At 88, I rarely fly, but my friend Edward’s memorial demanded it. I booked first class for comfort, not status, my old body needing the space. Boarding slowly with my cane, I settled into seat 1A, only to be insulted by a brash businessman in a suit, barking into his Bluetooth. He scoffed, calling me “trash” for sitting in first class. I stayed silent, but flight attendant Clara firmly rebuked him. He mocked her too, calling her a “waitress in the sky.”

Then, the captain’s voice announced I was the airline’s founder, thanking me for my legacy. The cabin erupted in applause, and Clara offered me champagne. The businessman froze, his smugness gone. The captain then ordered his removal from the flight. Security escorted him out as he raged, claiming his platinum status. No one defended him; passengers watched in quiet satisfaction. As the plane door shut, a collective sigh filled the cabin. I sipped my champagne, the bubbles a small victory, knowing his arrogance had unraveled him.