Business Class Wanker

On Belonging, Heineken 0%, and the Imposter Within

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I ascended into the upper echelons of society this week.

It was a long time coming if we’re being honest.

Since the expansion of my role at work, I’ve been flying interstate once a week to check in on operations and commercial developments at one of our sites.

The novelty of flying soon wore off and it just became part of the routine.

4:50am rise. Airport. Fly. Work. Airport. Fly. Home by 8:30pm on a good day.

Sometimes it’s pleasurable, especially if gifted with a spare seat next to you. Other times I’m crammed between two units of blokes, my body contorted awkwardly for two hours like a badly packed carry-on.

This week was different however.

I looked mint. Tartan patterned slim trousers, a gorgeous green RL polo, weathered brown brogues complemented by a thick, camel coloured overcoat (Winter here in Aus, remember).

If there was ever a time to be upgraded, it was now. Manifestation or not, the SMS from Qantas came through mid-afternoon. Business Class. Fuck yes.

I was stoked. It’s been a rough couple of weeks with illness in our household, work had thrown a few curveballs my way and I was exhausted. The thought of a little extra comfort to end the week was bliss.

After firmly rubbing it in my team’s faces, I chipped off to Domestic Terminal 2.

The first whisper of the imposter stirred within.

You won’t belong there. You’re always the guest.

I chuckled. Get fucked mate. Watch this.

I know where the lounge is, they make you walk past it every time. Today though, I was firmly kicking those pearly gates in.

Updated boarding pass at the ready, I laid it under the first scanner.

“Mr. Dennett. Welcome. Business Lounge is just down the end.”

I smiled warmly, nodded and continued walking. I didn’t have time to chat. I was fucking Business Class.

I picked up pace slightly passing the normal frequent flyer, plebeian lounge.

Holding my bag a little tighter as I observed the lower class peck their way through a tepid buffet, akin to a flock of chickens rioting around the trough feeder. I gagged a bit.

Thank God they keep the riff-raff segregated, I thought.

Second checkpoint. Another scan.

“Welcome back Mr. Dennett. How was your day?”

We exchanged pleasantries. I communicated my exhaustion. The life of a Businessman is relentless. She frowned in sympathy.

The noticeably streak-free glass doors glided open. I breathed a sigh of relief.

I looked around as the soft Asian stringed instrumental music filled my ears. Numerous people of Business. Some still on the clock, others taking a hard earned break from Businessing.

My people.

I grabbed a donut and multiple other sugar-filled treats, a Heineken 0% and anchored myself to the most comfortable reclining chair covered in a deep red velvet.

I sank deeply into the cushions and gazed upon the runway, twinkling in the low evening light.

I belong here.

Jolted from complete relaxation by the sudden realisation I had a brief piece of Business to do. I whipped out the laptop, sat through the non-skippable ad for the Qantas Wifi and amended some invoices; making decisions on charging late fees to debtors like a Roman Emperor.

Upon completion, I sat back, enjoyed the rest of my drink and listened to a podcast.

My phone buzzed. Time to board. Gate 19, one of my favourites.

I didn’t rush.

As I packed away, another Businessman did the same. Clearly both Sydney-bound, we both didn’t rush in an unspoken solidarity.

We walk quickly naturally anyway, us Business types. It’s in our blood, always somewhere to be, a deal to be signed.

The horde of zombies came into vision around Gate 19. Mouths agape, staring at the TV screen waiting for their boarding numbers to tick green, collectively groaning the song of Economy.

Priority Group 1 was already lit. Of course it was.

I strutted through the horde, only to be stopped by a staff member at the scanner.

“We’re so sorry sir, boarding is delayed slightly. We won’t be long.”

I joined the other priority boarders; safety in numbers.

We were given the nod, and I let the others in—I was last to arrive after all. The Businessman from the lounge politely let me go before him, our previous connection bringing a fantastic ROI instantly.

I scanned my boarding pass; the machine flashed red.

UNABLE TO BOARD.

Shit.

I told you. You don’t belong here.

The imposter whispered.

Quickly realising my mistake, I swiped left to my updated boarding pass and was given the green light.

I felt like I’d survived Squid Game.

“Mr. Dennett, hello. Just to the left sir, thank you joining us today” Rob, our attendant, greeted.

I took a grand total of five steps before I reached my seat.

I chucked my bag in the overhead, and after a quick double check of the seat letters, took a pew into the largest airline chair I’ve ever sat in.

The mild moment of confusion made evident my lack of experience. I began to feel quite nervous. The Economy cattle filtered through to the rear of the plane, and I felt a quick crave for the routine, the normal.

See.

A young, extremely well-dressed Arab couple with a newborn sat in the front row, both of them beautiful and the very cute baby dressed in a very expensive looking earthy-brown onesie. He looked like a little wookie. She reached up to adjust the air and I had to squint from the glare of the hundreds of diamonds encrusted into various bangles and rings.

Your classic investment-banker type took another seat, eyes firmly fixed on what looked like a contract on his phone. He would spend the entire flight furiously tapping away on his laptop for fifteen minutes, before burying his head in his hands for five. And repeat.

An older lady got up to tell Rob off about something, I couldn’t mute my music quickly enough to catch the gossip, but I think it was about not helping the Arab couple get their multiple bags stashed as space was limited. Rob’s rehearsed, “I’ve done this job for far too long” smile tattooed across his face as he nodded and apologised.

The food was delicious, and the legroom more than I knew what to do with. There’s no jostling for elbow room on the armrests, the table folds out from beside you, and Rob is quite literally at your beck and call.

I was still nursing a slight head cold, so the pressure change was quite uncomfortable, feeling like my head was inflating, and the slow crackle of my ears releasing was both painful and relieving. So I probably didn’t truly relax as much as I could have.

But I sank back into my seat, listened to Camino Gold, and drifted in and out of sleep until the wheels hit the tarmac in New South Wales.

I’ve tasted luxury, and oh boy was it sweet. Alas, it will be short-lived.

Next week I’m back where I belong. Slumming it with the plebs. Waiting in anticipation for the cabin crew to shut the doors and praying the seat next to me stays empty.

Hell, I don’t even get access to the regular frequent flyer lounge yet. Me and my 30 status points will have to stay outside the barn and watch the others feed at the trough.

Cluck cluck.

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