Crash Position

by Liz Woods

  THIRTEEN

  Tyres screeched, doors opened and with a smile and nod, I thanked and fair welled the passengers. In Singapore, the notices warning of death to drug traffickers seemed to be bigger and brighter than I had noticed the last time I walked through the customs and immigration hall at Changi. I felt like they were put there just for me–a trap of sorts to see whether I noticed them, or to test my reaction to them. If I panicked they would be on to me. I imagined they were set up by some grand masters of sting operations, as if it was their pride and joy in life to catch the drug smuggler. Perhaps I was so panicked because I was sure I could have faced the death penalty that day. I had simply forgotten about the coke stash in the handle of my crew bag. Technically I was a drug trafficker. The stash was not for personal use, nor was I intentionally trafficking. On a break in the galley, Simon had been demonstrating where to hide drugs in a crew bag, and had forgotten it was there after being distracted when a minor medical incident on board occurred. In the commotion I also simply forgot it was there. With his mind on multiple drug transactions, he only remembered days later. I had also forgotten, until I was in the middle of Changi and ready to be approached by the sniffer dogs. With so many secrets on the go at any one time, eventually these things slip a flight attendant's mind.

  Days earlier in New York, the idea of dying had been acceptable and somewhat logical. Now, however, with the prospects of a Singaporean execution as close as a beagle's sniff away, I was shaking. My fuzzy, foggy neurologically sluggish mind that I had known over recent weeks, was slapped into action. I felt the synapses firing. I felt every lobe come to life, sparking like fireworks, transmitting between them at lightning speed. I thought in multiple dimensions and on different time space continuums. In my warp speed imagination, I tried every scenario to save my life. I could run through the immigration queue past the guards or anyone else who might stop me. Should I declare the packet of m&ms in order to distract the inspector from the cargo I truly want to hide? I felt watched, like every CCTV camera was focused on me. They could see my nervousness. They knew the flight attendant was up to something sinister. They will catch me. In my mile a millisecond mind, I thought about my last meal, would it be simple, or fancy? Strangely, it is rare for a death row con to pig out on lobster and caviar. Nor is there the Dom Perignon to go with it. Not because alcohol is a prohibited item in prison, even for a dead man, but because its not what the heart desires before meeting the hangman. Popular choices, as I had once read waiting for a plane, were cheezos, pizza, Coca-Cola, fried chicken, and other bad stuff. Some were a little lighter: Karla Faye Tucker, before her execution munched into a fresh salad, a banana and a peach. Maybe such, fresh, practical items had been hard to come by in fourteen years on death row. Images of colorful fruit of all sorts passed before my eyes while the queue towards the hangman’s noose moved slowly, as passports were stamped and faces scrutinized. As if it were on an invisible conveyor belt passing in front of my face, I made my selection from the food: chicken nuggets, pizza with the lot, chocolate mousse from the all you can eat we went to as kids. I was next in line. Oh God, could they see my shaking hands? The pulsating vein in my neck?

  In my hotel room, I held the white bag over the toilet and as if sifting flour, let it all out before flushing. With the noose loosened from my neck, it was time for some fresh air. The skyline of Singapore seemed to sparkle, celebrating my escape from death. My mind lingered on how I had simply walked on through with my stash of white poison, smiling as I went, barely getting so much as a glance from the disinterested lady who checked my passport. Moreover it helped, that the sniffer dog team simply walked in the opposite direction as I walked past. I was free. It seemed so easy to get drugs through. And after all, who would suspect the smiling, innocent flight attendant. I was strolling on my own looking up at the jungle of apartments that housed the well to do residents of Singapore. With more millionaires per capita than anywhere on Earth, it was a rich man’s city. It was also a place where more maids fell to their deaths from high-rise buildings than anywhere else on Earth. Maybe it was history’s idea of irony; the rich and powerful taking revenge on the humble servants for pushing their rich predecessors out of the skyscraper windows all those decades ago. The fat cats will always have their way. My thinking was nutty and chaotic in the glee of that afternoon’s escape from death row. Screw the fat cats. Screw the airline. Screw the Singapore authorities. I felt high without having snorted or swallowed a thing. I was high on cheating death. I liked it. Being so close to death, made me feel so much more alive. I regretted flushing the coke at the hotel. I wanted more of it.

  The economy service was over and the cabin was darkened to induce rest and minimise passenger movement. I pulled down a jump seat along side a face I knew, but needed to refresh myself of his name with the help of his name tag. They weren’t just handy for passengers who wanted to make complaints against individual crew members, name tags were at handy at saving face among employees too.

  I groaned as I settled into the seat.

  “You right there love?” Cam said amused at my noise.

  I chuckled. “Yeh, just time for a lie down and a cup of tea.”

  He laughed. “Okay grandma. I’ll put the stories on the television for you too.”

  “Oh shoosh.” I said.

  Cam was instantly likeable. He was one of Tanya’s associates, and the one I like the most so far. He was different, just like Jurdan was. Not vain, dim, or cold.. Cam was definitely not like the others in the Bali crew. He was quieter and a little more dignified. He didn’t feel the need to be the loudest or the funniest in the group. His jokes weren’t based on smut like the others’ were and didn’t insist on looking in the galley mirror at every opportunity.

  “You know there are some drugs that are so expensive that people cannot afford them. I’m not talking about drugs for cancer, blood disorders, brain diseases. The rarer the disease the more expensive the drug.”

  “Interesting. I had no idea.”

  “Well its true.”

  “So, why are you telling me this?”

  “Well, I know a few people in the industry. People I met before I came here. They throw away a lot of these drugs that are not saleable. They either have not met certain government regulations or they have simply passed their use by dates. In any case they are 99 percent of the time, perfectly fit for human consumption. That is disregarding the side effects that are expected.”

  “And…?”

  “Well, the people I know who work for these massive companies are basically responsible for destroying the unsalable drugs. There is plenty of regulation and scrutiny when it comes to putting the drugs on the shelves, but none when it comes to the fate of the unsaleable drugs. They are simply trusted to destroy them.”

  “Cam, get to the point.” I said with a smile.

  “You can transport these to people who need them and you will be paid. For example a drug that costs say US$200,000 per dosage-and yes some are that expensive-could be sold discreetly for say $10,000. You would transport it from my friends to the buyer and get a cut for yourself.”

  “Uh, that sounds kind of illegal.”

  “A lot of things are illegal. Everyday people do unconscionable things in their every day professions that don’t help anyone. You would be helping people and getting paid.”

  “But I can’t. Its just not right.”

  “Oh come on. Just think about it. The only people who would suffer are not really people at all. Big drug companies worth billions. Billions! And what.. I guess governments who collect tax on the drugs.”

  I looked at him in silence. He knew I was thinking it over.

  “Liz, do you really think you are making a difference here. Are you really helping anyone. You will end up a dead wood like so many others.

  “I feel like I already am one.”

  “There is virtually no risk involved here. How often does anyone, I mean anyone question the contents of our bags. And its s
imple, innocent pharmaceuticals, not crack. And you know how many love their crack here.”

  “Yeh, no kidding!”

  “Think about it, some kid may get to go to his graduation because of you. Or some mother may be able to see her kid graduate. You have some power here.”

  “How do you know so much about this anyway? How do you know these mysterious people in the pharmaceutical industry?”

  “Well, I’m gonna have a guess and say that you came here trying to ‘find yourself.’” He gestured quotation marks and smirked at the idea.

  “I did too. I finished five years of studying chemistry and could not get a job. Financial crisis and all that. That’s at least what I told myself.. and my parents. So in the pursuit of free travel and adventure I wound up here. And got myself stuck in Tanya’s clique when I told a few people I knew how to make people pass out using basic chemistry. My friends whom I studied alongside all got jobs some went abroad to the massive companies I’ve spoken about. And we still keep in touch. And they are just as keen to make an extra buck. Some people just cant enough cash.”

  “So back up, what were you saying about the ‘passing out’ thing.”

  He looked straight at me.

  “That flight you may heave hard of that landed with everyone sick: The one that made a big mess of the carpet.”

  I nodded.

  “That was us. I made the sedative that made everyone sick. I only wanted them to pass out. Obviously I’m not a very good chemist.”

  That’s how I found my unique part in the crew. My desperate search for meaning in the company led me to importing black market pharmaceuticals.

  I finally had a purpose and it was one that I could use to help people. I quite enjoyed the challenge of receiving the product and making sure it got safe and sound to its purchaser. Many of the drugs needed to be kept in refrigerated conditions, so regular mail was out of the question. Many logistics companies offered refrigerated transportation, but that would mean a paper trail and customs declarations that would destroy the anonymity of the drug company employees who were at risk of losing their jobs. I held the answer with my unhindered access to all the continents of the world, along with my familiarity with airport layouts and customs operation. I gave Cam my schedule, which he passed on to his friends who drew up their own schedule for delivery based on my movements for the month. Luckily the world’s biggest pharmaceutical makers were spread throughout the globe. Whenever there was a trip to certain cities in the USA, Switzerland, France, Germany, India or Japan, there were deliveries waiting.

  Sometimes I simply had to leave a package at hotel reception for somebody to pick up, but I preferred to finish the delivery myself. Sometimes local laws forbade importation of a drug that was perfectly legal in other countries. Some buyers were too sick to travel to places where certain drugs were legal. I was becoming completely apathetic to the needs and suffering of my passengers but I still found it in me to care for the people who needed my deliveries. I told myself it was not for the money, I needed to believe that. And I did believe it because after all, I never needed to deliver drugs in person, I could always get a local courier to finish the job. It was a tiny expense.

  I was also complicit in assisted suicide. One of the most common requests was for a dog poison that was legal in some parts of the world, but strictly proscribed in others. I believed that the decision to die had already been made by those suffering and it was merely the means of suicide that I was helping them with. Swallowing a fast acting poison seemed far more logical, and merciful than the other violent means available. And it would result in minimal bystanders being affected by the act, unlike the other methods that come to mind. I thought about the law and society’s response. Where I was from, there was a bridge where hundreds had jumped to their deaths over the years, yet nothing had been to done. One day, tragic as it was, a father threw his children from the bridge in an act of vengeance against their mother. Almost immediately a fence was erected along the entire length of the bridge. Every year people jump form the Golden Gate Bridge, yet no barrier can be put up due to the change it would have on the aerodynamic properties of the structure. I wondered if Californians would settle for that defeat if as many murders were occurring on the bridge. One type of death seemed more acceptable than another when the ball was in their court.

  Nobody shall judge me.