To know me, you have to fly with me. Sit down. I’m the aisle, you’re the window. Trapped.
Planes and airports are where I feel at home. Everything fellows like you dislike about them – the dry, recycled air alive with viruses; the salty food that seems drizzled with warm mineral oil; the aura-sapping artificial lighting – has grown dear to me over the years, familiar, sweet.
I call it Airworld; the scene, the place, the style. My hometown papers are USA Today and the Wall Street Journal. The big-screen Panasonics in the club rooms broadcast all news I need, with an emphasis on the markets and the weather. My literature is the bestseller or the near bestseller, heavy on themes of espionage, high finance, and the goodness of common people in small towns.
Airworld is a nation within a nation, with its own language, architecture, mood, and even its own currency – the token economy of airline bonus miles that I’ve come to value more than dollars. Inflation doesn’t degrade them. They’re not taxed. They’re private property in its purest form.