Drink Vouchers — and don’t forget the Cash

A heavy-set bald man sits beside me on a flight from Las Vegas. He is seated on the aisle seat, with me in the middle. This is not my ideal scenario, but I had boarded late so this was the only seat available.

My bald neighbor looks pretty tired and worn, and has been nodding off for the past few minutes. Suddenly, a beer arrives and he gives the flight attendant a free drink voucher. Then he turns to me, clearing his throat.

“(cough) I fly Southwest so I can fly with drink vouchas for free drinks,” he says proudly, with a heavy Rhode Island accent that makes you feel like you’d known him all your life.

“Ah yes,” I say. “Those are great. Always forget to bring mine…”

I absolutely love his accent. Vouchas. Not Vouchers. This will be good, I think. Except for his breath, which is a mixture of cheap liquor and cigars. Old man cigars. He continues.

“Well…get this. A buddy of mine, Gerry, is sittin a few rows in front. Just saw a couple beers come to him. So I’m wonderin’ — how the heck is he doin this? He doesn’t have a voucha, and he doesn’t have plastic. I told him so many times….to drink on the plane, you have to have a voucha or plastic, cause they don’t take cashhh. Anyways…not my problem. But if he comes back here asking for money I’m gonna be maaaddd. PFFFF!….I’m Alan, by the way.”

“Oh, wow, ok. Alan, nice to meet you. I’m Abby. I’ll keep an eye out.” I say.

This man is a one-way street talker — meaning he will talk, and not ask a thing of me conversationally. Which is fine. If I need to pretend to sleep, I will. Yet this could be entertaining, I think, as I am now obsessed with the way Alan just pronounced the word “cash.”

“CASSSHHH,” he said, in a long, drawn out pronunciation deserving its own ringtone. CASSSSHHH was pronounced like the grand prize in the showcase showdown of words.

Alan continues to eyeball the front of the plane while his friend Gerry drinks beers on borrowed cash. Eventually Alan falls back asleep with his large legs butting up against the seat pocket in front of him.

About 15 minutes pass.

In the front of the plane Gerry slowly rises, and wanders back towards us, simply standing by the aisle and staring at Alan for a minute. He can’t even get the courage to wake up his own friend. How sad.

Gerry has a huge potbelly, bulging from an old grey sweater and sad, brown eyes.

I tap Alan on the shoulder.

“Your friend wants you…” I say kindly.

Alan awakens with a look of disgust.

“What’s up?!”, Alan says abruptly.

“I need your credit card,” Gerry says.

“No!” says Alan, without hesitation.

“I got two beers…”

“I noticed that,” Alan says, in a tit for tat battle to the finish. This verbal tennis match for lack of cash has only just begun. Gerry’s serve.

“They don’t take cash,” says Gerry.

“I told you that.”

It seems like a father son talk, rather than two old friends in their sixties.

“Well… I need your credit card,” Gerry says begrudgingly.

“I said NO,” says Alan again, this time with resolve. But he’s not done yet.

This is better than in-flight entertainment, I think to myself.

“You notice everything I did this weekend?” Alan says, as he raises his voice over the airplane hum.

“I did help you out on a couple dinners, and I paid CASHHHH.. you noticed the hotel I paid for?…your part also? oh that was CASHHHHH…and the car rental we did…wasn’t that CASSSSHHHHH?”

If the word cash was a slot machine, we just hit it big-time.

His friend stood staring blankly, slightly embarrassed by this lecture and refusal on Alan’s part to give him a credit card for all of ten dollars. Alan continues.

“My wife allows me to come to Vegassss, and I pay everything in CASHHHH. I’m NOT charging ten dollars to my credit card as that would be MY argument with MY wife. And I’m NOT gonna get into an argument for ten dollars when YOU drink. Don’t you pay attention? I told you- they don’t take cash.”

Alan would have let this man go to jail over two stolen beers.

Gerry goes back to his seat, and after some negotiation with the flight attendant, gets away with drinking two beers free of charge. Luckily, no in-flight handcuffs were administered, and Alan lives another day full of flight vouchas and CASSSH.

I went back to my thoughts, but strangely longed for Alan’s thick Rhode Island accent. Perhaps I could order a beer, but pretend I forgot my voucha.