"Do You Even Know Who My Dad Is?" – A Classic Alan in the Skies Story



Today started with the noble goal of keeping America’s skies safe—by heading to a TSA PreCheck appointment in a strip mall Staples. Nothing screams “national security infrastructure” quite like getting your biometric data scanned next to the aisle of discounted laser printers. next to a frozen yogurt shop. The whole thing felt as real as my “Real ID” – which, ironically, hasn’t arrived yet. But I digress. But sure, I get it. It’s all part of the theater. And as someone who’s lived long enough to remember flying when peanuts came in little foil bags and you could bring a hunting knife in your carry-on, I can tell you—we’ve traded security for the illusion of security.

Truth is, I’m not exactly sold on all this Extra screening,  It feels like a lot of effort to catch bottled water and forgotten pocketknives, but hey — what do I know? I’m just a guy with a freshly printed wrong license and a deep well of cynicism. My kids say behind every cynic is a disappointed idealist. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I just miss the days when the skies were lawless and flying was still a little bit wild.

Let’s rewind to 1991. I was 15 years old, and I was flying with Pops. Not the infamous hand-carried fishing rod flight — a different one. Still Florida. Still Alan. Still unforgettable.

This trip was a return flight from Fort Lauderdale to Newark in January. Let me paint the scene: we were leaving 78-degree sunshine for a ice storm and single-digit temperatures. Just boarding that plane felt like heading into exile.

Now, if you think today’s passengers are out of control, let me assure you: trashy airplane drama has always been with us. TikTok just made it easier to share. This particular flight was graced by a couple who looked like they’d stumbled directly from a beach bar — or more likely, from the airport lounge after a few too many. She was bleach blonde, in highlighter-colored windbreaker and enough blue eyeshadow to stop traffic. He wore a tank top, satin gym shorts, and neon ringer socks. If you’ve never seen a man dressed like your junior high P.E. teacher at 30,000 feet, you haven’t really lived.

From the moment they boarded, they were loud — the kind of loud that assumes the whole plane came to hear their banter. And then, about the time the “feel free to move about the cabin” light came on, the woman headed to the bathroom. Her boyfriend followed.

Fifteen-year-old me knew enough to suspect a mile-high club initiation was in progress. But whatever they were doing, it involved smoke. Because not long after they entered, the smoke detector went off.

Enter the flight attendant — or, in 1991 parlance, the stewardess. She started marching them back to their seats and began delivering a stern lecture. That should’ve been the end of it. But the woman didn't stop there

Now, drunk people don’t usually respond well to authority—especially when they’re halfway between tequila sunrise and blackout. Instead of quiet compliance, we got a full meltdown. “Go f*** yourself! We weren’t smoking! F*** this plane! F*** your silly little uniform!” It escalated fast. Her voice shot through the cabin like a siren made of profanity.

She stormed back to her seat, not ready to be done. She needed more witnesses, more validation. And that’s when she stumbled upon my father, Alan.

She stopped, glassy-eyed and teetering. “Can you believe this?” she slurred, a rhetorical question aimed in his direction.

Alan turned slightly, calmly, and delivered his warning like someone who’d said it a hundred times before, usually to a stranger holding up the checkout line at a gas station. “I think you should just calm down and be quiet.”

Wrong answer.

“Who the f*** do you think you are?” she roared. “You’re not my dad! Do you even know who my dad is?!”

Now, I’ve seen Alan yell at me louder for walking to the wrong U-Haul in a parking lot. But this time, he didn’t yell. He just gutted her with surgical precision: “I don’t know who your father is,” he said dryly, “but you’re flying coach with the rest of us, so I’m guessing he’s not that important. Either that, or he’s already had enough of you too.”

Boom.

Laughter erupted around us. He had the crowd. Even the guy in 22C with the crying baby cracked a smile. The plane was turning. The tide was shifting. But the woman—she wasn’t done yet. She screeched louder. Hyphenated curse words. F-bombs with accessories.

I braced myself. Alan hadn’t had a cigarette since he’d crushed four outside the airport before boarding. If anyone on this flight should’ve been caught smoking, it was him. You’d think he’d find a way to open the window at 30,000 feet just to puff in peace. Surely this would be the moment Alan snapped. Surely the infamous Finger of Doom would appear — his pointer finger jabbing her sternum with the force of paternal fury. But instead,  Player Two entered the game.

The captain.
I swear this man was part pilot, part Navy SEAL. He filled the aisle. Uniform immaculate. Wings gleaming. Mustache like a Tom Selleck tribute. He made the old mans majestic moustache almost feel inferior.

“Sir,” he said to Alan, “sit down.”

Then he turned to her, voice booming like the wrath of Zeus. “You will sit down, and you will not say another word. If you bother another person or speak to any of my crew again, I will land this plane in Dulles and have you removed. Do you understand me?”

The silence that followed was spiritual. He had the presence of a man who’d once ejected someone from 35,000 feet with only a look.

Then she said it again. “Do you know who my father is?”

He didn’t flinch.
“I don’t care who your father is. Give me his name. I’ll call him this week and tell him what his daughter did.”

She sat down and cried quietly the rest of the flight.

And me? I leaned over to Alan and asked a question only a 15-year-old version of me would ask:
“Hey Pops… where is the dullest airport in America? Is it just super boring, or—?”

He cut me off so fast and so loud that the pilot probably heard him in the cockpit.

“It’s DULLES, you moron. D.C.! Not dullest. Jesus, are you stupid?!”

The woman a few rows up, sobbing into her tray table, even looked up in solidarity.

Classic Alan. Equal opportunity yeller. Terrorists, idiots, drunken blondes, or your own flesh and blood — no one was safe.

–—Nate

Keeper of the stories, veteran of middle seats, and witness to airborne justice


If this was your first ride with Alan, there’s a whole stretch of road behind us.



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