Lucky Me: My Life With--and Without--My Mom, Shirley MacLaine

by Sachi Parker

  There also was the sheikh: a fat, middle-aged little man in a white robe and headpiece. I looked him over a moment, making a quick calculation: I’m supposed to sleep with this guy? Then I looked around at all that glitter and I decided, It can be done.

  The sheikh treated me with gracious charm, wined and dined me, and then asked me if I’d like to see his camels. I’d never heard this line before, but I’d come this far. How could I refuse? So he took me outside and, sure enough, he had a stable full of camels. “Would you like to go riding?”

  We went camel riding out to his country house, in the middle of the desert. It was a smaller mansion, nestled beside a picturesque oasis of palm trees. There were great heaping baskets of dates everywhere, left out to dry in the sun. We held hands as we strolled around the pond, listening to the desert breeze stir the palm leaves. Then he led me into the house. It was time, I knew, to go for the gold.

  Somehow this didn’t happen. I don’t know why. He was definitely in the market for sex; all the stewardesses had explained the deal to me, and they spoke from experience. Yet he never tried anything. I think what happened was, he discovered that he liked me personally, and I liked him. There was a lot of mutual liking going on—we related to each other as actual human beings—and that sort of pushed the sex right off the table. After a pleasantly civilized evening, we hopped on our camels, rode back to Manama, and I took the limo back to the Gulf Hotel—empty-handed.

  Well, not entirely. A few weeks later, when I returned to Sydney, I found waiting on my doorstep several spindles filled with bolts of the very finest cashmere. I had told my Bahrain admirer about my love of sewing, and he had shipped this incredibly expensive fabric, yards and yards of it, right to my home, ready to be converted into a luxury wardrobe. I promptly sewed myself a strapless light salmon floor-length gown that was to die for.

  • • •

  IN 1979 we were laying over in Bombay, India—now called Mumbai—when the Bombay Airport burned down. We were in no danger, but the Santa Cruz Terminal was gutted, and we couldn’t fly out for about two weeks.

  Now, nobody wanted to stay in Bombay itself. I’d been there several times before and was well acquainted with the almost unimaginable poverty and desperation. In the mornings, I would take a walk from my hotel to watch the sun rise over Bombay Bay. It was spectacular and inspiring; yet at the same time there would be carts going through the predawn streets piled high with dead bodies that had been collected from the sides of the road. Every morning, there would be a fresh cartload heading off to the incinerator.

  Then as the day dawned, the living would emerge to take the place of the dead, and it would be difficult to say which was the preferable state of existence. The depth of misery was shocking: people half-clothed, half-starved, moving numbly through the streets as if half-alive. Most disturbing were the blind children begging on the corners: they’d had their eyes gouged out by their parents, in a bid for greater sympathy.

  I knew I was supposed to move past them unseeing, but one time I got sucked in, and gave a little bit of money to a sightless child. It was a big mistake. Suddenly I was beset by beggars, who materialized from the shadows. They surrounded me, hands thrust into my face, and as I backed away, they become more angrily insistent: You gave him money, where’s mine? Terrified, I started running away, and they actually chased me, all the way back to the hotel. I was lucky to escape with my life. Of course, I did escape. They, the poor and hungry, were still stuck there in the desperation of their poverty, waiting for the next tiny ray of hope.

  So, no, I didn’t want to stay in Bombay, and neither did my colleagues. We’d heard that there was an old British hotel at the top of a mountain in nearby Pune, where we could settle in until the airport reopened.

  To get to the top of the mountain, we took an old train that chugged up the steep hill in a series of switchbacks, crawling along at six miles an hour. Indian workers furiously shoveled coal into the engine to keep the train moving, their bodies pouring sweat from the ferocious heat of the furnace and the pitiless noonday sun.

  When we reached the top of the mountain, we found ourselves in a different world: foggy, green, full of flowers, more like Switzerland than India. It was still hot, but a soft mountain breeze made it endurable. The hotel had long been abandoned and was in a state of creeping dilapidation, but what remained was an elegant reminder of the imperial days, with high ceilings and huge overhead fans, gorgeous cherrywood banisters and mahogany wainscoting. A veranda stretched around the building, with stunning views looking out over the valley.

  The hotel wasn’t totally empty when we arrived: a tribe of macaque monkeys had taken up residence on the roof. We were charmed and amused by their antics, as they chased one another back and forth and swung from the gutters. We were less amused when we went out for a walk through the woods and returned to find our luggage ripped apart. The macaques had stolen all of our snacks, eaten the bananas and other fruit, and now sat on the roof picking the last remaining crumbs from the bags of potato chips and pretzels. They seemed quite pleased with themselves.

  Fortunately we had a cadre of local chefs to cook for us, so we didn’t go hungry. Every evening, we’d sit around a communal table, one big family, and feast on classic Indian cuisine—vegetarian, and loaded with spices. I was never a big fan of spicy food, but I grew to appreciate its merits here, where it was sweltering even in the shade. I discovered that the more spices you ate, the more you would sweat, and when the breeze periodically came through, the air would naturally cool off the sweat and pleasantly refrigerate your body.

  The downside to this natural cooling system was that the copious perspiration did a number on your body odor. Add to this the fact that I never used deodorant—my father taught me that deodorant was bad for your underarms; it was foreign and unnatural—and by the end of the week I was smelling pretty funky.

  That didn’t keep the men away, though. When you’re stuck in an old hotel on a mountain in India with monkeys on the roof and no TV, the pungency of your aroma becomes a very minor obstacle to romance.

  Now, speaking of sex and body odor, let me tell you about Pierre.

  Pierre was my French lover. I had heard that everyone should have at least one French lover, so I went out and bagged one. We met in Champagne, when I had a few days on a Paris layover and decided to take a road trip. I was always going out on such expeditions; I’d seen plenty of big cities in my time, and while I enjoyed the cosmopolitan energy, I truly preferred exploring the surrounding countryside, finding out-of-the-way places by accident and stumbling upon moments of unexpected magic.

  I went to Champagne because I’d heard of a wonderful restaurant down there, tucked away in the middle of nowhere, housed in an ancient stone cottage that might have been a thousand years old.

  I don’t remember the restaurant’s name, but the dining experience was unforgettable. There was only one sitting for dinner, at one long table. The surroundings were rustic, but the table was set with stunning elegance: fine linen napkins and tablecloths, crystal glassware, candelabras, flower centerpieces—but no menus: you ate the food they served, and drank the wine they poured.

  It was all exquisite. The courses went on and on into the night, and you never knew what was coming next. Each course had its own wine, which the sommelier would celebrate with a joyful exegesis. After the dinner came the cheeses and port wine, the fabulous desserts, everything homemade. I can still taste that perfect crème brûlée. I was so glad I wasn’t anorexic anymore.

  There were fifteen people at the table, all French; not a tourist in sight. As the courses leisurely followed one upon the other, we got to know our dining companions. There were couples present—husbands and wives (or mistresses)—but, by design, they didn’t sit together. Lovers were kept significantly apart, so as not to inhibit the free flow of conversation.

  This is how I came to be sitting next to Pierre. He had come with his girlfriend, but she was across the table and just outside of ea
rshot. So he and I spent the evening chatting, and philosophizing, and flirting, and by the end of the evening, the attraction was undeniable. He left with his girl; I left with his phone number.

  The next night, we had our first rendezvous, and it was the beginning of a passionate, earthy love affair—in the French style, of course. Pierre never left his girlfriend—they eventually married, and might even still be together—but every time I flew into Paris, I went down to Champagne, where he would be waiting. I didn’t know a lot about him—I don’t even know how he made a living. I didn’t care. I had a lover in France. That’s all that mattered.

  As I intimated, Pierre was very much obsessed with the scent of a woman. Body smells turned him on, and he detested perfumes and lotions, anything that camouflaged what he called the “aroma of desire.” To that end, he refused to let me shower for five days before I saw him. He wanted me to be natural in every way. So whenever I had a flight scheduled for Paris, I stopped showering back in Sydney. I could wash my hands and face; that was it. By the time I got on the plane, I was as ripe as a compost heap. I don’t know how the passengers stood it. I know I revolted me.

  Then I would arrive at Pierre’s house in Champagne, and he would savor me like a fine Bordeaux, his nose twitching like a hyperactive rabbit’s. After he’d assessed my general fragrance, he would push me back on the bed and his head would dive hungrily between my legs. Ah, the French! It was all very organic, and consistent with his philosophy. Pierre never bathed, either, so I got to savor his natural essence in return. We were one smelly couple.

  When the festivities were over, I would finally take a shower, and after that he had no use for me. Au revoir, mon amour—see you next time.

  • • •

  FOR all my newfound sophistication regarding affairs of the flesh, I was still pretty traditional and conservative at heart. I know that’s hard to square with the facts, but I offer, as an example, an incident when I was staying at the Mandarin Hotel in Singapore.

  Singapore was an interesting city. They had a thriving black market there—street after street of outdoor stands where you could obtain basically any kind of drug you wanted: opium, cocaine, Valium, Mogadon (a sleep aid; lots of stewardesses took it), whatever. Many of the stewards and stewardesses were addicted, either to sleeping pills or uppers. I wish I could claim to have been above that sort of thing, but I was young; I tried them all. The only thing that saved me from a harrowing downward spiral was that none of them really worked for me. Drugs—whatever.

  One night, while the rest of the flight crew was out sampling the local pleasures, I was in the hotel bar, hanging out with a tall, dark, handsome steward named Ken. I had a big crush on Ken at the time, and we were flirting like crazy, but I knew he was married, so it was all totally innocent. Even when, at one point, he asked me if I wanted to go back to his room, I didn’t read anything into it. His wife was about to have a baby back home, so there was no way I could interpret the offer as anything more than a friendly gesture between colleagues.

  I went up to his hotel room and we had a drink and did some casual chit-chatting. Then Ken excused himself and went into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later, totally naked.

  I was perplexed. “Why are you naked?” I asked.

  He grinned. “You’re from Japan. How about a massage?”

  “Oh,” I said, relieved. “Okay.”

  Ken lay facedown on the bed, and I commenced massaging him from head to toe—his shoulders, his feet, his ass, everything. Then he rolled over on his back. His penis sprang up, proudly erect—which was normal during a massage. I took it as a compliment: he was enjoying my work.

  So I continued the massage, rubbing his chest, his thighs, and so on. I wanted him to be impressed with my thoroughness.

  “Okay,” I said, with a satisfied sigh. “All done.”

  “Wait a minute,” Ken said, grabbing my hand. “You forgot one muscle.”

  I was puzzled. “No, I didn’t.”

  “Oh yes, you did.”

  I thought about it, retracing my actions in my head. Let’s see, I massaged his calves, his deltoids, neck muscles, toe muscles…“No, I got them all.”

  He took my hand and placed it on his penis. “What about this muscle?”

  I looked at him wide-eyed. “Oh, no,” I explained, now understanding his confusion, “that’s not a muscle. That’s just a concentration of blood. It won’t do any good to massage that.”

  I had such an anachronistic faith in the binding fealty of marriage, despite my parents’ unconventional arrangement, that I couldn’t grasp the obvious even when it was standing right there in my hand. I still didn’t get it.

  At this point, I think Ken was starting to realize that he wasn’t going to get it, either.

  • • •

  I had one other unsettling moment at the Mandarin Hotel: I was heading through the lobby one day with a couple of stewardesses when I spotted a familiar face by the magazine stand. I stopped short, my heart skipped, and my stomach lurched.

  It was Luke.

  Jesus. What was he doing in Singapore? How had he found me? Was he stalking me?

  I reached out to my fellow stewardesses for support. “Save me,” I whispered.

  Then, as the scene came into focus, I realized that Luke was wearing a Qantas uniform—a steward’s uniform.

  What? Was I seeing right? By what weird process had Luke, my macho ex-boyfriend, the sheep rancher, the vineyard owner, the son of a plantation owner, transformed himself into an airline steward?

  The utter incongruity of this metamorphosis did not alter my first instinct: to turn and run. It was too late, though—he looked up and spotted me. Although he knew I’d become a stewardess, he seemed mildly surprised to see me.

  “Hey, Sachi,” he said, in a bland but friendly manner.

  I couldn’t retreat now, so I walked up to him. “Hello, Luke.” I gestured to the uniform. “Working for Qantas now?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah. Something different.”

  “Welcome to the club,” I said.

  We exchanged a few more pleasantries, and then we ran out of conversation. I never asked him why he’d become a steward; I didn’t really care. Besides, it was clear to me now that Luke didn’t care much about me, either. We had both moved on.

  “See you around,” he said, as I left him in the lobby. I never did see him again.

  • • •

  THE most memorable episode of my Qantas tour took place on a Sydney-to-London nonstop, which was about fifteen hours long. I was working the night shift. Everyone was asleep—the passengers, the stewardesses. The pilots were downstairs getting refueled. My job was to keep an eye on things, stroll the aisles, and try to stay awake.

  In the middle of the night, when all was quiet, a passenger in first class started to stir. A big strapping Aussie—is there any other kind?—he’d been something of a headache earlier in the flight, drinking continuously since we left the ground and making an obnoxious nuisance of himself, until he finally slumped into a pickled coma. I’d have thought he’d be out for the duration, but here he was, rumbling about and getting his second wind. Being the only one awake, I pointedly looked away from him, not wishing to invite conversation.

  Then he stood up. I assumed he was going to the bathroom—and he was. Yet he had no intention of leaving his seat to do it. Instead, he dropped his pants, turned to the side, and deposited a monstrous turd right in the lap of the woman sleeping next to him! I watched this happen in horror, but there was nothing I could do to prevent it. The bowel movement shot out so fast, like a torpedo, that I didn’t have a chance to catch it in a food tray or anything. It landed in her lap with a moist plop. Then the Aussie just sat down, pants-less, as if nothing had ever happened.

  The woman slept on, blissfully unaware—which was rather fortunate. He being a complete stranger, I doubt she would have appreciated such familiarity. Luckily she was wearing a thick Qantas blanket over her lap, so her dress was spared. T
hank goodness for those amenities.

  Still, this was something I had never encountered before—there was nothing mentioned about it in our training—and I didn’t know how to react. Panicky, I woke up the other stewardesses, but they didn’t know what to do, either. We all just stared at the drunken lout with his pants down and the fresh mound of excrement sitting proudly beside him. It needed to be cleared away ASAP, before it started to seep, but he was blocking all access to the woman, and no one wanted to tangle with him. Maybe this went against the Qantas code of crisis management, but when one passenger defecates on another passenger, all bets are off. We had to get the pilots.

  When the pilots emerged from the cockpit, the drunken Aussie was still in his seat, pants down, and starting to sing “Waltzing Matilda”—always a bad sign. Without hesitating a moment, the pilots yanked up his pants, strapped him into a straitjacket, put duct tape over his mouth, and shoved him back in his chair. He didn’t even struggle. His fate now determined, he closed his eyes and slept for the rest of the night.

  My role in this drama was considerably less heroic, but utterly necessary. The offending turd was still steaming on the woman’s lap. I had to remove it without waking her up, or else the resulting screams would surely ignite a plane-wide panic. So I went to work, operating with rubber gloves and the steely nerves of a bomb defuser.

  The specifics don’t need to be discussed here, but suffice it to say, the blight was removed, a fresh blanket installed, and overall calm maintained. Just another day in the life of a Qantas stewardess.

  • • •

  IN all the time I was with Qantas, I saw my mother exactly once. She’d really meant business with that diamond necklace “you’re on your own” routine.

  In that time, her career had gotten a good bounce with The Turning Point, a glitzy ballet world soap opera with Anne Bancroft and Mikhail Baryshnikov, her biggest hit in years. Then she did Being There with Peter Sellers, a marvelous film and one of my favorites. Her star was on the rise again. Every now and then one of her movies would play in-flight. It was odd to look up at my mother’s face on the big screen—they had big screens in airplanes in those days—glamorous and larger than life, while I was pouring orange juices and carrying barf bags.