Crash Position

by Liz Woods

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  My head rested against the window for most of the flight. Sleep was impossible. The terrain below changed from green mountains to desert, to ocean, to mountains again and back to desert. With every second, my life as I knew it slipped further away. I twisted, battling discomfort and my eyes locked on my reflection. I hoped the girl with the messy brown hair and blue eyes was not making a huge mistake in deciding to pack up and leave her comfortable Aussie life, for a strange country on a two-year contract. I reminded myself that all I had was a useless university degree and a job I had held since high school. If I wanted to go anywhere, the airline gig surely had to be the right move.

  Now safely underway to a new career, I thought about my stroke of luck a month earlier. The recruitment day had been brutal to anyone who used the wrong word, or wore the wrong tie. The sociability test came first, as refined figures in earthy coloured uniforms scattered themselves throughout the grand function room. Photogenic and immaculately groomed, they moved between conversations gracefully, with the confidence of a tipsy guest at a cocktail party. More than one of the plain dressed applicants later revealed themselves to be a recruiter incognito, condemning anyone who mentioned inappropriate topics or showed a hint of shyness. The elimination round was the final part of the cruel game show technique to used to crush dreams and inflate egos. We stood in a line as gracefully as we could, like the final scene of a beauty pageant. Exhausted by the full day audition, I needed to fake one last burst of sincerity. I made sure to get the crinkling effect around my eyes when I smiled. The names of the successful candidates were read out. Smiles broke out amongst a collective sigh of relief.

  As for the rest of you, it’s time to go.

  You have been eliminated.

  The aircraft shuddered ever slightly, breaking my thoughts. I closed my eyes and pictured my new life. With my caring words and reassuring demeanour, I would help nervous flyers make their journey in peace. I could finally put to use my foreign language knowledge before it faded from my memory forever. I would treat each passenger with care and respect, intent on filling their flight with warm and fuzzy memories. I pictured glamour and moments of drama. I would finally see the world and make new friends. I would need to crush my habit of swearing in stressful situations, or I would be sent packing. I would no longer swear like a sailor, but glide like a swan.

  I opened my eyes and studied my new office. Sandy, beige coloured seats, suggested the romantic desserts of the airline’s origin, while gold trimming around the cabin gave a gaudy touch to the aluminium tube rocketing across the sky. Menus and hot towels were served on silver trays instead of the usual plastic that was standard among other airlines. It was intended to make even the economy passenger feel like royalty. People felt special, and somewhat upper class when they could say they were flying on Elhalia Airlines. These flashy touches seemed to say: you are a king, and we are your servants–even you down here in economy. On the back of one of the many Middle Eastern oil booms and the sheer luck of a geographically strategic position, Elhalia, like many other Arabian airlines expanded rapidly. Blessed with enormous capital, they had the luxury of buying the biggest, newest planes and had the political connections to buy landing rights all over the world. Elhalia had all of their corporate fingers in the global pie. The crew were picked from all over the world speaking scores of languages, to create a thoroughly international airline. The vast network meant there was always a flight from your city to anywhere in the world. And chances were that the person offering chicken or beef would be from your hometown. I was tickled by the idea that working with Elhalia was a status symbol and a coveted CV builder that could almost guarantee getting a job in the future. The airline was a logical alternative to backpacking around the world in dirty clothes, hungry and lost. Instead, I would travel in style, and be paid for the privilege.

  My eyes fell upon a graceful figure moving elegantly down the cabin. Her uniform fit perfectly, as if it was designed just for her. I hoped mine would be so kind to me. I sat up straight and smiled as she came closer.

  “Liz, right? So I hear you’re going to be one of us soon. Welcome aboard. If you'll pardon the pun.” Her kind voice complemented her posture and smile. She had what I guessed was a Swedish accent. Maybe it was Danish. My smile widened as I took pleasure in her light-hearted introduction.

  “Thank you. I start in a few days. Training that is,” I said, suddenly aware of my disheveled appearance, now hours into the long haul flight. I tried to speak without breathing on my elegant future colleague. I hoped I did not have food still stuck somewhere at the back of my mouth that would come flying out unexpectedly when I spoke.

  “Is this your first flying job?” she asked as she knelt down so that our eye levels matched.

  “It will be. So I uhh, just hope I make it,” I said with a giggle. She smiled back at my admission of apprehension. She ever so subtly looked me over, sizing up the newest rookie. I sensed no malice or condescension in her assessment. She gave the kind of thorough look you get when you tell someone you have been ill, or in some sort of personal drama.

  “Not to worry. You'll be fine. Can I get you some more water?”

  “No thanks, I’m fine.” I was lying. I was thirsty, but didn't want to make even the slightest fuss so early in my career. The paragon of poise returned to the galley. I hoped to be like her.

  My jaw dropped when the chauffer stepped out of the Jaguar and called my name. I bumbled my acknowledgement, a little confused and feeling guilty that such a fancy ride was for me. I was expecting a run down minivan or something of a similar unkempt nature to take me to the crew compound. The driver stepped towards me and I sprung to life, awkwardly grabbing at my two suit-cases that held my entire life within them. My handbag slid down my arm, spilling the contents over the curb. Among them a dirty handkerchief, a half eaten Snickers, and a roll of toilet paper that that unrolled itself were the most mortifying of the collection. I suddenly regretted reading a travel blog’s warning to take toilet paper whenever you go travelling. A lipstick rolled in one direction, a handful of small change in the other. Two men smoking cigarettes laughed and elbowed each other. A woman speaking on her phone turned away, apparently offended by my clumsiness. A young couple about my age, dreadlocked and wearing matching North Face fleece tops smiled sympathetically and jumped to help collect the coins. I thanked them, barely able to make eye contact. The Elhalia emblem, embossed on the side of the black Jaguar assured me it was not a case of mistaken identity. The driver, finely dressed in a tailored suit, put out his hand for the bags. Not realising I was making an awkward situation for him, I insisted on stowing the bags myself. He protested politely. I protested back, determined not to be a nuisance. We lifted the bags in a cumbersome looking, simultaneous heave into the back of the car, making the task harder than need be.

  Inside the luxury car, icy air blew from the vents, while outside, the harsh desert climate passed by the windows. The car was like a microcosm of how the city worked– every building was an air-conditioned bubble of extravagant material excess protecting against the scorching Mars like atmosphere outside. The freeway looked brand new, like much of the city that had grown out of the oil boom. Condos and villas lined the road, punctuated by palm trees and street signs written in both English and Arabic. We shared the road with a Wheels Magazine showcase of cars, sporting Ferraris and Lamborghinis, down to Kias and Smart cars. The road, like much of the city and the airline, had an invigorating international flavor. I turned my head from the desert metropolis to the company’s introductory guide-book, opened on my lap and passed my finger over the rules and expectations of Elhalia cabin crew.

  No visitors of the opposite gender were permitted into a crew member’s apartment. The ‘look’ policy dictated acceptable hair colours, lengths, and a particular shade of nail polish. Tattoos, no matter if they were hidden from view, were forbidden and if discovered, warranted immediate dismissal. It warned tha
t skin must be ‘clear’ and make up was compulsory. Male crew were forbidden from wearing makeup. The strange image of a man in drag flashed before my eyes. I smacked my palm on my head discovering that to ‘facilitate glamour’ one must always allow a company chauffeur to lift bags and open doors. I hoped I hadn’t nearly cost my friendly driver his job. The bold lettering suggested that the most urgent of rules was ‘never say no.’ Always oblige a passenger’s request. Don’t argue. Unlike other airlines, being assertive was not valued. It was a point repeated throughout the book.

  “It’s this one here.” The accented woman said opening the white laminate door to my new home. She was not as glamorous as the other employees I’d met so far, and didn’t offer a smile.

  “Before we go in, remember.” She paused, looking up at the ceiling.

  A small dome that housed a CCTV camera hung just above my door. I looked down the hall and could see another. The entire complex was decorated with the nearly inconspicuous plastic domes.

  “Everything you do, they will see,” she said, gesturing with her hand for me to go through the doorway, “there are people here whose job is to watch these halls all day long. They will see everything you do.”

  My face grimaced at the thought.

  “Don’t worry, they’re not going to watch you in the bathroom! But don’t even think about bringing a boy back here. They will catch you and send you straight back home.”

  “I see. So no boys at all?”

  “That’s what I said. There’s a reason this room became vacant!” She was definitely not like the other employees. “You belong to them now. Save your fun for the layovers, they can’t get you there.”

  “I’m a pretty good girl.” I chuckled.

  “I hope you will be able to stay that way.”

  The apartment was a tiny hole in the wall comprised of one room serving as living room, bedroom and kitchen, with a closet sized bathroom to the side. Every surface was white. White tiled floor, white walls, ceiling and bench top. It was blindingly bright. I walked a few steps to the window and felt my way around the sill. It didn’t open. She saw the discomfort on my face.

  “So you see, the idea is, when you are out in public view, you are pampered. Fancy rides, posh hotels. But behind the scenes, it’s not so luxurious. You’re a servant. And you will work very hard. But you’ll figure all this out yourself.” She opened the door. “I’ll be down at the front desk if you have any more questions. And don’t be so worried, princess! That’s the problem,” ahe shook her head with her hand on her hip. “your generation is so soft, always worried about yourselves and thinking the world owes you.”

  “Thanks for showing me around.” The door closed before I could finish.