Coffee, Tea or Me?

by Donald Bain

  “I’d see a doctor,” was Mr. Schwarz’s reply.

  She wasn’t to be denied. “He really is big, isn’t he?”

  “Who?”

  “Big Wilson.”

  “Not really. It’s done with mirrors.” With that, Jim Grau wished us well and returned to his office.

  “Ah jus’ love to make jokes with all those showbiz folk,” Betty said as we walked back to the sales office. “Ah understand them.”

  “I think they understand you too, Betty,” Rachel responded with a wide grin. Betty hummed “There’s No Business Like Show Business” all the way to the office.

  Since our unparalleled success with Big Wilson, we’ve worked numerous other special assignments for the airline. Of all of them, our experience at a big political convention in Atlantic City must rate as the highlight. Or low point. It depends on how you view it.

  We must first explain our initial reaction to Atlantic City itself. Never having set foot on the fabled boardwalk of that resort city, we naturally assumed it was a city of rich old men and ladies who strolled the boardwalk summer after summer, retired at nine in the evening, and performed exactly six touch-your-toes each morning upon arising.

  See how wrong you can be?

  Atlantic City is the swingingest city we’ve ever seen. Certainly, as the site of such an important convention, the city had geared up its natural resources for the occasion. But all they did was amplify what is always there: An all-night, whoop-do-do, give-’em-hell honky-tonk town with wall-to-wall prostitutes and mosquitoes.

  There are, of course, as you would expect in a convention city, some lovely beachfront hotels. We didn’t stay at them. We were quartered at one of those pink stucco places outside of town where the number of summer insects was rivaled only by the number of hookers running in and out of most of the rooms.

  Our job, along with four other girls, was to greet visitors, mostly press, at the airline’s hospitality suite. It was set up in one of the public rooms at a boardwalk hotel, and the traffic was even heavier than you might expect. At first, we were told to ask for press credentials when people came to the door. But that system simply didn’t work out, and we abandoned it in favor of an open-door policy. Once the word got around town that the party was for one and all, the major problem was keeping up with the demand on the liquor supply. We must commend our public relations people for their efforts in this regard.

  We spent a total of two weeks in Atlantic City. By the end of the first week, we were certain neither of us would be able to make it through the second. By the end of the second week, we were equally certain neither of us would ever feel as young as we did two weeks before. It was that grueling.

  Our routine at Atlantic City was simple. We arrived at the hospitality suite at 10 A.M. We helped serve doughnuts and coffee until 11 A.M. at which time the airline’s bartender arrived on the scene. At 11 A.M. sharp, the doughnuts were put away for another day, and only liquor was served.

  We were allowed an hour for lunch, and then acted as hostesses until 6 P.M. We were given an hour for dinner. We then went back to our positions at the door until 11 P.M. After that, our time was our own.

  We tried to enjoy Atlantic City’s nightlife the first few nights. But it didn’t work.

  First of all, the nightlife is hardly what anyone from any major U.S. city would enjoy. It’s low-brow, dirty, and amateur. It’s major clubs feature talent that is long on stamina and short on ability. The clubs all close from 5 A.M. to 6 A.M., a city ordinance requiring this respite for cleaning purposes.

  Also, any girl in one of the clubs who doesn’t have an escort on her arm is immediately labeled a hooker. She has to be, and we can understand any man thinking she would be. Even the most hardened of men who were working at the convention for the airline agreed they’d never seen so many “professional girls” in their lives.

  On the few nights we did venture into town after our stint at the hospitality suite, the scene usually went like this.

  Setting: Bar stools. Many people. Bad singer onstage. Blue and red lights whirling around and reflecting off silver spangles.

  HE: Hi, baby. Drink?

  ME: (SAY NOTHING. IGNORE HIM)

  HE: I said hi, baby.

  ME: (STILL IGNORE)

  HE: Drink, baby?

  ME: No!

  HE: That’s good. No sense wastin’ the time.

  ME: (IGNORE. DON’T UNDERSTAND FIRST TIME)

  HE: Let’s go.

  ME: Where?

  HE: My place. Yours? Up to you.

  ME: Go away.

  HE: How much?

  ME: Go away.

  HE: I got twenty.

  ME: Listen you creep. Get Lost, I’m . . . I’m different.

  HE: Whatta ya do that’s different? Maybe I’ll pay more.

  Or,

  HE: Hello there.

  ME: (ASSUME HE’S NICE YOUNG MAN) Hi.

  HE: Let’s go.

  ME: I don’t even know you.

  HE: (MUMBLES TO HIMSELF) What is this routine?

  ME: I don’t just walk off with strangers.

  HE: Name’s Mark. Hey, you are a hooker, right?

  ME: I’m a stewardess.

  HE: (GIGGLES) Great gimmick. Let’s go. How much?

  ME: For what?

  HE: Well, how ’bout French.

  ME: Irish.

  HE: Irish? Never had that. That’s somethin’ new.

  ME: Huh?

  HE: Ok. Irish it is. How much?

  ME: Three hundred dollars.

  HE: Three hundred? For how long?

  ME: Five hours. Two drinks, dinner, and a junior pilot ring. First-run movie, too.

  HE: Sorry I bothered you.

  ME: Me too. Bye!

  There was obviously money to be made in Atlantic City during that convention. Unfortunately, we just aren’t the kind to take advantage of such a situation. A few stewardesses are.

  Other special assignments have found us handing out travel folders at department store promotions, checking coats at an appliance dealer’s convention, and posing for pictures to be used in publicity releases. Rachel was once interviewed by a newspaper from her hometown; local-girl-makes-good kind of thing. They photographed her serving a meal to Sonny Valano, window-shopping at Bloomingdale’s, reading a book in our apartment, and walking away from a BAC-111 with a captain. It appeared as promised, and they ended the piece by saying, “This vivacious local girl, now a glamorous member of the elite corps of jet-setting airline hostesses, stated her biggest problem was keeping track of her hectic social life in New York. Obviously, she’s captured the hearts of New York’s bachelor set, sad news for the Louisville beaus left behind.”

  Rachel’s mother was on the telephone the night the article appeared.

  “What are you doing up there?” she demanded. “Sounds like you’re just flittin’ away your time runnin’ around with too many boys.”

  “Momma,” Rachel said pleadingly, “I haven’t had a date in three weeks. The newspaper guy was a jerk.”

  “Well,” her mother sighed with a resigned finality, “newspapers don’t lie. That’s all I can say.”

  “Don’t worry, Momma. I’ll be home soon. Bye.”

  “Bye, Rachel. And don’t you let any of them fast-talkin’ boys up there get you in trouble.”

  “I won’t, Momma. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  The fringe benefit we liked best was working charter flights of businessmen. A big company will charter a plane to fly its sales executives to Kansas City or its brass to LA. These are men who’re used to flying so they don’t give you any trouble. They work hard and they like to relax hard. The liquor is poured in cascades on these flights. The usual two-drink limit is off and stewardesses can drink, too. We can also accept tips.

  On one charter from New York to Houston we had all cattle-men aboard. We broke out the bourbon the minute we were off the ground and we had all those meatmen bombed before we were past Washington. When we landed i
n Houston I got hold of the PA and instead of making the usual announcement, I shouted, “Head ’em up and move ’em out!” Those tall Texans got off roaring. I’m not exaggerating when I say I got twelve Texas hats, a pair of souvenir boots, and $150 in tips.

  That was what we call a hot flight.

  CHAPTER XIV

  “There’s Another Drunk in 3A”

  Government regulations say that we can only serve a passenger two drinks in tourist and three in first class. We don’t go along altogether with that ruling. Most passengers don’t want more than their limit. But if we have a man aboard who is drinking and having a good time and holding his liquor well, we don’t see a reason in the world why he shouldn’t have another. He can handle it. He’ll feel better for it. He’ll thank you for it and remember your airline. So it’s really good business. We especially enjoy seeing a passenger who climbs on the plane with a grouch at the whole human race get off at his destination purring like a kitten. Only liquor can do that.

  We must confess that there’ve been times when we’ve taken the rules into our own hands. We’ve given extra drinks to a man we’ve sized up as a good drinker. We’ve slipped doubles to passengers when the circumstances seemed right. If you recall, on our very first flight we poured doubles into that ill-fated woman who got stuck on the john. We made her life bearable that day. I suppose that if there were many stewardesses who were alcoholics like our ex-roommate Joan, they’d be busy converting the whole flying public to unlimited liquor consumption. But we don’t think that’s a very big risk for the airlines.

  Since most passengers don’t use their full quota, there’s no great problem about getting an extra little bottle for that hardfisted sales manager in 5A. But even when the whole plane is drinking to the hilt, we have ways of accounting for the extra servings. One of my favorites is to spill a few drops of Scotch or whatever on the carpet. You smear it around with water to make a big wet spot, but not enough to remove the scent. Then you report that you were walking down the aisle with two trays of six drinks when the plane lurched. Naturally you had to open twelve more bottles.

  A good drinker on a plane is one thing. A drunk is altogether different. Nobody likes a drunk. This goes double and triple for stewardesses.

  When a drunk comes on board, we shut the aircraft door, climb to thirty thousand feet, and there we are, a captive audience for the fellow with the bulbous red nose and ninety-proof breath.

  All the drunks holding an airline ticket don’t actually succeed in getting aboard. The airline and its personnel have the right to deny passage to anyone deemed too intoxicated to fly. They can exercise the same sort of restrictions on people with excessive body odor, filthy clothing, and, most recently, men wearing earrings. The problems arise when the man with earrings or smelling like a Bowery bum is president of one of the ten top Blue Chips.

  You can see the problem. Tell the president of a large company that he’s not wanted on your airline, and you can talk thousands of dollars of revenue out the window. The airline becomes very upset when this happens, and few ticket or ramp agents will risk incurring that kind of wrath.

  When we spot a drunk staggering up the ramp toward the aircraft, we don’t hesitate to go out to the passenger service person in charge of that flight and ask that he be removed. The captain can always demand that a person be taken from the plane. He’s in charge of that flight, and what he says goes. But while the plane is sitting there on the ground, the captain will generally leave decisions to the ground personnel. As we said, airline employees think long and hard before denying passage to paying customers.

  Sometimes people think we’re just being nasty when we complain about a passenger who has had too much to drink. That isn’t the case. We simply don’t want to have to clean up his seat and the passenger himself after his stomach has rebelled against the whiskey he’s poured down. We really don’t want to spend our flight listening to his jokes, usually all bad, but hysterically funny to him. We don’t want that overweight businessman, perhaps a sweet person when sober but switched into an Errol Flynn by martinis, to pinch and maul us all the way.

  In short, taking care of one hundred thirty passengers is hard enough. One drunk is worth at least ten people. We can do without him or her.

  You can’t always recognize the drunks on your flight at boarding time. They all don’t enter the plane stoned. Some can’t hold their liquor, and the two drinks they’re served during the flight send them into a drunken whirl. Some are on a very strict diet, or taking medication, and very little whiskey loops them. Some have been drinking for two hours at the airport bar. They seem to hold their liquor beautifully, but they’re really on the verge of intoxication. The first drink on board is the one that does it. The second transforms them into a flying nightmare for us.

  Then there are the people who never get drunk. They want to be drunk, but don’t like to drink enough to reach that state. So, they act drunk. They think being drunk will be interpreted by us as a sign of a swinger, a devil-may-care jet-setter. Usually, these make-believe drunks are frightened about flying and use the drunk routine to explain away the shaking hands and trembling lips.

  We’ve had some memorable drunks aboard our flights. I remember particularly Mr. Lunts, who commuted regularly between New York and Chicago. Now any regular traveler with an airline is a prized possession. He’s given special membership in the airline’s private club, is greeted and escorted by the airline’s passenger service people, and receives general VIP treatment. Usually, when he comes aboard, we’re told of his status and are asked to handle him with extra special care.

  The first time I had Mr. Lunts as a passenger, I requested he be removed from the flight.

  “Don’t be silly,” I was told by the ramp agent working the departure. “That’s C. X. Lunts. He’s with us every week. Take good care of him.”

  “He’s drunk,” I protested.

  “So what?” was the reply.

  “So what?” I came back with. “What about the other passengers?”

  The ramp agent was very firm. “Mr. C. X. Lunts is always drunk when he flies. But even when he’s drunk, he pays for his ticket and sends all his employees on our airline. Now if you stop and think for a minute, his money helps pay your salary. And mine too. And it helps feed my children and helps keep my wife off my back about all the new things she wants. In short, Mr. C. X. Lunts goes with us, no matter how gooned he is. That’s the word.”

  I stood there shaking my head up and down to indicate understanding. “Message received and understood. What does the X stand for in his name?”

  “I haven’t the slightest idea. Why don’t you ask him. But wait till after he’s had his two drinks. It might be an embarrassing thing with him.”

  There had been no doubt in my mind that Mr. Lunts was drunk when he came aboard. He weaved happily up the loading ramp, never quite sure which way he would lean next. He was a tall, skeletal man, his angular height giving the impression he was a pole bending in a strong breeze.

  “He looks like the Leaning Tower of Pizza,” Rachel commented after he passed us at the door.

  “More like the Leaning Tower of La Guardia,” I mumbled. Rachel liked the description. She laughed.

  We were waiting in line for takeoff clearance when Mr. Lunts first made his presence on the airplane known to everyone. He stood at his seat, turned to the other passengers, and announced, “This is the most wonderful airline in the whole wide world. And these are the most wonderful young ladies in every corner of this valued and im . . . im . . . impassioned land of ours and yours and mine.” He sat down with authority, pleased he had set the record straight.

  The next time Mr. Lunts decided to exert his individuality came when he opened his attaché case. We were airborne only a few minutes and hadn’t begun serving drinks or dinner yet.

  His case was filled with miniature bottles of booze, the same kind we serve on flights. He began passing them out proudly to everyone within reaching distance. They
all seemed quite pleased with their gifts.

  I went up to him and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Lunts. But airline regulations allow only two drinks per passenger. I’ll have to ask you to put those away until we’ve landed.”

  He looked hurt. Really hurt. He stood up, faced the cabin again, and said with great sincerity, “Ladies and gentlemen, I am truly sorry. Truly sorry. In my haste to be . . . to be . . . to be gangrenous . . . Uh, gangre . . . to give each and every one you gathered here today in this wonderful, sleek modern facility a voice . . . uh, a gift, I violated the sacrilege. . . . a sacred by-laws of this wonderful airline, and these wonderful girls here present. So, if you will be so kind and present, please put all those li’l bottles away and don’t drink not even a tiny weeny drop ’til we come to our departure . . . ah, destination.” He sat down to the clapping of a few hands.

  He declined dinner, saying, “I never eat when I’m driving, and I hope our fair admiral up in the starboard cockport of this sleek, modern airplane feels the same way that I do now about these and other matters of ramification.”