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
gavarreunam@gmail.com
SYNOPSIS
FIRST CLASS: HIGH AVIATION (Not for just anyone, least of all the "Cattle Class") is a hilarious and biting farce that strips bare the classism and absurd pretensions of the chaotic airport world. At the immaculate First Class counter of a prestigious British airline at Heathrow, Alistair, a supervisor obsessed with "high-society" etiquette, rules his little marble empire by belittling his own working-class compatriots and denying a well-deserved perk to Tommy, the humble tarmac mechanic. However, the strict illusion of aristocratic superiority and rigid protocol completely crumbles with the arrival of a Traveler (Jack)—an eccentric, laid-back Australian billionaire who travels in flip-flops and with a first-class ticket paid for in cash. Amidst blunt truths, crisps 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 pints of beer, where they really come from.
CHARACTERS:
- ALISTAIR (Gary): First Class Supervisor at a famous international airline. He wears his uniform as if it were a Savile Row tailored suit, as if he were the fuselage of a plane—impeccable and tense. He categorically denies his working-class Essex roots, faking a posh Received Pronunciation accent.
- 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 fake French phrases...
- 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 salt and vinegar crisps on hand. Simple, good-natured, always wearing his favorite comfortable trainers.
- THE TRAVELER (Jack): Passenger in seat 1A. Long hair, flip-flops (thongs), board shorts. A laid-back, eccentric Aussie billionaire who loves street slang; he is 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 Bank of England with wings. The crease in the trousers must be as tense and straight as the runway at Heathrow. We must be serious in this company. Here we operate with the alphabet of high society, the international phonetic alphabet. For example: Alpha, for Aston Martin, the premium motor I drive which is clearly not for the working class. Bravo, for my brilliance. And Charlie... for King Charles, obviously. This uniform is civilization itself.
FIONA: —(Massaging her temples, dragging her words) Delta for Definitely quitting soon. The Swiss ambassador's widow, seat 2A. And the pharmaceutical CEO, seat 2B.
ALISTAIR: —(Enraptured, closing his eyes) The crème de la crème of the Northern Hemisphere. Yesterday, Captain Sterling greeted me by name in the terminal. "Good evening, Alistair," he told me. He smelled of Earl Grey tea and international skies.
FIONA: —Sterling doesn't even know your name, Alistair. He probably sneezed or had a 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.
ALISTAIR: —Sacrilege! A First Class agent never sits! Bent knees belong in Cattle Class, to people who travel squeezed together with their duty-free carrier bags. 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: Highly aNticipated, which is exactly what I think when a passenger with a gold VIP card approaches. (Fiona makes a face of disgust behind his back. Alistair turns to look at her immediately). Ahem! We are working. No faces.
(TOMMY enters. He wears his hi-vis tarmac 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 old mum up in Newcastle. 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 us 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 Trash-Kilo: Tickets by the kilo, the kind that smell like the London Underground in August and stale sausage rolls.
ALISTAIR: —Exactly, Oliver. Tommy... in my Premium cabin, passengers enter with designer loafers that go "clack-clack" on the Italian 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 special edition Air Jordans, originals, they cost me three months' salary. They're squeaky clean!
ALISTAIR: —(Puts a hand to his chest, horrified, as if he were having a fainting spell)— Ugh! Mmm! What sacrilege! I’m going to have a conniption... Oliver, get out the disinfectant spray. Tommy, even if your trainers cost a fortune, they're still made for a concrete basketball court! They have rubber soles. They go "squish-squish." If they step on the red carpet, it destabilizes the aesthetic centre of gravity of the entire plane. Those wrinkled little papers and those gym shoes aren't enough for us to even let you smell the lavender-scented hot towels. Denied.
TOMMY: —(Clutching his papers, swallowing his anger)— But I’ve spent ten years taking apart and cleaning your turbine engines so your posh captains can fly safely! I secure the bloody sky for you!
ALISTAIR: —And the sky thanks you from below, Tommy! Cleaning the engine doesn't give you the right to sit next to the people who pay for the fuel. So abort takeoff. Put your rubbish collection away and step off the carpet. Try across the city, at the low-cost airline in Luton Airport. Over there they allow rubber soles, canvas rucksacks, and broken dreams! 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 for a miracle).
SCENE II: THE FREEDOM
(The blue of the window begins to lose its shine. Faint gray 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 countries, board shorts, and an open linen shirt. He chews on a toothpick with absolute nonchalance).
THE TRAVELER: —So elegant... it feels like you're embalming the will to live. (He winks at Fiona with a magnetic smile). Is this where the metal bird leaves to cross the pond to Bali?
ALISTAIR: —(Icy, stepping forward to block his path with his chest puffed out) Sir. You have lost your approach vector. The flight to Sydney via Frankfurt, economy Cattle Class fare—without the right to luggage or dignity—is in Terminal 2. Follow the yellow line on the floor until the cabin oxygen starts to fail.
THE TRAVELER: —(Laughing with a deep voice, tapping the marble counter gently) Terminal 2? Nah, mate, I like the air on this side. (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 pounds 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! A Whiskey-Tango-Foxtrot 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 in code, let me throw one back at you. Let's see how international you are. 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... Mr. Alistair, I deciphered the message! It's a highly secure encrypted code!
ALISTAIR: —(Sweating cold, touching his shirt collar) No! That's classified information! Nobody calls me Gary in this airport! My name is an aeronautical state secret!
THE TRAVELER: —(Gives him a gentle pat on the cheek) Well, chill out, Gazza. You guys live so stressed out in your paper castle. Life is passing you by guarding a counter, and stress wrinkles the skin. The world out there is way too big to have such a tiny name.
SCENE III: CRISPS, TATTOOS, AND THE ISLAND IN THE GLASS
(The window changes drastically. The blue sky has completely vanished. The backdrop is now a leaden gray, and silent lightning bolts begin to illuminate the clouds. The "PRESTIGE" sign flickers with an unstable light for the first time.
The Traveler pulls an ice-cold can of beer from his backpack, pops the tab with a crisp snap. The sound of escaping gas 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 salt and vinegar crisps to go with that pint?
THE TRAVELER: —(Turning to look at him with a look of absolute complicity) Too right, brother! Come over here, mate. Get out of that dark corner. This red carpet is real big and there’s room for all of us who know what it costs to earn our air.
(Tommy hesitates for a second, looks at his wildly expensive Air Jordans, but the Traveler's invitation has such a savage magnetism, so "Desert Island", that he stands up. He walks straight to the center of the red carpet. They high-five like old mates from the pub and start sharing crisps, chewing loudly and ignoring the rules).
ALISTAIR: —(Unhinged, falling to his knees as if witnessing the end of the world) FOD! Foreign Object Debris in the terminal! Penny crisp crumbs contaminating the Senator carpet! You are ruining the premium British ecosystem!
THE TRAVELER: —Too much carpet, too much shine, and too much show, Gazza... but it's hot as hell in here. (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 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 dropping his posh accent, reverting to a broad Essex lad, eyes wide open, hypnotized by the man's image of freedom) ...to his deltoid. Look at that triceps... it looks like driftwood 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 corporate 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 French to travel, not to stay locked behind a desk pretending I was born in Chelsea. (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 the poshos! 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 knowing how wide the world is. (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. THE ONE WITH THE TIGHT TIE AND THE 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 it's raining! Madam widow of the ambassador, for pity's sake, don't hit me with your designer handbag, look, it's a knock-off and you're going to scuff the stitching! I swear to you I really am upper class!
(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 an Essex 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 take the night bus and sweat! I smell like Earl Grey, I swear! Don't send me back to Slough! Bonsoir! Don't leave me on the ground! BONSOIR!
(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 crisps. 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, lads!
(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 pints 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, guys! 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 crisp crumbs. 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.
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