Coffee, Tea or Me?

by Donald Bain

  Someone spotted something out the left side of the airplane and they all piled over to see, the plane taking a shuddering change in flight characteristics. It was that way the whole trip; back and forth and up and down until the pilot must have simply given up trying to maintain any sort of straight and level flight.

  Dan Lindgren was right. The entire flight was a valiant fight to keep the booze flowing and the drunks in line. Looms kept running into the galley with nasty mixed drink orders like whiskey sours and daiquiris for one guy or another, and Craig would always come in right after him to check on whether we were following orders.

  The only one who seemed to be enjoying the whole affair was Betty O’Riley. She almost missed the flight, racing in at the last minute with a story about how this fantastic male model just wouldn’t let her out of bed. Once we were airborne, she was right in the midst of all the elbows and hands with a tray of Scotch or bourbon and a big smile.

  Sonny took lots of pictures, his strobe unit flashing all over the cabin. It wasn’t until we were seated at dinner in Atlanta that he confided to Rachel and me that he had forgotten to bring any film, and was doing all his picture taking for effect only. Betty was attracted to his camera like a snake to water. She managed to be in every scene photographed, including some with Mr. Lincoln. It would be a sad day when she found out there was no film.

  We landed at Atlanta and taxied up to a waiting line of black limousines. The drunks were poured into cars and off we went to a downtown hotel. At dinner the press type on Rachel’s right passed out just as the main course was served. He fell headfirst into the mashed potatoes, much to the chagrin of Mr. Lincoln. Others fell by the tableside as the dinner wore on. The only saving touches were the caustic comments interjected by Sonny and Dan.

  After dinner, we were all hustled to a nightclub that featured an exotic dancer, an off-key singer, and a comic who, after being encouraged by the fifty dollars Mr. Craig gave him, told some jokes about the airline and New York. More drunks fell asleep at their tables, a woman from a cosmetics magazine got sick, and Looms made a scene about bad service.

  All of these misadventures didn’t prevent Rachel and me from having a good time. At dinner and at the nightclub we were treated like guests, not employees. We danced with Sonny and a couple of the press fellows who could still get around. We spent a lot of time turning down drinks. It seemed a shame to say No to all that free-flowing booze. But under the friendly but stern eye of the airline’s president we didn’t think we should take the slightest chance. Several times I could see Rachel glancing over at Mr. Lincoln.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  “I was wondering if he’d like to dance.”

  “Why don’t you ask him?” I suggested.

  Rachel shook her head. “I wasn’t wondering that hard.” For once she didn’t respond to my needling. “Why don’t you ask him?” She flung the challenge back at me.

  “I think I will,” I said, pushing my chair back.

  Rachel was startled. “You wouldn’t really, would you, Trudy?”

  “Just watch me.” By the time I’d walked over and tapped Mr. Lincoln on the shoulder, everyone was watching. I hadn’t counted on such a big audience.

  “Excuse me,” I began, but realized my voice was too diffident. I’d have to come on much stronger if I didn’t want to end up with egg on my face. I put on my heartiest Texas tone, “C’mon, president, baby, let’s dance.”

  There was an instant of frozen silence. Then Mr. Lincoln stood up tall and serious and said, “I’d love to, Miss Baker.” Now there’s a man who’s really a sport. We had a lovely dance—luckily it was a slow number. I don’t think Mr. Lincoln would have been up to the dog or a fast twist.

  Sonny patted me on the back afterward. “That was the best thing that happened this whole trip.” What truly astonished me was Mr. Lincoln knew my name. I’ve never gotten over that.

  The limos drove everyone back to the airport for an eleven o’clock departure for Kennedy. Once we were inside the airplane Dan Lindgren took a head count and came up one short. Finally, after much questioning, it was learned that the eighteen-year-old daughter of a woman on board was missing. The mother, an administrative assistant at a local New York television station, was rip-roaring drunk. She really didn’t seem to care about her missing daughter.

  The PR staff, those still standing, fanned out in all directions to find the missing girl. Someone vaguely remembered she was in one of the cars coming from town, so she certainly must have been at the airport. They searched under parked cars, up trees, in empty airplanes, and in the stalls of the bathrooms. Nothing.

  Then, a half hour later, Sonny came down the corridor with a limp girl slung over his arm and shoulder. He had found her curled up behind the closed bar of the terminal, her head resting on a bottle of rye.

  Everybody accounted for, we flew back to New York. This leg of the trip was peaceful because everyone was asleep, except Mr. Looms and a few of the PR people. Betty leaned all over Looms and he loved it. Rachel and I talked to Sonny. Dan was asleep in a seat next to the lost-and-found girl, who kept thrashing her arms around and yelling, “I hate you, Mother, you bitch.” No one else seemed to hear or care.

  More black limousines were waiting at Kennedy for our triumphant return. They left carrying their precious cargo of press people to various destinations. We were walking out to try and catch a cab back to the city when Mr. Looms came running up behind us. We assumed Betty had scored with him, but she was seen leaving the terminal with the captain of the flight.

  “Girls,” Looms said with a tired gleam in his little eyes, “I’ll take you home. We can have a nightcap at your place and I can tell you about the whole concept of these trips.” He was actually standing on his toes as he spoke, like an over-the-hill ballet dancer.

  “No thanks,” we said. “We’re beat.”

  “Don’t be silly, I’ll get John Craig and we’ll meet you someplace if you’d like. You know, I can see that you get a lot more of these special assignments. As the vice president, I can do that.” Craig came running up to us with great relief—he’d found his leader.

  “Good night,” we said and turned away from them to go outside.

  “I’ll see you again, girls,” Looms said with a nasty turn to his voice. We could hear him, just as the door closed behind us, say to Craig, “I told ’em I was too tired.”

  CHAPTER XIII

  “Please, Not Another Press Trip”

  MEMO FROM: Supv. Carlson

  TO: T. Baker

  ACTION: Special assignment.

  Report Mr. Fowler, Sales Dept.,

  Main Office, 0930 11 June.

  As with the notification of our press trip, Rachel received her second memo the same day mine arrived. We went to see Miss Carlson together.

  “Congratulations, girls,” Miss Carlson beamed as we walked through her office door. “You must be popular.”

  “The question is, with whom?”

  Miss Carlson checked a file she had in front of her. “According to Sonny Valano, that press trip you two worked was the biggest success they’ve ever had. He suggested you for this next assignment.”

  “It’s not another press trip, is it?”

  “No, it isn’t. Look, if you two don’t want these assignments anymore, I’ll be happy to take your names off the list. I get asked every day by at least a dozen girls how they can get to do special assignments. If you can’t use the extra ten-dollar daily fee, forget it.”

  “Don’t be hasty, Miss Carlson,” I responded quickly. “We love doing these things. Anything at all.”

  “Not anything,” Rachel said, a smile lighting her face.

  “OK.” Miss Carlson had had enough of this banter. “Go see Mr. Fowler in the New York sales department. We’re becoming involved in a big promotion and part of it calls for stewardesses being interviewed on radio and television. Sonny says you two are pretty glib.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I offere
d. “Just the two of us?”

  “No. Sonny also said you two and Betty O’Riley worked beautifully together on that press trip. She’ll be with you.”

  We didn’t reply.

  “What’s the matter? Betty’s ego getting to you? She’s really a good gal down deep. She grows on you.”

  Rachel was about to add, “like fungus,” but thought better of it. “I’m sure down deep Betty O’Riley is a lovely person,” Rachel managed coolly.

  We reported to Mr. Fowler at the specified time and place. He was a very pleasant man and seemed eager to see us enjoy the assignment.

  “The first thing you girls are going to have to do is be interviewed on a local radio show. You’ve probably heard of it. The Big Wilson show?”

  “Sure,” we responded. “He wakes us up every time we have an early flight. Funny fellow.”

  “Wonderful guy, too,” Mr. Fowler assured us. “The interview is set for Friday morning. They’re doing the show as a remote from the skating rink at Rockefeller Plaza. You’ll be on sometime between nine and ten.”

  “We thought Betty O’Riley was in on this also.”

  “She is. She couldn’t make it this morning but I’ve arranged a briefing this evening for her. You know her?”

  “Sort of.”

  Mr. Fowler told us all about the promotion and the interview, and impressed on us the fact that we had nothing to worry about. “Biggie is a very easygoing guy, girls. He’ll lead you right along in the interview. Just be yourselves.”

  We could only foresee disaster for the airline if Betty O’Riley acted as she normally did. But that was Big Wilson’s problem, we decided. We even resolved not to follow Rachel’s suggestion that we pass a note to Big Wilson on which we told him Betty’s nickname.

  “We can’t do that,” I protested. “What if he slipped on the air and said it?”

  “Don’t be silly, Trudy,” Rachel said in defense of her idea. “Professionals don’t slip when they’re on the radio.”

  “I don’t care. As much as I don’t like Betty, we have no right to do this to her. Besides, one look at her and anyone around will come up with that nickname himself.”

  I won out.

  We arrived on time at the skating rink and were greeted by Frank Deveau, the show’s director. Betty was already with Mr. Deveau, in the midst of a long, involved story about her most recent beau, when we barged in.

  “Where’s Big Wilson?” we asked after Mr. Deveau arranged for coffee for all of us.

  “The news is on and he went for a walk. You’ve never seen him?”

  “No. We were talking about him on the way over. We’ve decided he’s under five feet tall and weighs about one hundred pounds.”

  The director smiled. “How did you know?”

  We were pleased we’d envisioned Big Wilson so accurately, with only a voice to go on. “Well,” I said modestly, “we figured the nickname Big was a joke. You know, one of those show-business jokes.”

  Frank Deveau laughed. “Good thinking. He’ll be back in a minute. He gets up at 3:30 every morning to make the show at five, and I think he walks to keep awake.”

  Frank introduced us to the show’s engineer, another very pleasant fellow named Jerry Schneyer. Betty took an immediate liking to him. She must have thought she was back in the cockpit of a 727, because she immediately blinked her eyes and asked, “What are all those li’l dials and lights and things? My, how much y’all must have to know.”

  Jerry Schneyer looked up from what he was doing and leaned over to Betty. “No, it’s all done inside. They just put me out here for show. You know, keeps the people interested.” With that, he turned back to what he was doing.

  Betty turned and flashed her eyes at Frank Deveau. “My, Mr. Deveau, ah do declare ah didn’t know that. Isn’t that just the cutest thing?”

  “Yes. The whole thing is a fraud,” he concurred.

  The remote broadcast was being handled within a portable three-sided room, the walls hinged together to form a back and sides of the set. A large crowd was gathered in front.

  “Hi, Biggie,” we heard someone in the crowd yell. Then someone else said the same thing. We looked hard into the crowd for the little fellow to come through. Instead, a very large man stepped up onto the slightly raised platform on which a small piano, desk, engineer’s equipment, director’s desk, clock, microphones, and other broadcasting paraphernalia stood, ready for use.

  “Anybody see Big Wilson?” he asked us.

  “We’re waiting for him,” we replied.

  “Me too,” he said.

  All of a sudden, Frank Deveau pointed to the big man we’d just spoken with, who immediately sat down at the little piano’s little bench and started to play ragtime. After a few bars, he stopped and said into the microphone suspended above him, “Good morning, good morning. This is ol’ Biggie and it’s good to see ya all here this morning.”

  “That’s Big Wilson?” I whispered to Frank Deveau. “No,” he answered. “It’s Oscar Levant in disguise.”

  Betty giggled. “Ah jus’ love show business.”

  Deveau ignored her.

  Biggie played a few more bars on his piano, did a commercial for wine, urged listeners to listen to Mimi Benzell at noontime, and gave the time and temperature. Jerry played a recorded commercial, after which Biggie came back with, “We’re about to lose our beloved director, Frank Deveau. He’s over there applying for a job as a stewardess. All in favor of Frank being a stewardess? Hands. Hands down. You’ve got good taste, Frank. Keep it up.”

  Betty assumed his remark about good taste was directed at her. She wiggled in her chair and smiled broadly at the audience gathered in front of the set.

  “When are we going to be interviewed?” we asked Frank.

  “Few more minutes. After he interviews some of the people standing out front.”

  Wilson did those interviews after playing a Les Brown record. “OK, OK,” he mumbled into the mike as he got up from the piano bench. He certainly had earned his nickname. He had to be six foot five at least, and we guessed his weight to be three hundred. We were told he didn’t weigh that much but we held to our belief. “Let’s chat with a few of the folks out here this morning. Merry Jerry Schneyer has the traveling microphone and let’s see . . . You, sir . . . what’s your name?”

  The audience interviews lasted maybe three or four minutes. No one said anything startling and Biggie was on his way back to the platform when a little old man grabbed him by the sleeve. He turned around and the little old-timer threw him a salute.

  Wilson chuckled. “Well, hello there. What’s your name?”

  He held out the microphone in front of the man’s face. The man took the microphone from Wilson’s hand, much to Biggie’s surprise, looked at it quizzically and held it to his ear.

  “What say?” he asked Wilson, now secure with his newfound hearing aid.

  Everyone broke up. It was a marvelous scene. Wilson came back to the platform, his large frame shaking with laughter. Frank Deveau was doubled over in his chair, and how Jerry Schneyer managed to keep from pushing all the wrong buttons in his hysterics was a tribute to his experience. The little old man saluted again and walked away.

  “We’ll be right back after the 9:30 news.”

  Big Wilson called us up to the microphone at about 9:40.

  “All right, all right. We’ve managed to steal those three lovely young ladies away from Frank Deveau who is currently sitting in the corner sulking . . . or are you sleeping, Frank? . . . Anyway, I may begin to fly again . . . You are three beautiful hostesses . . . or do they call you stewardesses?”

  Betty jumped in with an answer. “Well, Mr. Wilson, honey, some airlines call us some things an’ some airlines call us other things. Actually, we’re hostesses in the true sense of the word. We’re taught that every li’l passenger should be treated with pipe-and-slipper courtesy an’ . . .” Betty was about to recite the entire training manual.

  “I’m sorry I asked,”
Wilson proclaimed.

  Betty laughed hard and jiggled herself for the audience.

  “Well now, what are your names? I know your names but no one else does. On second thought, don’t tell your names.”

  We were totally confused.

  “Go ahead. Tell us your names.”

  We did.

  The rest of the interview went smoothly. It was true what Mr. Fowler had said: Big Wilson was a wonderful interviewer. We managed to get in the name of our airline a few times, a fact we were sure would please the management.

  “Well, girls, it was marvelous,” Biggie concluded the interview.

  “I may even take up flying again.”

  We smiled. And Betty asked, “Oh, Mr. Wilson . . . May ah call you Biggie? (giggle) . . . Ah didn’t know you were a pilot!”

  “I’m not. But my friend, Vern Ostermeyer is. Do you ever fly with Vern?”

  “Ah don’t know any Captain Ostermeyer,” Betty said after searching her memory.

  “That’s a shame. Shame. Thanks again, girls. It was real fun talking to you. And you tell your boss, whoever that is, you deserve a raise. Or I’ll tell him. Or somebody’ll tell him. OK?”

  We asked Frank Deveau after the interview who Captain Ostermeyer was. He replied, “Famous Cleveland pilot. A lot of people flew high with Vern. Very high. You’re too young, I guess. Ask your boss.”

  We asked Sonny later about Vern Ostermeyer. “That’s the name Big Wilson has given to V.O. whiskey. V.O. Vern Ostermeyer. Got it?” We were very sorry we’d asked.

  Betty wanted to stay and talk with Big Wilson some more, but reluctantly agreed to take a tour of the NBC studios. It was set up by Jim Grau, head of promotion for the WNBC radio and television stations in New York. The tour was fascinating. When it was over, Betty asked Bill Schwarz, program director for WNBC, “Ah’d love to be in television. Ah just love show business. It’s in mah blood.”