There’s a Bomb on the Plane

“There’s a bomb on the plane.”
I rubbed my eyes and let out a brief yawn, blurry-eyed and confused. I’d nodded off listening to a podcast around 7 that morning. I’d been up all night; I hardly sleep before long flights. I try to stay up. We were headed to Denver for a quick layover before heading west to Phoenix. I had just been furloughed (pending an early termination of my contract) and, still pissed from the lack of well wishes and sense of human compassion from my former coworkers and colleagues, I dropped an largely exorbitant amount of money to book a last minute trip with my mother to desert to clear my mind. Ridiculous, I know, since I’d just become unemployed. But some people shop when they’re sad; I shop, and buy plane tickets.

He kept screaming.
A man had walked from behind me to the front cabin. I saw him: untamed, curly beard, with a shaved head and cap. He wore all black and sported a military backpack with Vietnam veteran patches. He couldn’t have been more than twenty-eight or thirty. His eyes could go from complete panic to absolute calm in a single blink. I think that scared me the most, well, scared me the most initially.

“I need to get everyone off the plane.”
We were third in line on the tarmac to clear for take off. By that time, we had been waiting on the runway for twenty minutes. His voice grew louder. Second in line for take off. He became worried and laughed nervously. Next in line for take off. He screams.

There’s a bomb on the plane! There is a BOMB on the plane. Don’t you get it?! Everyone has to get off! Open the door! OPEN THE DOOR. Get everyone off! There’s a bomb! THERE’S A BOMB ON THE PLANE! GET OFF!

The attendant reassured him that we would be okay and returned him to his seat; he sat behind me instead. Then a silence. He rushed back up to the front and cursed at him. We turned around and headed back to the gate.

“Okay, sir. We’ll be sure to get back to the terminal.”
Everyone was too in shock to groan. My mother was pissed. I was dumbfounded. But the entire plane had the same collective thought: let’s get back to the terminal, kick him off, and turn right around. It wouldn’t be that simple, because he wanted everyone off the plane. And he made sure that we all knew that we wouldn’t be going to Denver.

“Everyone stay calm, we’re almost out of here.”
In his mind, he saw a crowd of people frightened, concerned about their safety. One woman was hyperventilating. A small child hurdled under her mother as she gripped her infant son in her arms. We were all ready to fight this man. To be clear, we see him as a threat: a loud, crazed nuisance that needed to be strapped to a chair. But he couldn’t sit down. He stood in the aisle and gazed at us. I looked him in the eyes and felt as much pity as I did anger. It was clear that his mental health was not stable and had not been for quite sometime. He often fidgeted, pacing and yelling in repetition. The plane has finally returned to the gate but he grown impatience.

“We’re not moving fast enough! Open the door!“
Our attempts to quiet him fell on deaf ears. And as the attendant touched his shoulder to calm him down and reseat him, he pushed him into a wall. The man then proceeded t punch this attendant, push a female attendant, and charge toward the door. Someone called out of help during the scuffle and two men tattled him to the ground. I don’t know how long my phone had been out or when I decided to record but once everything clicked I could feel the tears stream down my face. I can hear vividly how my voice cracked when I asked if everyone was okay. I can feel my mother gripping my hand tight as he struggled on the ground. It was way too early for this shit.

In the end, he was arrested and escorted out of the terminal by several officers, still screaming about the bomb. For all I know, there could’ve been a bomb. We all could have been in our own version of Final Destination. I could have died. I’ll never know. There’s no trace or mention of the incident anywhere online. I couldn’t find his arrest record. I don’t know his name. If I did, I would bill him for our missed connecting flights to Denver and subsequent financial troubles directly caused by this shit-show (but we’ll talk about that later). I would ask him why he did it. I would ask if he even remembered me or that cold, rainy morning in February. I’ll forget it. And I’ll never want to take a morning flight, ever again.