and begging
the ceiling with clasped hands) No, Lord God of Aviation! Please,
don't cancel my status! It's not my fault about the Storm! Madam widow of the
ambassador, for pity's sake, don't hit me with your designer handbag. Mr. MP, I
didn't vote for you... I don't vote! Madam Abbess, what a pleasure to greet
you, how many poor have you saved? I, I am not from here, I don't like pub
rock, I really am from the first world, I swear!
(The others look at him in silence, perplexed, while he begs into the
void).
ALISTAIR: —(Clinging to the invisible legs
of a phantom passenger, crying comically) Look at me! If I take off
this tie I'll turn into a pumpkin! I know how to say "good
morning" in three languages pretending I don't have a
working-class accent! I can ride in the cargo hold, next to the suitcases and
the little dogs, but please... don't leave me down here with the mortals who
use public transport and sweat! I smell like black pine, I swear! Don't send me
back to the night bus! Good afternoon! Don't leave me on
the ground! Good night!
(Alistair makes one last, dramatic bow to the air, ending up lying face
down on the floor with his arms spread in the shape of a cross).
(Suddenly, the normal light returns to the terminal with a sharp click.
The rain continues to fall monotonously outside, but the magic and terror of
the hallucination vanish. The silence at the counter is absolute. Fiona,
Oliver, Tommy and the Traveler are staring down at him).
THE TRAVELER: —(Taking a sip of his beer, with a gentle smile) Bloody
hell... you tuned into some heavy visions there, eh, Gazza. Welcome to the
ground.
(Alistair blinks. Looks at the floor. Looks at his hands. Slowly he
stands up. He sees Fiona barefoot, eyes shining with emotion. He sees Oliver's
tie on the ground. He sees Tommy smiling in the middle of the red carpet while
sharing his peanuts. Everything he lived for has crumbled. The protocol is
dead... but in its place, something infinitely warmer remains).
ALISTAIR: —(Takes a deep breath. He
loosens the knot of his perfect tie, completely destroying the last symbol of
his artificial authority. He looks at the Traveler, then at his colleagues,
and, with a voice that is very much his own—relaxed, hoarse, and liberated—he
answers the world with a huge smile). The sky is closed... but how
beautiful the earth looks from down here, mates!
(Fiona, Oliver and Tommy burst into giant, liberating laughter. It is a
triumphant laugh, a celebration of happy castaways who have just found a real
island in the middle of the terminal).
THE TRAVELER: —That's what I'm talking
about, my Gary! Now you're talking. Welcome to life. Hey, folks, rumor has it
the airline next door just opened the kegs and the free tequila for all of us
stranded by the storm. Are you guys in, or do you want to keep guarding the
counter of lies?
FIONA: —(Dancing joyfully barefoot on
the red carpet, holding her heels in her hands like trophies from a won battle)
To bare feet and long nights! Let's go drink!
OLIVER: —I'm buying the first round, lads! Tonight we
travel by road!
(Fiona, Oliver, Tommy and the Traveler put their arms around each
other's shoulders, forming a happy, rhythmic, and informal parade. They start
exiting the stage singing and laughing together. Alistair watches them go for a
second. He looks at the carpet covered in salt. He looks at his impeccable
jacket, rips it off, and tosses it into the air with absolute nonchalance. He
runs after them with overflowing joy).
ALISTAIR: —Wait for me, you bastards, wait for me! I'm
putting on the tunes!
(The five of them exit the stage jumping, laughing, and hugging, leaving
behind the farce of status forever.
The stage is left completely empty).
[STAGING NOTE - THE PRESTIGE SIGN: In this final instant, the
ostentatious golden "PRESTIGE" sign lets out a violent, loud
electrical spark, flickers a couple of times decadently, and goes out for good,
leaving the scene wrapped only in shadows and the beautiful, imposing sound of
the storm outside].
END OF PLAY
CURTAIN.
