In Case of Elevated Cabin Pressure
Disclaimer: I don't own New Girl.
Hey guys! Here's my entry for Mayalala's Cabin challenge. I admittedly went in a different direction with the "cabin" idea. Thanks to Maya for idea development and for being a generally great person to have around the community. Enjoy!
"Boarding pass, ID, phone wallet carry-on. Check."
Schmidt got there early. He confirmed at home, checked his below-the-weight-limit bag with ease, breezed through security swiftly by just slipping out of his D&G loafers, and browsed through the duty-free store in a fairly leisurely manner. He winked at the cute blonde barista that made his Caramel Macchiato (Venti, Skim, Extra Shot, Extra-Hot, Extra-Whip, Sugar-Free, because he's worth it). He picked up a GQ and a pack of gummy bears because he deserved it after skipping over a Cinnabon— the constant struggle.
"Boarding pass, ID, phone wallet carry-on. Check."
In forty-five minutes, his plane to New York would board. Going to a paid conference for work was nothin but nectar. He just hoped the Big Apple was ready for some Schmidty in the City. He staked out a good seat at his gate, near enough to the desk for the stewardesses to notice him flipping through the magazine to find the feature on 'translating boardroom finesse into sexual dominance'. Totally casual.
"Boarding pass, ID, phone wallet carry-on. Check."
There were a total of 19 undesirables that he could count in the roughly 100 person flight: 8 babies, 6 pre-Atkins Schmidts, 4 that just looked like hygiene nightmares, and one dude in the corner who seemed to be sweating profusely. Profusely. Not great odds, but he found his seat next to the sweetest looking old woman and even helped her by hoisting her carry-on into the overhead bins.
"Boarding pass, ID, phone wallet carry-on. Check." This was the last time he'd have to murmur that to himself until he disembarked.
He settled in and prayed silently to avoid having the empty seat next to him filled by a mother or, god forbid, Sweaty Teddy, but what he got was better than tolerable. It was even better than nectar. It was sweet manna from heaven in the form of a hardbodied honey.
The woman was smoking hot. Pretty enough to make the stewardesses look like frumpy schoolteachers. Brown-eyed, black-haired, high-cheekboned beauty. Chesty enough to make turbulence even more fun. The kind of girl pre-Atkins Schmidt wouldn't be able to talk to without stuttering. The kind of girl now-Schmidt might not be able to talk to without stuttering. But he was down for a challenge.
He waited until she got settled in before introducing himself. "Hello there, I'm Schmidt."
"Hello. I'm Amanda," she returned, with a curt but polite smile.
"Amanda, that was my aunt's—" Schmidt began to start, but was cut off by a tap to his shoulder.
The little old lady to his right was smiling broadly at him. "Hello dear. I just wanted to know if I could borrow your in-flight magazine. I don't seem to have one."
Schmidt reached into the pouch in front of his seat and handed it to her. "Sure thing," he said curtly, wanting to get back to his conversation with the certified hottie in seat 29 C.
But now she was flipping through the in-flight magazine too, and as much as Schmidt hated to interrupt someone in the middle of a SkyMall window-shopping sesh, it was go time. "So, uhh, what brings you to the Big NY?" he offered, trying to get her attention back.
"Business," was her reply, hardly looking up from the page.
"Samesies," he agreed with a nod, playing it totally cool. SUCH a casual head nod. Sometimes Schmidt wondered how he managed to keep it so cool. "I'm actually headed to this sweet conference in—"
But he never finished, thanks to another tap at his shoulder and a soft, "Excuse me young man," from his side. His head whipped back over. "I just wanted to say that you're wearing the loveliest sweater."
This is the kind of thing that would normally make Schmidt beam. Unfortunately, this g-ma was being a total cockblock right now. "Thanks, it's half-cash," he replied with a small nod, not going into how the half-cashmere blend was designed for maximum comfort and durability, or how the snowy-woods-and-cabin pattern was embroidered and not printed on, or how Kayne wore this to the VMAs just a month ago (albeit, with a leather pencil skirt and extra-tall top hat, but Schmidt's white jeans would just have to do here). He was on a mission here!
He turned to try striking up some totally casual conversation with Amanda again, but she was talking to a flight attendant now. He didn't mind waiting. Didn't have nothin' but time, baby. He opened up his magazine again and browsed through without really seeing the pages, entirely focused and mildly panicked about what his next totally casual topic of conversation with the Queen of plane hotties would be. He was taken from this reverie by, you guessed, the plane's oldest woman.
"Don't you just hate it how planes get so cold?" she said with the same pleasant smile.
"Yeah, totally," he absentmindedly replied, fastening his seatbelt as they began take-off.
She held out a pack of Juicy Fruit. Who still chewed that? "Gum?" she offered.
He thanked her but waved her off with a shake of his head. Amanda was free again but seemed oddly focused on the plane safety demonstration.
He could wait until the end of this. No big. He turned to grandma, who was fumbling to put on a sweater from her seated position to ease the cold of the plane, when he noticed something.
His sweater.
She was putting on his sweater.
Not his sweater, obvs, as he was still wearing that one. But it looked the same, the playful snow on the warm cabin overlooking the foreboding forest near the waist.
His throat started to tighten. This couldn't be happening. He felt like he had just shown up to prom and Jenny Cho was wearing the same dress and looked like a skank in it but it was HIS DAMN DRESS and obviously this metaphor is flawed, just let me have it.
His eyes went big and suddenly his sweater felt so itchy and the room felt so hot. He had to know. "Where- where did you get that sweater?" he asked the obviously fashionable old woman.
"Target. Clearance rack, would you believe it?"
He couldn't breathe. Target? Target?! He was wearing some janky Target sweater on a plane next to the hottest woman he had ever met on a plane and everything was wrong and he couldn't do this anymore, he just, he couldn't. What would Kanye think?
But no. He had to be calm. He wasn't wearing anything under the sweater because the half-cashmere blend hugged him like a friendly chinchilla but now that $200 J-Crew chinchilla was choking him and he needed out.
He unded his belt. He'd do this in step. Next step, stand. He shakily rose to his feet and Amanda looked over to him. He whispered, "Excuse me," and slid past her noting how closely she was watching him.
He had reached up for the latch the overhead bins when a stewardess was by his side. "Sir, we're still in ascent, you can't access the luggage now as it is unstable and can hurt someone. Please return to your seat until the seatbelt light is turned off."
"I need a shirt, it'll only take a second," he justified in an attempt to placate her. She wasn't having it.
"Sir, you are not yet free to move about the cabin. Please, return to your seat."
He was still fumbling with the latch. "It'll just be a second, this sweater is too itchy," he mumbled, using a hand to pull at the collar.
The stewardess persisted. "Sit, I have to insist that you sit. Now."
"I just need a damn sweater!" he snapped and instantly felt bad for yelling. He looked down and turned her to apologize. "Look, I'm so—"
Suddenly, there was a hand gripped around the collar of his sweater and it came, surprisingly, from Amanda who looked a few steps beyond surly.
Her eyes were squinted and her talked through her snarled teeth, looking more intimidating than any woman he had ever seen. Or person in general. Or any beast of prey, really.
"I'm a federal air marshal and this is my last flight of the day and I'd rather not have to taze America's Next Top Model because his sweater itches or something so how about you apologize to the nice stewardess and sit your ass down until the plane levels out," she hissed.
Schmidt's eyes went wide as she loosened her grip and he sat in his seat, feeling cowed and, if anything, more mortified than before. He kinda wished he could push a button to have the floor open beneath him so he could just slip out of the plane right now, but there was no such luck.
Grandma looked to him, unfazed by what just transpired. "Oh, dear, that's the most beautiful watch!"
"Oh, the Rolly," he half-heartedly bragged, loud enough for Amanda to hear, even though he knew it was no use. "Yeah, it's a Submariner. Steel, totally legit. It's pretty awesome."
"My husband had a watch just like that. When he returned from Vietnam, my father got it for him for his bravery. He wore it at every special event until he died. I miss it so."
Here was one woman who would love him, even for all of his crazy. It was like she hadn't noticed the altercation that had just transpired right in front of her. She would talk to him anyway.
"Oh. What happened to the watch?" he asked, finding himself actually feeling bad for this stranger.
She sighed. "He gave it to our oldest son. I love him, but he's a gambler, and wouldn't you know it, lost the watch at poker. Don't tell him I said this, but he can be a bit of a putz." He liked the twinkle to her eye. She was a pretty cool old broad. But he still had one thing to try.
"I'm sorry about that," he empathized, before turning back to Amanda.
He tapped her shoulder and she turned to him with a wary glare. He took a deep breath and began, "Look. I just want to say this and then I'll shut-up until we touch down and then even after we touch down and that'll be it. I know that this has to be the worst first impression in the entire history of first impressions, but I swear I'm really a nice, cute guy who freaked out a little, partially because I'm around a beautiful woman such as yourself. I know that you have no reason to say yes, but if you'd give me the chance, I'd love to take you out for dinner tonight to make it up to you."
She looked long and hard at Schmidt, seemingly considering what he was saying. Finally, she responded. "Schmidt, I believe you. I think you are a nice guy. And you're pretty cute, I'll give you that. And since you're such a nice, cute guy, I'll tell you what." She paused a moment, and if Schmidt didn't know better, he was sure it was for dramatic effect. "I won't have you put on the no-fly list," she finished, with a smirk and an eye-roll.
Schmidt smiled at her and turned away. Effective shut-down. At least he wouldn't look like some common terrorist, now. He pulled out his magazine and read until the end of the flight, occasionally noticing that Amanda was glancing at him out of the corner of her eye, but not in a, "Check out that handsome Jew-devil," way. It was more of a, "Let's hope he's not entirely insane," kind of glance, to make sure he wasn't trying to arm some sort of shoe-bomb.
Intermittently, grandma struck up more conversation. He was much less annoyed by it when he wasn't putting in jedi-like focus on trying to get the girl to the right's number. It turned out her name was Agatha and she hated it because it was such an old woman name, so he advised her to have people call her by her last name since it worked out so well for him. By the end of the flight they were laughing together.
When they stood to get off, the Aggie (he tried a nickname too, to mixed reviews), told Schmidt to wait and dug through her purse. She pulled out a butterscotch hard candy and handed it to much. Schmidt loved butterscotch and this just about made his day and, in a split-second impulse, as soon as Aggie put her purse down and looked out the window for a moment, he slipped off his watch and dropped it in her purse. It would probably make the old woman's life. And he could get another watch. He knew a guy, and had money to blow. All part of living the baller life.
They said their goodbyes and disembarked. When they got off the place, Schmidt felt a tug at his arm. Not gentle enough to be Aggie, he turned around and saw Amanda looking less surly than she had been.
"I saw what you did back there. With the watch," she clarified, nodding her head in the direction they had just come from.
Schmidt held his hands up in surrender. "Fine, you got me, I slipped something into someone else's bag. But before you have me detained and cavity searched, let me just say that it was a totally normal — awesome, but normal — watch, and I just did it to be nice, and—"
He was going to go on but stopped at her laughter. It was the first time he had heard it and was struck by how gentle it was, compared to the rest of her… everything. "No, look, it was… sweet, what you did. And…" She trailed off with a peculiar look on her face, belying inner conflict. Schmidt knew this look well. It was the classic, I hate myself for giving you my number but you seem just sweet enough that I guess I have to. Right in his wheelhouse.
"I'm only in New York for the night. Give me two hours to take care of something and then I guess we can grab dinner or something," she said, handing him a small card with a number. He glanced down quickly and saw ten digits – jackpot! – before slipping it in his jean pocket and giving her a broad smile. "Sounds good. I'll see you later, Amanda," he let roll from his tongue, paying special attention to massaging every syllable.
She gave him another smirk and an eye roll before walking off, long purposeful strides matching her personality. She stopped a few feet away, turning around one more time to look him up and down. "Nice sweater. Change before I see you."
As she walked away, he thought about how sexy she was when she was being sarcastic, but mostly, how sexy she was when her long efficient strides moved her through the crowd. It was a pity that she walked so fast, hardly gave him time to watch him go. When she was out of eyeshot, he pumped his fist in the air excitedly.
He was a champion.