A collaboration between Lewis McLain & AI
A one-act play in nine scenes, written for laughter at 35,000 feet.
Characters
- Socrates — The gadfly of Athens, newly acquainted with gate changes.
- Gate Agent — A bureaucratic bard who sings in boarding groups.
- Flight Attendant — Polite, unflappable, master of controlled chaos.
- Captain (voice) — Calm, confident, occasionally philosophical by accident.
- Passenger 1 (Businessman) — Deadline-driven, expense-report fluent, turbulence-averse.
- Passenger 2 (Student) — Philosophy fan with noise-canceling optimism.
- Sky Marshal — Serious guardian who’s seen everything except this.
Scene 1 – At the Gate
The terminal bleeps. A monitor flashes “B12 → B72 → B12.” Socrates clutches a parchment like it’s a boarding pass.
Gate Agent: Sir, you cannot board with a scroll longer than our aircraft. It violates our overhead bin philosophy, which is minimalism with fees. If you like, we can check your wisdom to your final destination for a small fortune. I recommend the fortune; it travels better than wisdom these days.
Socrates: If wisdom must be checked, does that mean truth cannot be carried on? And if truth cannot be carried on, must it always be claimed after the journey like a battered suitcase? Perhaps this is why men leave airports grumbling that nothing they found inside was worth declaring. Tell me, do you also charge for the moral weight of a conscience?
Gate Agent: Only if it exceeds fifty pounds or your status level. Our elite members enjoy complimentary conscience allowance plus early boarding for their regrets. Basic economy travelers must compress guilt into a single personal item under the seat in front of them. You look like Group Nine, which is the group that boards when hope has already departed.
Socrates: Then today I shall learn humility, which I understand boards before all other virtues. If humility fits beneath the seat, I will keep it close to my feet where I can remember it. But if hope has already departed, I trust it will save me a seat in the heavens. Now, where does Group Nine stand to be told to stand somewhere else?
Scene 2 – Boarding the Aircraft
Bing! “Now boarding all livestock, musical instruments, and people who know a pilot.” Socrates steps aboard, eyes wide.
Flight Attendant: Welcome aboard! Please place your existential dread in the overhead bin and your carry-on under the seat. The laws of physics take off shortly; snacks will follow or possibly precede—time is a flat pretzel. Do you need help finding your seat or your purpose?
Socrates: I seek both: the seat because it is mine, and the purpose because I am told it is everyone’s. How is it that a ticket defines the worth of a place more than the person who fills it? And why do men scramble to claim twenty inches of sky-cushion like conquerors of a soft empire? Perhaps we should assign legroom according to virtue.
Flight Attendant: If virtue could buy an exit row, we’d be a monastery with seat belts. Instead, we have credit cards and loyalty tiers, which are like virtues you can swipe. For now, your purpose is 23B, which is the middle path between two armrests that will betray you. Philosophize facing forward, and try not to question the tray table’s truth value.
Socrates: Very well; I will accept the middle seat as the narrow way that leads to enlightenment or elbow wars. If I must share armrests, I shall be generous and claim them only in theory. Should turbulence arise, I will practice detachment from all things that rattle. And if the pretzels disappoint, I shall inquire whether disappointment is baked in salt.
Scene 3 – Takeoff
Taxiing. The plane hums like a beehive that studied engineering.
Passenger 1: Pardon me, would you mind fastening your seat belt before my blood pressure achieves cruising altitude? I find that physics works best when everyone agrees not to float. Besides, the captain gets nervous when philosophers test gravity without consent.
Socrates: If a strap saves me from the consequences of velocity, then I accept its embrace like a prudent friend. Still, I wonder: does safety spring from the belt itself, or from the shared promise that we will not attempt foolish leaps? Perhaps the belt is merely the visible sign of an invisible social contract. Either way, I will buckle up before truth becomes airborne.
Passenger 1: Excellent—thank you for your cooperation and your metaphor, which I’ll file under “in-flight entertainment.” While you’re at it, keep your seat upright so the laws of recline do not ruin my laptop. We can test your theories after we reach a place where my presentation isn’t the fragile thing between us and unemployment.
Socrates: I, too, will keep my back straight, because dignity is posture in moral form. I promise not to crush your productivity unless your productivity crushes justice. If the gods intended us to recline without consent, they would have issued us chaise lounges. For now, let us ascend in courtesy as well as altitude.
Scene 4 – In-Flight Dialogue
Ding! Seat-belt light off. People perform the ancient dance of the aisle shuffle.
Passenger 2: Master Socrates, I’ve read you in freshman comp where wisdom wrestled comma splices and lived. Is it true that the unexamined life is not worth living, or can one at least enjoy the peanuts? Also, is the Wi-Fi a form of knowledge or just a paid illusion that loads slowly?
Socrates: The unexamined life is like unsalted pretzels: chewable, but why? As for Wi-Fi, it is a tunnel of shadows in which men chase puppies and stock tips, believing the refresh wheel to be a god. Knowledge requires more than a signal; it demands the courage to ask your browser why it fears the truth. But I admit, a cat video properly framed can suggest the Forms.
Passenger 2: That’s comforting, because I just downloaded twelve lectures on metaphysics and one compilation of squirrels on jet bridges. I worry that I am a creature torn between Plato and autoplay. If you see me scroll too far into nonsense, please tug my sleeve like a gentle Socratic notification. I will resist, though the algorithm is persuasive like a free upgrade.
Socrates: I shall be your upgrade to reality, which includes legroom for the soul. When the algorithm whispers, ask it to define the Good without selling you a bundle. If it cannot, feed it peanuts and pat it on the head. Then return to your metaphysics, where squirrels fear the syllogism.
Scene 5 – The Interrogation
Whispers ripple: “He’s questioning aerodynamics.” The Sky Marshal appears with practiced calm.
Sky Marshal: Sir, I’m here to ensure that everyone arrives safely with their bodies, ideas, and armrests in original condition. I’m told you’ve been interrogating lift and drag like witnesses at a trial. Are you planning to disturb the peace, or just the definitions?
Socrates: I disturb only the pretense of knowledge, which I assure you multiplies faster than pretzel dust. If lift truly lifts, it will not fear my questions; if drag truly drags, it will not pout when I ask where it is going. I do not fight the air; I flirt with it until it tells me who it is. Should that be a crime, I request a window seat at my arraignment.
Sky Marshal: Understood—free speech is welcome as long as it remains seated with the seat belt fastened. Consider this a friendly advisory that metaphors can trigger turbulence in the susceptible. Please keep your inquiries inside your inside voice and outside the cockpit. When in doubt, imagine the captain grading your questions for extra credit and proceed accordingly.
Socrates: A wise limit—like speed, which is delightful until it is not. I will keep my questions buckled, stow my rhetoric, and remain upright in logic. Should my curiosity spill into the aisle, I will mop it up with irony. You have my word, which is the only carry-on I never check.
Scene 6 – The Captain Speaks
Intercom crackles with confident baritone.
Captain (voice): Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking from a small room full of buttons I pretend to understand. We’re flying over a geography quiz you can’t pass without the map, and conditions ahead are smoother than airport jazz. Also, to the philosopher in 23B: I appreciate the interest in first principles; we’ll be demonstrating Aristotelian final cause when we land. In the meantime, sit back, relax, and let necessity be the mother of invention and our on-time arrival.
Socrates: A fine ruler who conducts with both reason and rhythm. He admits his limits, jokes with grace, and promises what he can actually deliver—smooth air and a destination. Such men should govern cities, or at least their airspace. If he seeks a senate, I will nominate him while remaining loyal to my pretzels.
Passenger 2: He sounds like the kind of teacher who curves the grade and still makes you earn it. Imagine a city where the loudspeaker told the truth with charm and gave snacks. People might stop shouting and start chewing thoughtfully. I would vote for any politician who served complimentary honesty with a lime wedge.
Socrates: Then we agree that leadership is service with altitude. The captain commands by making trust feel natural, which is rarer than free checked bags. If only the Agora had seat belts and a beverage cart, Athens might have behaved. Alas, democracy never found a decent tray table.
Scene 7 – The Restroom Debate
Lavatory light goes from VACANT to OCCUPIED to a moral dilemma.
Flight Attendant: Sir, the lavatory queue is a fragile ecosystem balanced by patience and small talk. Please form a line like a polite question mark and not a chaotic exclamation. Also, the sink is a suggestion, the floor is a memory, and the door must lock or everyone will achieve unwanted enlightenment.
Socrates: Scarcity is the mother of manners; I see it now in stainless steel. When men share too few doors, they learn to knock gently on wisdom before barging in on truth. The lock is a covenant between vulnerability and civilization. I will honor it as if it were a treaty written on a tiny metal slide.
Passenger 1: And I will respect your treaty as long as you keep your closing arguments under two minutes. There is a line of citizens behind you with claims more urgent than syllogisms. May the soap dispense fairly and the faucet respond to human touch. If not, we’ll add plumbing to the list of things that need a philosopher-king.
Socrates: I shall be swift, for even arguments must yield to anatomy. If the faucet judges me unworthy, I will repent and try the other hand. Should the soap be stingy, I will appeal to its better angels. And if the fan roars, I will accept it as a chorus of hygienic furies.
Scene 8 – Approach and Landing
Seat-belt light on. Windows glow with civilized horizon.
Captain (voice): Folks, we’re beginning our descent into Dallas, the city that invented “almost there.” Weather is polite, winds are friendly, and the runway has agreed to meet us halfway. Please return tray tables to their natural law position and contemplate your choices.
Passenger 1: This is the moment I love: the gentle surrender of speed, the wheel’s quiet handshake with the earth, and the collective exhale when physics keeps its appointment. I forgive the middle seat, the Wi-Fi, and even your metaphors. If my bag shows up quickly, I will believe in providence.
Socrates: Landing is a parable about our lives pretending not to be a parable. We descend with trust, we align with hope, and we settle with a bump of reality that reminds us our wheels were made for ground. Today I learned that courage can have an aisle seat and patience can stow overhead. If providence brings your bag, let us tip our hats to the baggage handlers of fate.
Passenger 2: And if providence loses it, we will call it apatheia and rise above our material attachments. Still, I hope my socks made the trip; they’re not Stoics yet. When we stop, I’ll let you exit first because your briefcase looks like it has meetings tomorrow. Mine contains only ambition and a granola bar.
Scene 9 – Arrival
Ding! People stand too soon, achieving a brief illusion of progress.
Flight Attendant: Welcome to Dallas, where local time is whatever your watch says after the sprint to baggage claim. Please open overhead bins carefully, as your aspirations may have shifted during flight. If you enjoyed our service, tell your friends; if not, please tell your enemies to fly us instead.
Socrates: You have shepherded a sky-flock with grace, which is rarer than an on-time coffee. I will tell my friends and my enemies alike, for both need pretzels, and the plane is a floating seminar in patience. Should you ever tire of clouds, Athens would make you a hero with a whistle. Until then, keep ruling your aisle like a wise queen of narrow carpets.
Flight Attendant: Flattery will get you an extra napkin and the knowledge that you’re my favorite philosopher today. If you write a five-star review in iambic pentameter, we’ll name a beverage after you called “The Socra-Tea.” It’s just hot water with questions. Safe travels—and remember to take all truths and trash with you.
Socrates: I depart with my questions, which fit under any seat, and my gratitude, which does not. May the gods grant you short taxi times and generous armrest neighbors. If I ever return, I will bring more scroll and less carry-on. Farewell—may your skies be as smooth as your sarcasm.
Epilogue – “Reason’s Flight”
Terminal window. Socrates watches a plane lift like a well-timed punchline.
Socrates: I have discovered that airports are the gymnasiums of the soul, where patience does cardio and humility lifts other people’s bags. The gods hid wisdom in Group Nine to teach us to smile at futility and call it boarding. And though philosophy claims to love reason, it apparently loves peanuts more, which I respect in a system based on incentives. If truth flies business class, I am content in coach, because comedy sits everywhere—and laughs loudest on landing.
Let's Talk About It, Lewis! 