FIRST CLASS: HIGH AVIATION
Not for just anyone, least of all the "Cattle Class"
(Looking for an Upgrade)
A comedic farce in one act and four scenes
by Benjamin Gavarre
SYNOPSIS
FIRST CLASS: HIGH AVIATION (Not for just anyone, least of all the "Cattle Class") is a farce that strips bare the classism and absurd pretensions of the chaotic airport world. At the immaculate First Class counter of a prestigious European airline, in an imaginary London Heathrow, Alistair, a supervisor obsessed with "first-world" etiquette, rules his little marble empire by belittling his own compatriots and denying a well-deserved perk to Tommy, the highly qualified tarmac mechanic. However, the strict illusion of European superiority and rigid protocol completely crumbles with the arrival of a Traveler (Jack)—an eccentric, laid-back billionaire who travels in flip-flops and with a first-class ticket paid for in cash. Amidst blunt truths, peanuts scattered across the carpet, and a storm that unleashes heavenly delusions, the employees will end up saying to hell with their tight uniforms to remember, between laughter and shots of tequila, where they really come from.
CHARACTERS:
- ALISTAIR (Gary): First Class Supervisor at a famous international airline. He wears his uniform as if it were Parisian haute couture, as if he were the fuselage of a plane—impeccable and tense. He categorically denies his working-class roots.
- FIONA: Counter agent. She’s been force-smiling for fifteen years. Her feet are destroyed by the regulation heels.
- OLIVER: Gate agent. A chameleon-like snob... His eyes wander after the pilots and even the co-pilots. Sometimes he remembers he’s just a lad from the East End and forgets his German...
- TOMMY: Tarmac mechanic. His dream is to travel First Class, or at least in “Club World”. He observes the Counter Circus with irony... He always has a bag of peanuts on hand. Simple, good-natured, always wearing his favourite trainers.
- THE TRAVELER (Jack): Premium First Class Passenger. Long hair, flip-flops, board shorts. A laid-back, eccentric billionaire who loves street slang, relaxed and completely immune to status pretensions.
MAIN SET DESIGN:
The immaculate First Class counter of a European airline. High above, crowning the scene, a gleaming and ostentatious golden sign reads: "PRESTIGE". This sign should operate almost like a physical character; at the beginning, it shines with an unbearably elegant, pristine, and blinding white-and-gold light. On the floor, a spotless red carpet that seems untouchable. In the background, an immense window dominates the view of the airport runways.
SCENE I: THE BLUE SKY AND THE SWEAT OF MORTALS
(The stage is illuminated with a bright, warm light. Through the window, airplanes can be seen in a dreamy, clear blue sky, crossed only by faint white contrails. Everything is artificial peace. The "PRESTIGE" sign shines in its maximum, arrogant splendor.
ALISTAIR is standing in front of the counter, meticulously brushing the sleeve of his jacket. FIONA types on her computer with an expression of dull pain. OLIVER checks an electronic tablet with military bearing).
ALISTAIR: —(Without stopping his brushing, looking at the horizon with superiority) When a First Class passenger looks at us, Oliver, they don’t see a mere mortal; they see the aspirational paradise with wings. Check your appearance. The crease in the trousers must be as tense and straight as the runway at Frankfurt. We must be serious in this company. Here we operate with the alphabet of high society, the international alphabet. For example: Alpha, for Aston Martin, the premium motor I drive which is clearly not for the poor. Bravo, for my excellence. And Charlie... for King Charles, obviously my inspiration. This uniform is civilization in its very cream and nectar. Voila, N for Nectar.
FIONA: —(Massaging her temples, dragging her words) And Delta for Definitely quitting soon. Right, we are expecting two or three illustrious passengers: the widow of the Geneva ambassador... and the MP from the new black-force Spanish party... hm... sounds "important". The Hungarian Abbess of the Seventh Seal, the Swiss consultant of the Church of the Latter Skies...
ALISTAIR: —(Enraptured, closing his eyes) The crème de la crème of the Northern Hemisphere. Yesterday, Captain Müller greeted me by name in the hallway. "Guten Abend, Alistair", he told me. He smelled of Alpine black pine and international skies.
FIONA: —Müller doesn't even speak English, Alistair. He probably sneezed or had a hacking dog cough. My bunions hurt so much I feel them throbbing in Morse code. Can we sit down for a second? The terminal is empty, not a fly in sight. The important ones always arrive late.
ALISTAIR: —Sacrilege! A First Class agent never sits! Bent knees belong in Cattle Class, to people who travel squeezed together with their packed lunches. Keep smiling, Fiona. Your rictus is the only thing separating us from the third world. Let's stick to the protocol, the eyes of the world are upon us. Let's see, Oliver, what's next?
OLIVER: —(Standing at attention, like a soldier) Hotel-Nectar, Mr. Alistair!
ALISTAIR: —Exactly... Hotel-Nectar-Whiskey: We Hope you enjoy your trip in our delicious First Class beds, that is what we must say to passengers with the platinum black gold VIP card. (Fiona makes a face of disgust and sticks her finger in her mouth behind his back. Alistair turns to look at her immediately). Ahem! We are working. No faces. I am watching you, Fiona.
(TOMMY enters. He wears his mechanic overalls tied at his waist and clutches a massive wad of worn, paper boarding passes to his chest, held together by a rubber band. He walks cautiously to the edge of the red carpet).
TOMMY: —Excuse me, good afternoon... Mr. Alistair, my flight leaves in forty minutes. I’m going to see my dear old mum. Look... (He proudly pulls out the wad of papers and carefully removes the rubber band). I've collected every economy boarding pass I’ve been given in my ten years working here. It’s over a hundred clean segments. The system shows five empty seats up there, right in First Class... and I wanted to see if you'd give me the employee benefit upgrade. I swear I've been good.
ALISTAIR: —(Looks at him as if he had just seen a grease stain on his clean lapel. He lets out a cold, fake laugh)— An upgrade? To First Class? You? Oliver, please, come look at this piece of archaeological collection. He brought thermal-printed tickets from the last century!
OLIVER: —(Sashays over, looks at the wad of papers with disgust, and mocks him using Alistair's alphabet)— Oh, no! How ghastly. That’s not a plane ticket, that’s code Sierra-Tango-Foxtrot-Zulu: just needs to start dancing the Macarena... That man is one of those who smells like the London Underground and stale sausage rolls in the waiting lounge.
ALISTAIR: —Exactly, Oliver. Tommy... in my Premium cabin, passengers enter with designer loafers that go "clack-clack" on the Carrara marble. And what are you wearing? Trainers?
TOMMY: —(Offended, lifting his foot to show them off)— These aren't just any trainers, Mr. Alistair! They're original, special edition Shell-toes.
ALISTAIR: —(Puts a hand to his chest, horrified, as if he were having a fainting spell)— Ugh! Mmm! Shell-toe sounds like an insult. What sacrilege! I’m going to have a conniption... Oliver, get out the disinfectant spray. Tommy doesn't know his... footwear goes "squish-squish". If it steps on the red carpet, it destabilizes the aesthetic centre of gravity of the entire plane. Those wrinkled little papers and those smelly trainers won't even get you a sniff of the lavender-scented hot towels. And no, you won't be tasting the First Class Catering... Not you. Denied.
TOMMY: —(Clutching his papers, swallowing his anger)— But I’ve spent ten years taking apart and cleaning your turbine engines so your British captains can fly safely! I secure the sky for you! Well, at least for the captains and co-pilots who don't even give you the time of day.
ALISTAIR: —That is what you think, Tommy. We are great friends. They must look at you like an ant approaching their fine Oxford shoes. The sky of our company thanks you, Tommy! But cleaning the engine doesn't give you the right to sit next to those who pay for the fuel. Let alone their Very Special Users. So abort your poor man's illusions. Put your rubbish collection away and step back... far from the carpet. Ugh, shoo... Look, go over there, to the low-cost airline in Terminal 2. Over there they allow rubber soles, canvas rucksacks, and cheap Primark Teddy blankets! Bon voyage!
(Alistair and Oliver let out an arrogant, mocking giggle, turning their backs on him. Tommy, deeply humiliated but with his dignity intact, ties his boarding passes back up with the rubber band. He takes it on the chin. He doesn't leave the terminal; he drags his feet toward a shaded corner of the stage, pulls out his metal toolbox, slams it on the ground, and sits on it, crossing his arms, shooting them a "we'll see about that" glare as he waits to see if a miracle happens).
SCENE II: THE ARRIVAL OF FREEDOM
(The blue of the window begins to lose its shine. Faint grey clouds start peeking through the edges, dense and heavy with a storm. In the terminal, the atmosphere feels a bit heavier, more suffocating.
A cheerful, deep whistle, mimicking the ocean wind or the song of a tropical bird, interrupts the solemnity of the counter. The three employees freeze.
THE TRAVELER (Jack) enters. He walks slowly, dragging worn leather flip-flops that make an organic echo. He carries an immense backpack covered in patches from remote, wonderful countries, perhaps from an exotic fantasy... You can read Polybreeze, Sea of Happiness, Party Islands... The Traveler wears board shorts and an open linen shirt. He chews on a toothpick with absolute nonchalance).
THE TRAVELER: —So elegant... mates. Your backs are so tense it looks like you're clenching your will to live. (He winks at Fiona, with a magnetic smile). It’s sweltering outside, darlin', and in here you guys are like the luxury servants... Are you expecting a lot of all-expenses-paid MPs and Congressmen? Is this where the metal bird leaves to cross the pond to Bali? Ah, but first I have to connect in Frankfurt, natürlich.
ALISTAIR: —(Icy, stepping forward to block his path with his chest puffed out) Sir. Have you lost your travel route? Did you get your information at the Bargain Bucket Travel Agent before coming to the airport... The flight to Frankfurt, economy Cattle Class fare—without the right to luggage or dignity—is in Terminal 2. Follow the yellow line on the floor and look at it closely, and don't stand up straight like us, that is only for the well-born.
THE TRAVELER: —(Laughing with a deep voice, tapping the marble counter gently) Terminal 2? Nah, mate, I like the air on this side. It's not bad to stand up straight, but it looks like you had a stick shoved up your... (He tosses his worn leather passport onto the marble). Seat 1A. Paid in cold, hard cash, brother. Upfront and without asking permission.
(Fiona types with trembling fingers. The screen emits an intense green flash).
FIONA: —Alistair... the screen turned green. It's VIP Imperial fare. Full Flex. Fifteen thousand euros paid in cash... with notes that smell like the ocean.
ALISTAIR: —Critical system failure! (He backs away, terrified by the contrast between the flip-flops and the money. He touches the intercom on his shoulder, hysterical). Oliver, Fiona! We have an emergency! An Oscar-Papa-Lima at the counter! A dangerous civilian! Prepare protocol!
THE TRAVELER: —(Leaning on the counter, looking at him with a mix of pity and amusement) Relax, mate. Don’t get your knickers in a twist with your military alphabet, you're going to wrinkle your suit and have a heart attack. Let's see, slick... since you’re acting like such a hotshot spelling out the aviation letters, let me throw the code back at you. Let's see if you're so clever. What does this mean in your manual: Golf-Alpha-Romeo-Yankee?
(Alistair, Fiona, and Oliver freeze. Alistair's eyes widen enormously).
OLIVER: —(Trembling, calculating on his fingers) G... A... R... Y... Mister Alistair, I deciphered the message! It's a highly secure encrypted code! Great Alliance of Royal Yachts.... Mmmm... Doesn't make sense... Maybe: Gentlemen Always Respect Yachts... No... Not that either!
ALISTAIR: —(Sweating cold, touching his shirt collar) No! That's classified information! It's GARY, you incompetent fool. But nobody, nobody has called me Gary in years! My name is an aeronautical state secret!
THE TRAVELER: —(Gives him a gentle pat on the cheek) G.A.R.Y. Relax, Gazza. It's not such a bad name... It's short... Humble... Nice... But you guys live so stressed out in your little paper castle. Life is passing you by guarding a marble counter like pedigree bitches... Stress wrinkles the skin. The world out there is very big, enjoy it, it's free.
SCENE III: PEANUTS, TATTOOS, ROCK AND ROLL
(The view through the window changes drastically. The blue sky has completely vanished. The backdrop is now a leaden grey and lightning bolts begin to illuminate the clouds. The "PRESTIGE" sign flickers with an unstable light and a faint, strange sound is heard.
The Traveler pulls an ice-cold beer from his backpack, pops the cap off with his belt in one clean strike. The sound of the gas escaping sounds like a sigh of freedom. He takes a long gulp).
TOMMY: —(From his corner, bursting into a clean, free laugh) Hahaha! He played you like a fiddle, mate! Hey, traveler... fancy some peanuts for the long... wait?
THE TRAVELER: —(Turning to look at him with a look of absolute complicity) Too right, brother! Come over here, my man. But come closer, you look like a scolded dog all shrunk up over there. This red carpet is real big and there’s room for all of us who know how to walk comfortably and without hard shoes.
(Tommy hesitates for a second, looks at his wildly expensive sneakers, but the Traveler's invitation has a savage magnetism. He walks straight to the centre of the red carpet. They high-five like old mates from the road and start sharing peanuts, chewing loudly and ignoring the rules).
ALISTAIR: —(Unhinged, falling to his knees as if witnessing the end of the world) FUD! FOXTROT-UNIFORM-DELTA right in the VIP zone! Penny peanut crumbs are contaminating the Senator carpet! There is a premium ecosystem, did you know, you two savages! You are nobodies: NOBODIES.
THE TRAVELER: —Too much carpet, too much shine, and too much show, Gazza... but I'm not feeling too comfortable here, too much protocol and too many stuck-up noses. Chill out, pop a peanut in your mouth and take out that stick they shoved up your... this morning. (With a slow, almost ritualistic movement, he takes off his linen shirt, left wearing only a white vest). Ah... much better. Let the world's breeze flow.
(As he removes his shirt, he reveals tanned arms, weathered by the sun of the seas, covered in elaborate, exotic imaginary tribal tattoos, ancient maps, and lines of waves that snake across his muscles with a hypnotic beauty).
FIONA: —(Fanning her face with a boarding pass, completely dazzled, staring at his arms like someone seeing an exotic landscape for the first time. Her voice loses its rigidity and becomes floaty) Mother of heaven... look at that... he has a Polynesian tattoo that looks like a map of an island... it goes all the way up to...
OLIVER: —(Completely breaking his German accent, eyes wide open, hypnotized by the man's image of freedom) ...to his deltoid. Look at that triceps... it looks like wood floating in the sea. Bloody brilliant.
THE TRAVELER: —(Looking at the three agents with a deep, almost mystical compassion) Why do you defend a carpet with such rage that they don't even let you step on barefoot? Look at your faces. Your eyes are full of numbers and your souls are full of schedules. You look like wax dolls stuffed into a ridiculously expensive case, about to melt because there’s a real storm outside. The world is falling apart out there and you're worried about the knot in your tie.
ALISTAIR: —(Shooting up, trembling with fury because he feels the Traveler's speech piercing his armor) Don't listen to him! He's a virus in the system! Oliver, arrest this millionaire hippie! I order you by the London procedures manual! Get him out of my airspace!
[STAGING NOTE - CHOREOGRAPHY OF LIBERATION: The following block must be executed with absolute, cathartic, and deeply theatrical physical exaggeration, breaking all previous rigidity right before the storm breaks].
OLIVER: —(Looks at Alistair. Looks at the Traveler. Looks at his own tie. He stares fixedly at the tattoos on the Traveler's arm, hypnotized). Arrest him? (His voice changes, loses all aristocratic falseness and becomes soft, yearning).
Those ships... those waves on your skin... I wanted to see the ocean too, Gary. I studied languages to travel, not to stay locked behind a bar pretending I was born in the Alps. (With a violent, beautiful, and liberating gesture, he rips off his tie and slams it against the floor, laughing). To hell with the manual! To hell with Bavaria! I want my own map!
FIONA: —(With tears in her eyes and a manic smile, looking at the floor). Fifteen years without touching the grass... without looking at the world without stress. (She yanks off her regulation heels, breathing deeply, and kicks them into the air with joyful fury). Freedom! Look... the blessed freedom of letting my bare feet out! (She steps hard onto the red carpet, spreading her toes). The earth is alive! I can feel the earth!
SCENE IV: THE CELESTIAL VOICE AND THE DELIRIUM OF FREEDOM
(A deafening clap of thunder shakes the entire set. The terminal lights go out all at once. Only the strobe light of the lightning remains, illuminating the torrential rain behind the glass. Emergency alarms flash a blinking red.
Time seems to stop for Alistair. Everything falls into a sepulchral silence, except for a strange reverberating echo).
[STAGING NOTE - THE CELESTIAL VOICE EFFECT: Over the loudspeakers, a deep, immense, authoritative, and divine voice begins to sound. The audio design at this point should employ a deep, cavernous, stadium-like echo, making Alistair's hallucination visually and auditorily hilarious, but also the climax of his own mental prison].
CELESTIAL LOUDSPEAKER VOICE: —Attention. This is the Supreme Controller speaking. Passenger golf-alpha-romeo-yankee... Yes, you, GARY: Gazza. The one with the tight tie and tense knees. Your prestige has been cancelled. Leave the carpet alone. The sky is closed.
ALISTAIR: —(Totally unhinged, in a fit of panic and hallucination. He falls to his knees, crawling forward and begging the ceiling with clasped hands) No, Lord God of Aviation! Please, don't cancel my status! It's not my fault about the Storm! Madam widow of the ambassador, for pity's sake, don't hit me with your designer handbag. Mr. MP, I didn't vote for you... I don't vote! Madam Abbess, what a pleasure to greet you, how many poor have you saved? I, I am not from here, I don't like pub rock, I really am from the first world, I swear!
(The others look at him in silence, perplexed, while he begs into the void).
ALISTAIR: —(Clinging to the invisible legs of a phantom passenger, crying comically) Look at me! If I take off this tie I'll turn into a pumpkin! I know how to say "good morning" in three languages pretending I don't have a working-class accent! I can ride in the cargo hold, next to the suitcases and the little dogs, but please... don't leave me down here with the mortals who use public transport and sweat! I smell like black pine, I swear! Don't send me back to the night bus! Good afternoon! Don't leave me on the ground! Good night!
(Alistair makes one last, dramatic bow to the air, ending up lying face down on the floor with his arms spread in the shape of a cross).
(Suddenly, the normal light returns to the terminal with a sharp click. The rain continues to fall monotonously outside, but the magic and terror of the hallucination vanish. The silence at the counter is absolute. Fiona, Oliver, Tommy and the Traveler are staring down at him).
THE TRAVELER: —(Taking a sip of his beer, with a gentle smile) Bloody hell... you tuned into some heavy visions there, eh, Gazza. Welcome to the ground.
(Alistair blinks. Looks at the floor. Looks at his hands. Slowly he stands up. He sees Fiona barefoot, eyes shining with emotion. He sees Oliver's tie on the ground. He sees Tommy smiling in the middle of the red carpet while sharing his peanuts. Everything he lived for has crumbled. The protocol is dead... but in its place, something infinitely warmer remains).
ALISTAIR: —(Takes a deep breath. He loosens the knot of his perfect tie, completely destroying the last symbol of his artificial authority. He looks at the Traveler, then at his colleagues, and, with a voice that is very much his own—relaxed, hoarse, and liberated—he answers the world with a huge smile). The sky is closed... but how beautiful the earth looks from down here, mates!
(Fiona, Oliver and Tommy burst into giant, liberating laughter. It is a triumphant laugh, a celebration of happy castaways who have just found a real island in the middle of the terminal).
THE TRAVELER: —That's what I'm talking about, my Gary! Now you're talking. Welcome to life. Hey, folks, rumor has it the airline next door just opened the kegs and the free tequila for all of us stranded by the storm. Are you guys in, or do you want to keep guarding the counter of lies?
FIONA: —(Dancing joyfully barefoot on the red carpet, holding her heels in her hands like trophies from a won battle) To bare feet and long nights! Let's go drink!
OLIVER: —I'm buying the first round, lads! Tonight we travel by road!
(Fiona, Oliver, Tommy and the Traveler put their arms around each other's shoulders, forming a happy, rhythmic, and informal parade. They start exiting the stage singing and laughing together. Alistair watches them go for a second. He looks at the carpet covered in salt. He looks at his impeccable jacket, rips it off, and tosses it into the air with absolute nonchalance. He runs after them with overflowing joy).
ALISTAIR: —Wait for me, you bastards, wait for me! I'm putting on the tunes!
(The five of them exit the stage jumping, laughing, and hugging, leaving behind the farce of status forever.
The stage is left completely empty).
FIRST CLASS: HIGH AVIATION Not for just anyone, least of all the "Cattle Class" (Looking for an Upgrade) A comedic farce in one act and four scenes © 2026 by BENJAMIN GAVARRE is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International
[STAGING NOTE - THE PRESTIGE SIGN: In this final instant, the ostentatious golden "PRESTIGE" sign lets out a violent, loud electrical spark, flickers a couple of times decadently, and goes out for good, leaving the scene wrapped only in shadows and the beautiful, imposing sound of the storm outside].
END OF PLAY
CURTAIN.
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