by Donald Bain
I didn’t tell a soul I was going to talk to her. I knew my parents would be furious that I even entertained the thought. And I was equally certain that all other parents in town would take the same attitude with their daughters. In fact, I expected to be the only one to actually stop and see that glamorous blonde on the poster in Si-son’s. It was my chance to escape, as Carolyn Jones did, and Cyd Charisse, to become big movie stars. I wasn’t reaching for stardom, as they did. I just wanted to swing a little more than I was destined to in Amarillo.
But I was wrong. Everybody wanted to swing. The whole female element of the senior class was at the gymnasium at 4 P.M. on Monday.
Seated behind a makeshift desk were two people, obviously not from Amarillo. One was a young man, about twenty-five, wearing what I considered the epitome of big city, urban male clothing. His suit was a conservative gray, with a vest, and a deep maroon-striped tie bowed out just so from his button-down collar. His hair was neat and clung closely to his head.
Beside him was a stewardess, a brunette, with a smile every bit as wide as the poster girl. She was chatting with a few of my class-mates, and when she spoke, her head cocked pertly to one side and her eyes made all sorts of movements enhancing her words.
Behind them stood a portable blackboard supplied by the school. On it was a montage of posters, some to do with being a stewardess but most dealing with exotic destinations. No matter where you looked, the words travel and glamour caught your eye. It was the same with the piles of literature on the desk in front of them. I walked forward and picked up one each of the four pamphlets being offered.
The young man smiled at me. So did the brunette stewardess. And I smiled at them, a little too much of a smile, but I decided on that very spot in the gymnasium that I wanted to be a stewardess. And smiling was without a doubt more important than anything else where an airline was concerned. My mouth started hurting and I went back to a seat.
I had just sat down when Mrs. Coolie walked into the gymnasium. Mrs. Coolie, widowed for over thirty years, doubled as history teacher and guidance counselor. She did know her history. But her guidance usually directed all of us to a state college where we could learn something to bring back to Amarillo.
She didn’t look at all pleased having this wild, wicked airline gang at her school corrupting her girls. She wore flat black shoes with laces. Her hair was pulled back tight in a bun and contrasted harshly with the soft, free hairdo of the stewardess.
“All right, girls. Everyone take a seat now.” Mrs. Coolie never needed benefit of microphone.
We were all seated and Mrs. Coolie began pacing in front of the table. She chewed her mouth as she paced, her hands behind her back. Then, secure in some thought, she turned to us and spoke.
“You’ve all come here today to hear what it would be like to travel all over this nation of ours and live in many different places. I suppose this is a dream that many young, impressionable girls have once or twice in their growing up. Yes, travel does have its appeal. I’ve traveled, as you all know. (The only trip I knew of was a teacher’s conference in Oklahoma City.) And I’ve found that other places never, never . . . never have what you’ve left behind in your own particular place of origin. But, you each will make this choice. And those few of you who may decide to leave Amarillo and . . . yes, even Texas, will at least have benefit of a firm and solid foundation in the great history of your state. I found this fact secure in my travels. Well, as part of our continuing effort to present to you people from various careers, we today feature the airlines. And these people are here to say some things about going away and working for their airline. I give them to you now.”
We applauded. Mrs. Coolie liked it as she strode to the sidelines.
The young man stood up and smiled at us. We smiled back.
“Good afternoon, girls. And thank you for coming. I appreciate that warm introduction from your Mrs. Coolie. Actually, we almost didn’t make it here as planned. We’ve been conducting these meetings all over the country and were in Hollywood yesterday. It looked like the weather wouldn’t allow us to reach Amarillo today so . . . well, we just stayed around the pool and watched the actors and actresses stroll by.”
Everyone laughed.
“But, I’m certainly glad we did have a chance to see and meet each of you. You all look like you’d make fine stewardesses for the airline.”
I wanted to ask which actors they saw strolling by. But I thought better of it. I wanted to ask if they’d seen Marlon Brando, my favorite. And I wanted to sign up at that moment before they got away and headed back for Hollywood.
The meeting progressed for about a half hour. The young man introduced the stewardess (I never got her name), and she told us about what she did as a stewardess and where she went and what she did when she wasn’t flying. It sounded like a real-live Cinderella story. She lived in Boston where, she commented casually, there were so many college men. She said she always went to Europe on her vacations because she could fly on other airlines for almost nothing. In fact, she even said she never really knew what living could be all about until she decided to become a stewardess.
“I suppose I’ll never want to stop flying,” she said with a reflective sigh. “Unless, of course, I decide to accept the marriage offers of those college men in Boston.”
We all laughed with her. Except for Mrs. Coolie, who sat rigid in her chair, her black shoes planted firmly on the hardwood floor, her hands firmly on her knees. It was obvious she wanted the airline gang out of her gymnasium.
The meeting ended and we were invited to stay around and ask questions. The only distressing thing about the meeting was the fact you had to be at least twenty years old to become a stewardess. But these two representatives from the airline had accomplished their given task. They had successfully piqued my interest, not only in flying but in their particular airline. I came forward to pick up a preliminary application form that the young man said would simply give them basic information on us. Then, when we became of age and went to Dallas to apply and be interviewed, they’d already know certain things about us. I went forward for those forms despite the hard stare of Mrs. Coolie, grabbed them, and returned to my chair. Then, after placing them in my purse, I went back to the desk and thanked the young man for coming.
“I hope we see you in Dallas very soon,” he said.
“You will,” I answered.
I walked quickly from the school gymnasium and ran through the hallway to the outdoors. I burst through the doorway and, once free of the musty, institutional smell of the building, breathed deeply. I was going to be a stewardess, live in Boston, date all those college men, and lounge around a Hollywood pool watching Marlon Brando do swan dives from the high board.
“Whatta ya say, Trudy?” It was the quarterback of our football team standing with a couple of other football players.
Suddenly, he seemed like a third-grade kid wanting to carry my books home from school. I practiced my new smile on him, cocked my head pertly, and walked away with a newfound air of confidence and well-being. It was good-bye Amarillo and hello Hollywood. Or something like that.
Rachel grew up in Louisville very much as I did in a happy family with lots of friends and all the usual high school fun. By the time she was a senior she was getting restless. She didn’t want to stay a small-town girl with a small-town job. She’d looked over all the local boys and found none exciting enough to give her the life she wanted. She watched an older sister marry and settle down into a narrow, contented groove. Rachel knew that wasn’t for her. What could she do? How could she get away? Good old Eddie who would some day inherit his father’s hardware store wanted to marry her. Her parents thought it would be lovely if she married good old Eddie. The young couple could build a ranch house out toward the new end of town, join the club, play golf. Wouldn’t that be nice?
Ugh, was all Rachel could say to that arrangement and her dimples disappeared under a deep frown. One day she saw an ad in the local newspaper. Air
line recruiters were coming to town to interview potential stewardesses. Rachel was the first girl in line when they arrived. They hired her right on the spot—a great tribute to her looks and her school record. Usually when a girl is interviewed, there follows a long screening process before she is signed.
Rachel told me once about the scene at home when she broke the news to her folks. It was rough going for quite a while. Her parents didn’t want her to leave home. They didn’t want her to fly. If she must have a career, why not nursing? She could study that right at home. Well, the harder they tugged, the wilder she fought to get away. Don’t underestimate Rachel. She made it.
We arrived on the same day at stewardess school to attend class number 14-45, a six-week course of basic training under the watchful guidance of “Big Momma,” a stylish Mrs. Coolie in drag. It was under her wing that we became stewardesses, a fact of her life that she probably regrets to this day.
CHAPTER III
“Big Momma Is Watching”
We arrived at stewardess school on a beautiful spring day. Winter would obviously not be back, and the cool, wet air gave us an even greater expectation of good things to come.
We entered through a narrow gate manned by an elderly gentleman, obviously retired from another line of work, who looked at our letters of admission and waved us through.
The grounds were exquisite. Flowers and shrubs were beginning to show some color against the scrim of beige buildings, each in excellent repair and no taller than two stories. And surrounding the entire grounds was a high, formidable electric fence.
Our luggage was left at the gate for later delivery to Room 16, the one we’d been assigned in our letters of welcome. It was a coincidence meeting each other at the airport as we waited for the limousine from the school. The driver was a wizened old gentleman who smiled a lot, said nothing, and drove erratically. It became obvious as we walked over the grounds toward the dormitory building that the advanced ages of the gatekeeper and driver was no coincidence. The gardeners, handymen, and kitchen help were all in the Medicare class.
“Maybe they just look old,” Rachel offered.
“No, they’re old,” I said, “and that electric thing around the grounds is an electric chastity belt.”
I was right on both counts. There would be no virginity lost here if the airline had anything to say about it.
We were greeted in the dormitory lounge by a pleasant young girl who walked us to the second floor and showed us to Room 16. It was tastefully decorated and at first glance seemed large enough for the two of us. A second glanced ruined that illusion.
“Five beds?” we asked in chorus.
“Yes. Five of you will share this room,” confirmed our guide.
“That’ll be nice,” Rachel said.
“Wonderful,” I agreed dubiously.
“You’ll love it,” our guide said with a strong note of finality. “The bathrooms are down the hall.”
Rachel and I spent the next hour lying on our beds and talking about why we wanted to become stewardesses. We talked about the glamour of flying away to strange places. We talked about being away from home and the men we’d meet because we were living away from home. We expounded on the challenge of serving a nation’s traveling public . . . and about the men who made up the bulk of this public.
I started to tell my story about Henry and his Braille line when the door opened and in walked the third member of our cozy little room. She was taller than we thought you could be to become a stewardess, thin, and dressed in what had to be a $400 suit. Her hair was out of Glamour, and she struck one of those ridiculous, awkward go-go poses the models all love to use these days.
“Hellooooooo,” she said with a nasal whine, her hand professionally on her hip.
“Hi,” we chirped back. “I’m Trudy and this is Rachel.”
“Delighted, I’m sure.” There was no way to like this girl, with her phony voice and gestures.
She looked slowly around the room and turned to the smiling girl guide who had brought her to the door. “I’m afraid I just don’t understand. I assumed a private accommodation.”
“I’m sorry, Cynthia,” the guide replied, “but there are no private rooms at the school. You’ll share a room with four other girls. These are two of your roommates.”
“Roommates? How quaint.”
“Well,” Rachel said with a sweep of her hand, “it’s not much but we’ll all manage, I guess.”
“It’s absolutely vulgar,” was Cynthia’s reaction. “I think I’ll nap.”
She started to unbutton her suit jacket and then suddenly realized we were in the room. It seemed difficult for her to comprehend we were still standing there as she undressed. We just ignored her and flopped back on our beds. She got down to her slip and placed her pale, skinny frame on the bed furthest from ours. She fell asleep and snored loudly.
Cynthia had been asleep about fifteen minutes when the door opened again and in walked Betty O’Riley. She was undoubtedly the sexiest girl we’d ever seen. She was made up of a series of soft, full curves, each straining to break through her shocking pink dress. We introduced ourselves over the noise of Cynthia’s snoring and within minutes, Betty had stripped down to nothing and had climbed between the sheets of the fourth bed.
“Ah always sleep in the nude,” she said with a naughty wink. “Hope y’all don’t mind.”
“She might,” Rachel said, pointing to Cynthia on her bed.
“She looks like a boy sleepin’ there. There’s not much to her, is there?”
“I think she’s very rich,” I offered.
“Ah hope so,” said Betty. “It’s her only chance.”
The fifth member of our room didn’t show up until after dinner. We managed to wake Cynthia, who declined dinner, so the three of us walked to the cafeteria building. There were more than a hundred girls seated at long Formica tables. Little old men cleared away the trays and little old men served the food behind the long, spotless counter where all the food was displayed.
The food was good, very good. And there was lots of it, including a massive dessert tray at the center of each table containing a wide assortment of creamy, sweet pastry. Betty cleaned her plate and finished off three pieces of pastry. Cynthia, who eventually arrived, managed to finish two asparagus tips and a cup of tea. We were drinking our coffee when all eyes turned to the front of the cafeteria where a woman, perhaps thirty-five, stepped up on a raised platform and adjusted a microphone to her height.
“Good evening, girls,” she said before a loud screech of feedback drowned her out. An old man, presumably an electrician, rushed forward and did something to get rid of the noise.
“As I was saying, good evening.” Everyone scraped a chair in response.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to personally greet each and every one of you this afternoon, but I was detained on other matters. As you know, tomorrow morning will mark the beginning of your six weeks of study here at the school. I believe your schedule indicates a meeting at 9 A.M. in the auditorium, which happens to be the cafeteria you’re in right now.”
It did look more like an auditorium than a cafeteria.
“I hope you’ve enjoyed your dinner and I look forward to seeing each of you in the morning. Until then, have a pleasant evening. Lights out at ten, you know.”
Betty went “yuuuk” at the announcement of the curfew time. Cynthia just gagged on a piece of asparagus.
“Well, what’ll we do until ten o’clock?” Rachel asked.
“I’m going to sleep.” Cynthia walked away from us.
“Ah’d like to go to a nightclub.”
“There’s no time, Betty.”
“There’s always time, kids. Always time.”
We ended up walking to the entrance gate and watching the old gatekeeper survey the strip of cleared land along the electric fence, like a scout in a frontier film. And the visions came of old war movies on TV where the POWs race for the fence and throw themselves across it as
a human bridge for their fleeting buddies. Had a vote been taken at the time, there’s no doubt Cynthia would have been chosen for the human sacrifice. The thought of her frail frame sprawled over the electric fence was vivid and satisfying.
“It’s 9:45,” Rachel warned as we strolled past an enormous swimming pool we had found behind a high hedge. “We’d better get back.”
We turned to leave when the sound of a car’s screeching tires brought our attention back to the front entrance. A shiny Ford convertible was visible through the dust its skidding halt had created, and a radio was going full blast with a singer lamenting a lost love. The old doorman leaped up from his chair and yelled to the car’s driver.
“Hey, git that car outta here and take that damn-fool music with ya.”
The door of the car opened and a young man wearing jeans and long sideburns got out and approached the door.
“Are we too late?” he asked with a twang.
“Too late for playin’ that damn-fool music.”
“No, too late for my girl to get in. She’s supposed to start school here tomorrow.”
The old man didn’t believe. “Where is she? You got a letter?”
The boy turned back to the car and yelled, “Hey, Sally Lu. Come on out here.”
There was a pause and then the other door of the car opened. Out of it stepped a pretty little blonde with all the obvious physical signs of a recent necking session. She came forward to her boyfriend’s side.
“Sally Lu, show the man your letter.”
The girl fished in the pockets of her jeans and handed the doorman a piece of paper. He studied it under the single light and shook his head at the couple.
“This ain’t no way to start school, young lady. No sir. Big Momma . . . I mean, Miss Gruel sure ain’t gonna like you buzzin’ in here in the middle ’a night . . . ’specially not with no young fella with ya and all fulla lipstick like he is. No sir. You better git right on inside. You got one minute ’fore ten.”