I remember the details of the trip itself quite vividly. The circumstances surrounding it – not so much. The destination has been forgotten. I remember boarding the plane and making my way to an aisle seat, the day's folded newspaper clutched tightly to my chest. I remember that it was my intention to read that paper from beginning to end believing a fantasy that I would, in so doing, know everything that had happen in the entire world for that day.
I recall settling down in my seat and feeling that familiar pressing of my back against the seat as the pilot unleashed the machine's awesome power and lifted her smoothly into the air. (A feat I still consider akin to black magic.) This enjoyable moment was almost immediately interrupted by a commotion in the aisle moving toward my location rather rapidly.
This activity quickly resolved itself into the sight of a rather skinny fellow of dark complexion with a hawk-like beak on which was perched a pair of dark sunglasses. He lurched up the aisle pushing one of the female flight attendants ahead of him. A razor-sharp box cutter was held closely against her throat.
The first thought to enter my mind was, "You can't do this; we're Americans."
I sprang to my feet with agility my old body hadn't displayed since I was 30.
I caught his knife-hand with both of mine and slammed it against the metal frame of one of the seats. The cutter skittered across the floorboards. Both he and I were jammed headfirst into the empty seat across the aisle. I wrapped both hands around his scrawny neck and felt my thumbs close tightly on his windpipe. I had to fight a gag impulse as the strong stench of curry and garlic assaulted my nostrils. There was a loud crash as he went all the way to the floor with me right on top of him.
I began to choke and gasp for air.
I opened my eyes to the sight of my concerned wife's face staring at me across the ruins of the night table which lay in a jumble against my bed. Jagged glass from the broken water jar covered the floor. My indispensable BiPap machine on which I depended for a constant air supply through the night lay on its back belching unrestrained and uncontrolled air into the night sky.
I still clutched the plastic tubing by which such an air supply was delivered in both hands as I methodically squeezed shut its only effective passageway to my lungs.
My wife's voice was reasonably calm. "I think you had a nightmare."
There was no way out of this one. I was caught red-handed.
Because of various disabilities, I was unable to try to save my face by helping her clean up the mess. I felt very badly about the whole affair until I consider all that had happened. After all, I had rescued a maiden in distress, saved a plane full of innocent passengers, and brought retribution to a violent thug who wanted to kill us all – not for anything we had done but just for who we are. And, I had done it all in a five-minute dream sequence.
Also, I could only regard with satisfaction my wonderfully good judgment when I chose Judy as my life's companion some 50 years ago. For that at least I deserve some credit.
Don Johnson is an octogenarian who lives in Palestine in East Texas. He writes articles that illuminate the human condition and frequently show the contrast between our lifestyle of today with that of yesterday. He welcomes your input at
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