Second Responder

I’ve never sat in that seat on an airplane where you’re responsible for helping save everyone if the plane goes down.

I don’t know why they have never asked me. I’d be a good second responder.

Oh, I’m not good enough to be a first responder. But I would make a darn good second responder. Or maybe even a third.

So what makes a great second responder? Being able to scream really loud.

I’m good at that.

I don’t think I could save someone if they were hanging half out of a plane.

That’s a job for a first responder, not a second or third string guy like me.

So why am I worrying about this? Have you not seen the news lately?

A few weeks ago, a window ‘plug’ on an Alaska Airlines plane blew out while the plane was about 20,000 feet above Oregon.

Luckily, nobody got sucked out of the plane.

That’s good. But maybe it would not have happened if a first responder had been sitting in that seat. These are the people who pull victims out of burning buildings or move the power lines off your house so you won’t get electrocuted when you step outside to pee off the front porch.

If I had been in that seat, I can guarantee you that the headline would not have been about the window blowout but the crazed man on row twelve who was screaming at the top of his lungs, “We’re all going to die!”

That’s what second responders are good for. Screaming.

If someone had been sucked out of the window, I’m sure I would have tried to grab them. But if their body was outside but their legs were still in the plane, I would have done what every good second responder does.

Pushed them out.

Come on, you know you would, too.

Imagine that you’re just sitting there enjoying yourself, eating your little bag of pretzels when bam! Now suddenly some dude is hanging outside the plane while his feet thrash around, kicking you in the face and making you spill your complimentary ginger ale.

My natural reaction would be to give the guy a good shove so he will stop kicking me.

And well… sorry sir but I have only one shirt and I don’t want ginger ale stains and pretzel crumbs all over it when we land. So, adios amigo!

I know that sounds harsh but I am not a hero. At least not in those kind of circumstances.

If you need someone to get your kitten out of a tree or lick a stamp for you, I’m your man. But if you want me to save you from being sucked out of a plane going 600 miles per hour while flying ten miles above the Earth, you should probably be sitting next to Hans Solo.

I mean, I would try to help but I’m sure I’d get distracted by the fact that I would be pissing my pants and screaming “Help me, Jesus!” at the top of my lungs.

Now don’t get me wrong- I am not completely useless. I know CPR.

Well, I am supposed to know CPR. I took lessons when my lovely wife and I were foster parents but that was like twenty years ago. I’m pretty sure that CPR techniques have changed since the 1990s.

Back then, they taught us to really go to town when you do chest compressions. Is that still how it’s done? Especially in the MeToo age.

I mean, if a woman is having a heart attack, am I allowed to
even touch her? Do I need to get her consent?

In writing?

What if it was someone like Gal Godat or Salma Hayek?

You’re supposed to rip open the victim’s shirt, right? Or at least that’s what they do on TV. So, what happens if Salma has a heart-a-stroke and I am the only one available to resuscitate her?

I thought about that.

Here we are riding along at 35,000 feet. Just me and Salma. I’m drinking a ginger ale. She’s having tequila. We’re talking about her being in a movie that

I wrote just for her, ‘Beach Blanket Yahtzee.’ And suddenly, the window blows out and Salma’s eyes roll back in her head and she begins to foam at the mouth.

Now, since we’re sitting in the emergency exit row, it falls upon me to throw Salma on the floor, rip her shirt off and…

Ooh… those are quite….

Concentrate, fool. Just interlace your hands and put them right there between her…

And that’s when my wife appears and tosses me through the open window.

A first responder would be professional and just put their hands on her chest and…

Well, as a second responder, I would pause, assess the situation before I touched her and…

… promptly get arrested by the Sky Marshal.

The next time I get on a flight and the flight attendant asks me if I want to sit in the emergency aisle, I’m going to first look around and make sure that Salma or Scarlett Johansson are not on my flight.

Yes, you get lots of extra leg room in the emergency aisle but at what cost?

I’m pretty sure you are required to stay vigilant in that seat. There will be no naps. No double scotch’s. Or movies. Any movie really but especially ones starring Salma, Scarlett or Gal.

A second responder like me has to be constantly alert. Just in case the door blows open and I need to do what second responders do: assume the fetal position and scream like an 11 year old girl.

And what happens if we make it to the ground and they deploy that blow up slide?

As the emergency aisle guy, I am supposed to ‘assist other passengers’ as they use the slide to evacuate the plane. It is the important part of my job.

Yeah, I am supposed to but I wonder if I would actually step up and be a hero if the plane does start to crash?

Think about it. There will be stuff flying all around the cabin- cups, magazines, pretzels, body parts. Combine that with all of the passengers who would be screaming and running up and down the aisle while on fire, and I might to start having second thoughts.

All I have to do is jump. But I can’t. I’m a second responder.

The first responder’s job is to go up front and put out the fire. As a second responder, my job is to push people down that slide.

I can do that. In fact, I would probably enjoy that.

And if Salma happens to be on my flight, I’ll make sure to push her down the slide last. I mean. I will need somebody to break my fall, right? And she has these nice big…

You know, on second thought, maybe I should just take the train.