by Donald Bain
Our supervisor at this period was a pretty good gal. She seemed sincerely regretful as she said, “Sorry girls, but I’ve got to give you both thirty-dayers.”
“What for?” We were just as sincere in our ignorance.
You could almost feel sorry for our supervisor. She hesitated, looked down at her desk and said apologetically, “Drinking within twenty-four hours of a trip.”
“The party last night?”
“ ’Fraid so.”
“Oh, come on. Who the hell sticks that close to that twenty-four ruling? The place was crawling with stews.”
“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t make this up. I’ve got the word to suspend you for thirty days. And I can’t do a thing about it.”
The real implications began to sink in at this point. How did they know about the party and the time it broke up?
“How did you know?”
Our supervisor quickly handed us the suspension notices and got up to leave. “I’m sorry.” She walked out of her office.
George Kelman savored a crisp piece of sausage pizza as he thought about our tale of woe. It was the first night of our suspension and George, already aware of what happened, arrived with the pizza pies and a sympathetic shoulder.
“Well, now you’ll believe me when I talk about stew-spies.”
“You think that’s what happened to us?” Rachel quizzed.
“No doubt about it.”
“Who?”
“Never know.” He started on another piece but discarded it for lack of cheese. “Wish they wouldn’t skimp on cheese. Cheese is the best part.”
“Who’s the stew-spy who turned us in?”
“As attuned as I am to the whole stewardess scene, I have to admit ignorance in this matter. I know there are stew-spies but I don’t know who they are. But this might be a good time to figure it out. Who was at that party?”
We started to think back and realized most of the people crashed the party. We didn’t know 80 percent of them. We told George this.
“That’s a shame. But I’ll check into it further. That’s a promise.” He left our apartment with all the grim determination of a CIA man embarking on a highly dangerous assignment.
“Good luck, George,” we yelled after him.
He completed the role he was playing by muttering grimly over his shoulder, “I’ll need it.”
We got jobs as salesgirls in a department store to tide us over during our suspension. George wasn’t heard from again for two weeks. When he did call us, he was breathless with excitement.
“I’ve got to see you tonight, Rachel.”
He came to the apartment at eleven that night. We’d worked late at the store, and he massaged Rachel’s feet as I made drinks. When I served them, he rose from the couch and paced the room, hands behind his back, face furrowed in concentration.
“It’s atrocious, girls. Abominable. A disgrace on every airline.”
I know it was cruel to break his train of thought but my feet hurt, too. “George, how about rubbing my feet.”
He beat his fist against his head. “Rub your feet? Really, Trudy. I’m about to unfold a story of deceit and duplicity in front of you, and you worry about your aching feet. Really!”
“I’m sorry, George. But we’ve been standing all night and . . .”
“Enough of this. Do you want to know about the stew-spies who were responsible for your suspension?”
“You bet,” we screamed in his ear, our sore feet forgotten.
“OK. Now listen.” He resumed his pacing. “Would you believe your airline has a dozen girls working as stew-spies?”
We reacted with proper surprise.
“Yes, a dozen. Maybe some are your very best friends. What do you think of that?”
“Horrible. Which one turned us in?”
“I don’t know.”
We were naturally disappointed. We had expected him to tell us who the culprit was who caused us our thirty-day stint at the department store.
“What are you girls disappointed about?” he snapped at us. “I can’t work miracles. Anyway, I did find out how they work. Listen to this. All twelve girls are regular stews and collect their salaries just like you do. But the airline has a contract with a private detective agency in Chicago. And that agency has the twelve girls on their payroll, too. They collect double and work as spies. Nasty, huh?”
We agreed.
He went on. “Now, I’m going to Chicago and follow up on this whole thing. Maybe I can find out the names of the girls. This whole thing really has me upset. I always knew there were stew-spies but never really saw any damage they’d caused. Now I’m outraged.”
George made two trips to Chicago but never found out who the girls were on the double payroll. We finished our month in the toy department of the store and resumed our flying careers. The worst part of the experience was the mistrust it implanted in us. We didn’t trust anyone anymore. Every girl we worked with assumed a traitor’s mask, each her own stool pigeon in this despicable plot.
However, despite George’s failure to uncover the names of the girls, we came up with a prime suspect of our own. Her name was Janis Pool, and she talked too much about stew-spies and how terrible they were. She hated to be questioned about what she knew, but seemed possessed by the subject. We asked George about her.
“I ran down a dossier on Janis Pool,” he told us, “and she could be a stew-spy. Very definitely could be. Too much money for just a stew with one income. Lives alone. Always bids Chicago and gets it. Keeps to herself. Loves to talk about stew-spies.”
“We’ve noticed that, too, George. You really think she’s one of them?”
“Can’t say for sure. But she’s a strong possibility. I’ll check further.”
We didn’t wait for later findings by George Kelman. Janis Pool was it, we decided. She had to be.
“Was she at the party?” I asked Rachel.
“I didn’t remember her. But I don’t remember most of the people, do you?”
“No.”
But the girl for whom the party was given did remember Janis Pool showing up. “She came in about midnight and only stayed for a drink or two.”
That did it. Janis Pool was our Nathan Hale and would have to be dealt with.
We began a day-by-day harassment of the suspect. First, on an evening trip, we broke open one of the small ammonia vials used to revive fainting passengers and placed it in the oxygen mask used by us to demonstrate proper technique to passengers before take-off. Janis was all smiles as she held the mask in her hands waiting for me to read the instructions over the PA. I began reading and she placed the mask to her face in accordance with my words. She almost died. She sputtered and coughed, tears carrying makeup down her face, as she plunged into the buffet area.
“Why did you do this to me?” she cried as we stood there in gaping amazement at her condition.
“Do what?”
“Put the ammonia in the mask.”
“Janis, don’t look at us. Must have been one of those nasty cabin cleaners. That’s who must have done it.”
“I’ll get his ass fired,” she threatened through her weeping.
“I’ll bet you can, Janis,” Rachel said.
“You bet I can,” Janis reiterated.
We pulled all sorts of very silly and sophomoric tricks on Janis Pool, each helping us rid ourselves of deep-seated feelings of vindictiveness. Our decision, a kangaroo-court one, was that Janis Pool was a stew-spy and had turned us in to management. We couldn’t see any further. We called her at odd hours and hung up. We took messages from her box and enjoyed her problems when she didn’t answer them or take the appropriate action. We even spilled things on her in the buffet, an especially nasty trick because stewardesses usually maintain only one uniform.
We’re still convinced Janis Pool was the spy. It’s never been proven. In retrospect, our actions against her were mean and un-called for. But we did what we did and felt better for it at the time.
&n
bsp; Certain airlines still maintain the stew-spy system. Our union tries very hard to bring about the end of this big-sister system. So far, they’ve been unsuccessful.
Of course, we recognize that girls are deceitful creatures at best. There doesn’t seem a day goes by without one stewardess stealing away another’s boyfriend. We’ve seen hair-pulling matches between friends of long standing, poison-pen notes, vicious gossip, and nasty, day-by-day retaliation between the girls. We guess that’s the way we are—take it or leave it!
But adopting the “all’s fair in love and war” creed is acceptable when only love and war are involved. Our jobs are a different matter of much greater importance than a lost lover. We don’t personally know a stew-spy. That’s fortunate for them.
CHAPTER XVII
“Have a Merry Mistress”
Charlie Smagg opened the door when we knocked. His head bobbed back and forth like one of those stranger-than-fiction, real-life Christmas dolls. He was drunk. That was obvious.
“Hi, Charlie,” we said happily despite the blowing snow swirling around our legs.
“ ’Twas the night before Christmas and all through the plane not a creature was stirring not even one li’l ol’ bubble in a glass of bubbly champagne.” His head bobbed faster.
“Can we come in, Charlie?”
“Why, of course. Course. Come in. Come in.”
The motel room was a welcome pocket of warmth. There were maybe a dozen people in the room. A party atmosphere prevailed.
Charlie Smagg, the first officer on the flight that brought us to Rochester on this Christmas Eve, was obviously the first to arrive at the party. Besides, it was his room, a good running start for anyone.
We weren’t supposed to be in Rochester on Christmas Eve. Our schedule called for a return trip to Kennedy Airport late that afternoon. But the unpredictable winter weather of upstate New York held off just long enough for us to land in Rochester at noon. Then, like an overanxious curtain puller at a bad play, the weather swooped in and shrouded the area in a white cloak of snow.
The word that we would not be getting home for Christmas brought sadness to Rachel and me. Neither of us had ever been away from home on Christmas. Our plans were to go back to Kennedy as scheduled, and look for empty seats to Texas and Kentucky. Failing that, we’d at least be able to enjoy the day together in the familiar surroundings of our apartment. But winter wasn’t kind.
The whole crew checked into the motel together after a slippery car ride from the airport. The desk clerk, a wizened little man with bad breath and a runny nose, set the tone for the evening when he said to the captain, “Have yourself a merry mistress, captain.” It did not instill any feeling of ho-ho-ho and glad tidings in us.
We shared our room with Rhonda, the third girl on the trip. Normally on layovers, two girls share a room. But the storm put rooms at a premium. “Well, what’ll we do for the night?” Rachel asked as she pulled things out of her suitcase. “Sing Christmas carols?”
“Why not,” I agreed. “We might become the Andrews Sisters of Rochester. Ted Mack might hear us and make us famous.”
“Right. We could play all the best nightspots of Rochester on the same bill with a hacksaw-blade player and a Maltese Santa Claus who does bird calls.”
“It makes me so mad,” Rhonda said as she pouted in front of the mirror. She was very pretty, with honey hair and fair complexion and an ample figure. Her major problem was she knew it. “My boyfriend and I were going to have dinner and drive up to Connecticut and . . . Well, it was going to be fun. Damn airline. Damn snow.”
The phone rang. I answered.
“All right,” the voice on the other end said, “get down here.” It was Charlie. “We’ve got some Christmas cheer here for you girls.”
“No thanks, Charlie. I’m beat. I’m off to bed.”
“Marvelous, Trudy. I’ll join you.”
“No you won’t.”
“Is Rachel there?”
“Yup.”
“Come on down to the room, Rachel. Little drink for Saint Nick.”
“Sorry, chief, but no thanks. I’m falling apart.”
“Oh. Where’s Rhonda?”
“Right here.”
“Put her on.”
Rhonda took the phone from Rachel.
“Rhonda, sweetie, how about some Yuletide cheer?”
“Love it. Be right down.”
That started the Christmas Eve Party in Rochester. Rachel and I did go to bed as planned, but soon found it impossible to sleep. We got up and went to the party. It was in full swing by the time we arrived. There were four stewardesses from another line who’d met a fate similar to ours. There were three men, not airline types, who happened in on the festivities and were invited to pool their liquor supply with the crew’s stock. They evidently had a large supply to offer. Everyone seemed high.
“Hey, a coupla more girlies. Yay, yay. Come on in honeys.” Our greeter was one of the outsiders, a salesman of heavy construction equipment. He had big bulging eyes and his shirt collar was too tight, its cloth wilted under the folds of his neck. His nose was red and veined. It was the first year he’d missed playing Santa Claus at the office party in Pittsburgh.
The room couldn’t stand thirteen people. Smoke threw up a dense screen that gave the scene the feeling of a Fellini film. The radio, one of those quarter-in-the-slot jobs, blared forth with Christmas music between hard-sell commercials, and drippy disc jockey chatter.
“Name’s Sidney,” the equipment salesman hollered over “White Christmas.” “You from around here?”
“We fly with them,” Rachel said, pointing toward the captain reclined in the bed, Rhonda snuggled warmly against him. Charlie Smagg plopped down beside them, a fifth of rye clutched to his chest.
“More stews, huh? Great. Whattaya drink?”
We ordered.
He brought the drinks, handed them to us, and promptly grabbed Rachel by the waist and whirled her around the room in step to “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” He was surprisingly light on his feet for someone that fat. Rachel managed to get free from him and sat on the desk chair. Charlie Smagg got up and handed her his bottle. She gave it back. He tried to sit on her lap but slid off onto the floor. “Greatest stew in the world,” he yelled up to everyone over the music and chatter.
Another of the outsiders came over to me. “Hello there. My name is Scranton. Scranton Rigby. So you’re a stewardess. So’s my daughter.”
“No kidding? Who’s she fly with?”
“Well, no one right now. Got married. Got divorced. Looking for another stewardess job. Good thing she learned about the little pill before she got divorced from that idiot. Good thing. Kids get hurt, you know. Wouldn’t be able to find another stewardess job either, with kids and all that. Good girl. Say, maybe you can help her.”
“Gee, I don’t think so.”
“Well, we can talk about it later. Another drink?”
My glass was still full. “No thanks.”
The four stewardesses from the other airline were clustered around the third strange male in the room. He was small, very small. His few long strands of remaining hair were carefully positioned across his head to achieve maximum coverage. His suit was double-breasted, plaid, his shirt a fine check, and his tie wide and brilliant with pink roses on a black field. I strolled over and introduced myself to the group.
“Josh is a writer,” one of the girls told me after he’d mumbled an introduction to me. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“Yes, it certainly is.”
“Go ahead and tell us some more,” the girls insisted as Josh carefully patted his hairs in place. He was pleased to be asked.
“Well, as I was saying, it’s very difficult for me to convey some of the humor of the business to outsiders. You know, show business is a fraternity in itself. I mean, the Broadway crowd I pal with is something else. Something else. There are so many interesting tidbits about the stars and all. Like Sonny Tufts.”
&n
bsp; “Sonny Tufts?” I chanted with sheer wonder.
“Yes. Sonny Tufts. Did you know he was from a very wealthy family in Boston? Big banking family. And Sonny studied grand opera in Rome and was going to make his debut at the Met. You do know what the Met is, don’t you?”
I nodded.
“And I might add that Sonny was quite the society band leader. Did you know that?”
“Noooo.”
“See what I mean. It’s such an in thing. You’ve just got to look deeper than what you read in the columns.”
“Have you ever been in anyone’s column?” I asked. I wasn’t testing him. I was simply interested.
He chortled a little, admired his polished fingernails, and said, “That’s what my press agent is for. Keep me out of the columns. Ho, ho, ho.”
“Yes.”
The others giggled.
“What are you doing in Rochester, of all places?” He didn’t like that question either.
“Soaking up local color. I’m doing a play with an upstate setting. I want to feel it, touch it, live it, although it is dreadfully dull, dear hearts. But being what I write is important. It really is paramount to meaningful writing.”
“What have you written?”
“I’ve never written for the mass media. You probably have never read or seen my works.”
I walked away. Rachel came over and we mixed fresh drinks.
“Who’s the little creep?” she asked.
“Playwright, he says. Name’s Josh Something.”
“No kidding?”
“Yes, I think he’s kidding.”
“What’s he ever written?”
“Something to do with Sonny Tufts. With an upstate New York setting.”
Rachel didn’t understand. It wasn’t important.
The chubby equipment salesman turned the radio up louder. The disc jockey was talking about how the holiday season touched him deeply.
“. . . and to all of you out there tonight, wherever you may be and whatever you may be doing, I hope you share with me in all the warmth of this great season. Yes, it’s hard to conceive of peace on earth and goodwill to all men when our boys are away fighting the jungle wars of the world, but irregardless of that . . .”