Around the World in a Bad Mood!

by Rene Foss

  Around the World

  in a

  Bad Mood!

  Confessions of a Flight Attendant

  Rene Foss

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my parents,

  Robert and Maxyne,

  with love

  Contents

  Dedication

  Introduction

  Father Knows Best

  Love People, Love to Travel: The Interview

  Lack of Knowledge Is Power: Welcome to the Corporate World

  Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here: Training

  Advice to New Hires

  Everything I Need to Know About Life, I Learned in Flight Attendant Training

  The Secret Language of Flight Attendants

  Do You Have a Place to Stow My Cheesecake?

  Seeking SWF F/A to Share Manhattan Apt: $400 Per Month or Less

  Il Fait Souffrir: (One Must Suffer)

  Manhattan: Capital of Reality

  Mona Lott

  Melrose Place?

  Unleashed Gluttony

  Summer Sale

  The Golden Age

  Layovers

  A Sky Goddess Speaks

  Germ War Fare

  Boarding: A Shakespearean Tragedy

  To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

  Dr. Love

  I Hate Everything

  My Brilliant Career in Daytime Drama

  Getting Off the Ground

  Medical Emergencies

  The End of Summer

  Anonymous Confessions

  On Trash

  Dramatis Personae

  Jumpseat Therapy

  Modern-Day Air “Travail”

  Heard It Through the Grapevine

  Air Rage

  Tips for Travelers

  When Life Gives You Lemons, Make Lemonade

  The Job I Love to Hate

  Thanks, Buh-bye

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Introduction

  I AM A FLIGHT ATTENDANT and the world is my oyster. And what an oyster it is! Oversold flights, weather delays, air traffic control delays, center seats, crappy food, air rage—it’s so glamorous! Kind of like a Greyhound bus in the sky.

  Recently I have been wondering: Perhaps I made the wrong career choice? There I was on my last layover, curled up in the fetal position on the bathroom floor of a Motel 6 in downtown Flint. I said aloud to my bottle of Jack Daniel’s, “Jack, what will ever become of me? Am I destined to push a meal cart up and down an aisle for the rest of my days? Politely telling people—who are so crammed into their seats that major portions of their bodies are spilled over the armrests—to watch their elbows, feet, and other assorted body parts? And asking if they would like chicken or beef? When I’m seventy-five will I still be hiding behind a fake smile (if I have any teeth left, that is), breathing recycled air, demonstrating to the suffering sea of humanity how to operate a seat belt? Oh Jack, this is not what I had in mind. Where did I make the wrong turn that led me here?”

  This was not an easy question to answer. I have made a lot of wrong turns in my life. I had to think this through. Fortunately for me, time was on my side: What else is there to do in downtown Flint on a fifty-four-hour layover, but think about your pain? I’d already been to Denny’s. So I removed the noose from my neck and I began to think. Why not tell the people of the world, most of whom are probably in bad moods of their own, about my bad mood, and my journey thus far? So here’s a story about air travel, flight attendants, and me! Fasten your seat belts, raise your tray table, and stow your bag. . . . The journey is about to begin.

  Welcome to my nightmare!

  Father Knows Best

  YOU MIGHT BE WONDERING why I became a flight attendant in the first place. I ask myself that very question every day. A lot of people think that because my mother was a “stewardess” for eight years in the golden age of air travel, the 1950s, that I chose the flight attendant profession to follow in her footsteps. Not true. Frankly, I had no interest in the airline industry whatsoever. I had other things in mind: SHOW BUSINESS! I can’t remember ever wanting to do anything else but be in show biz, preferably in front of the camera or an audience. And starring roles only, please. I loved to be the center of attention, to sing and dance, and to dramatize everything that happened. People have told me throughout my entire life that I have an overactive imagination and should try to put it to positive use. Show business was the natural choice, a logical progression, and there was no one who could tell me otherwise. I wanted to be a star, and once I make up my mind about something, it is pretty difficult to sway me. Of course, there were naysayers. The ones who tried to deter me, to discourage me, to stop me. Ha! Let ’em try, I had it all planned. I was going to take classes, read plays, get head shots, and make contacts. Then I was going to New York City to suffer for my art, and after a fair amount of suffering, someone would discover my natural ability and send me off to Hollywood, where I’d be in pictures and make oodles of cash. What plans I had! And I wasn’t that far off, either. After all, I was playing the jumping mouse (the lead!) in my high school play.

  It went on like this throughout high school and college, and looking back on my youthful aspirations I’ll be the first to admit that my enthusiasm was incommensurate with my actual theatrical talents. But when you’re twenty-two, with a heart full of hope, there is very little that can stand in your way. Except maybe your dad.

  My dad, Bob, thought it was charming that I was so interested in the theater until he began to realize that I was serious. Then he began to rein me in. I was living at home, waiting tables, and going to auditions for theaters that didn’t pay. This was not acceptable for a college graduate. It was time to get serious, grow up, and get a job with benefits! Starting immediately after graduation, my father took every opportunity to speak about the joys of gainful employment.

  BOB: Say, I heard Susie Smith from your high school class just started working for IBM.

  RENE: Oh, that’s nice. What is she doing?

  BOB: She’s a secretary to one of the big shots over there.

  RENE: The last thing I would want to do every day is work nine to five in an office.

  BOB: But she’s making good money and she has terrific benefits! She’s also moving into her very own apartment.

  RENE: Dad, how many times do I have to remind you? I’m going to New York City to work in the theater. . . .

  BOB: Rene, how many times do I have remind you that no daughter of mine is going to New York City to work in the theater. Got it?

  At that point I would change the subject or leave the room. His mission to rein me in was not confined to our private conversations. No way. I can remember one time he attended a play in which I performed at a very fine, well-established local theater. I had a central role, but no actual lines. Believe it or not, the play was well received—and so was I. In the lobby after one performance, people were congratulating me and saying hello. I was there with my father who, despite his aversion to my career choice, was secretly beaming about my small success. A family friend approached.

  FAMILY FRIEND: Oh Rene, it was wonderful! You did such a fine job. I couldn’t take my eyes off you—what presence you have onstage! Bob, wasn’t she wonderful? What did you think?

  BOB: I couldn’t believe she could keep her mouth shut for ninety minutes. You know acting is a risky thing, and not very steady. I think Rene should keep it as a hobby—like golf—and start concentrating on finding a job with benefits.

  I was getting tired of hearing about benefits, but I was living at home (his home) and he had a point about not being paid for the work you do. I was also getting tir
ed of waiting tables (although I was an excellent waitress, and was one of the best at the restaurant). But mostly, I was getting tired of being at odds with my dad. We had always been so close and had a lot of fun together, and I missed that. So in order to keep peace in the family, I began the job interview process. When you want to be an actress, it’s difficult to sell yourself to a brokerage firm, a communications company, or a commodities corporation. Needless to say, I wasn’t getting very far. Then one day my dad (we were friends again now that I was selling my soul to corporate America) burst into the house after work with a newspaper in his hands:

  BOB: Rene, the airlines are having open interviews this week. You can go over to the airport and pick up an application!

  RENE: An application for what?

  BOB (smiling): To be a stewardess.

  RENE: I think they’re called flight attendants these days, Dad.

  I reluctantly took the newspaper as he handed it to me and read the ad:

  ARE YOU LOOKING FOR A CAREER THAT IS EXCITING AND GLAMOROUS? DO YOU LIKE TO TRAVEL AND WORK WITH THE PUBLIC? WE ARE SEEKING CANDIDATES WHO ARE PROFESSIONAL, POISED, AND SERVICE-MINDED FOR IMMEDIATE OPENINGS AS FLIGHT ATTENDANTS. CANDIDATES MUST BE WILLING TO RELOCATE TO ANY OF OUR BASES: NEW YORK, CHICAGO, SAN FRANCISCO.

  After I saw the words “New York” things started going in slow motion. It began to make sense that I would become a flight attendant. I would go to the New York base, find an apartment, make some money, travel around for about six months, and then quit the airline to pursue that acting career.

  RENE: What a great idea, Dad! I love it, and I’m sure they would take me. They’d be lucky to have me! I mean, I am one of the best waitresses at the restaurant—the customers love me.

  A look of surprise came across my dad’s face at this point. I guess he was expecting a smart-ass comment instead of enthusiasm.

  BOB: That’s right, you’re perfect for the job! The pay is great and so are the benefits. But more important, your mother flew for eight years so be sure to mention that in the interview. Also be sure to ask about medical insurance and the retirement package . . . blah, blah, blah.

  The sound of his voice began to fade and I could hear only music in my head, like the soundtrack to a film at a very dramatic moment in the story. I had a feeling this was one of those defining moments in life. My dad was happy, and I was actually getting excited about this idea of becoming a flight attendant. All those travel benefits! I wouldn’t mind taking a few trips to see the world, but most of all, this was my ticket to New York City. That was it: The next thing I knew I was off to the airport to pick up my application to become a flight attendant. Not exactly my first choice of a dream job, but how bad could it be?

  Love People, Love to Travel

  The Interview

  EVEN THOUGH THE LIFESTYLE, free travel, and possibility of living in New York appealed to me, prior to February 20, 1985, I had given very little thought to the actual job of being a flight attendant. It was just another day, and another interview. But as soon as I walked into the waiting room at “We Apologize for This Inconvenience Airlines” (WAFTI) and saw the other candidates wearing crisp blue suits, perfectly coiffed hairdos, and phony smiles, it quickly became apparent that this was unlike any other job interview I’d ever been on. It was more like a cross between an audition for a major motion picture and a beauty pageant. Everyone looked so perky, so attractive, and so approachable, but behind those painted smiles and cemented bobs, I could sense that none of the candidates would mind too much if I fell backward down a flight of stairs. That would automatically disqualify one from the job, and thus increase the others’ chances of getting that strangely coveted career of “flight attendant.”

  At once my competitive streak kicked in. Seeing how much everyone else seemed to desire this position made me want it also. I hadn’t wanted it when I woke up that morning, but now it was as though I had to be selected: I was going to be a flight attendant or die! I had had a lot more confidence when I didn’t want the job. Now that I found myself actually wanting it, my confidence began to falter: “What if they don’t pick me? How humiliating to be turned down by WAFTI. Everyone else is so put together and so tall. They probably won’t pick me. . . . I should have written neater on the application. . . . I should have worn a different suit. . . . God, I hope I get it. . . . I really need this job.”

  Just as I was about to burst into my own rendition of “A Chorus Line,” a tall, officious blond woman with red nail polish called us into a small fluorescent-lit room and asked us, or rather told us, to have seat. The chairs were in a semicircle and there were no windows in the room. It was warm and I began to feel as though there were not enough oxygen in the room. We sat down in the order in which we had entered. Facing us were two other women and a man, all of whom had that steely, efficient, crisp demeanor that personifies the term “professional.” They took turns talking about how the interview process would work and what we could expect in the event we were “invited” (as in “invited to a party,” but this had no resemblance to a party) into a training class. One got the distinct feeling WAFTI did not need you, but you needed WAFTI and you were just damn lucky to have the opportunity to meet them and simply set foot on the premises.

  The officious blonde spoke, “You must be willing to work nights, weekends, and holidays. If you are selected you will attend a seven-week unpaid training program and will be required to live in the company-arranged housing for training candidates. You must be willing to relocate to any of our bases throughout the United States; unfortunately, we do not know where we need you, so we will not be able to tell you where you will be based until the final day of the training, should you make it that far. We will, however, give you a one-way ticket to your new base. You are required to purchase your uniform, which must be properly maintained in accordance with company standards at all times. The cost is seven hundred dollars. We do realize that you will probably not have this sort of money when and if you complete the unpaid training, so we will give you the uniform and payroll will deduct the cost from your paycheck until it is paid in full. When you start out with WAFTI you will be on reserve status—that is to say that you must be available twenty-two days out of each month for a trip assignment. We will always give you as much notice as possible, but since “reserves” fill in for flight attendants who have called in sick or cannot make it to their flight for some reason, sometimes you’ll have very short notice—maybe as little as an hour. We expect that you will be prepared and able to get to work in this allotted time period. After all, WAFTI will be counting on you, as will our passengers. We cannot stress the importance of your dependability when you are on reserve, therefore we have put certain regulations in place to ensure that you are available for an assignment. First of all, central scheduling will contact you by phone, so you must have a telephone at your contact residence, which must be within a one-hour radius of the airport. Second, you are not allowed to have a beeper or pager; we expect that you will be home by the phone with your bag packed and your uniform cleaned, waiting. This seems harsh, but everyone has put their time in on reserve and eventually you will have enough seniority to hold a set schedule.”

  What she failed to mention is that when you finally do get off reserve—after about four years—and you begin holding a set schedule, it will be a schedule that no one else in their right mind would want: six legs a day, followed by a ten-hour layover in a fleabag motel about two hundred feet off the runway in some dismal, dirty, depressed city. And thanks to the length of your layover (or rather lack of it) and the fact that it will be dark the entire time, you will not have the misfortune of actually seeing your surroundings. However, after years on reserve you will welcome the predictability of these horrid schedules and the fact that you no longer have to be tethered to the telephone, waiting for a call that comes at 2:00 A.M. informing you that you are going to Buffalo at 5:00 A.M.! Yes, the day a flight attendant is finally freed from the shackles of reserve she knows
the true meaning of the word “liberation.”

  I was beginning to wonder about those benefits—so far it seemed as if there weren’t too many—but before I had an opportunity to raise my hand the blonde informed us that it was time to introduce ourselves to the group. We were to go around the semicircle and stand up one by one to tell our names, where we were from, and why we wanted to be a flight attendant. This gave the WAFTI panel of experts an opportunity to evaluate our poise, our appearance, and whether we were intelligent enough to string a few words together and form a sentence. As each candidate stood and addressed the group, the panel was taking fast and furious notes. This was the part that was like an audition and it really didn’t intimidate me too much, but what bothered me was the lack of originality in the responses of the candidates.

  “I am Susie Glutz from the great state of Texas and I want to be a flight attendant because I just love people, I am very service-oriented, and I am a team player!” Followed by a big, fake smile.

  “I am Yo’ Vinnie, originally from New York, and I want to be a flight attendant because I love to travel and I want to see the world.” Even bigger fake smile, but with missing teeth.

  “I am Mary, Mary Quite Contrary from Kansas City, and I want to be a flight attendant because I just love people, I love to travel, and I love to smile.” Big, big fake smile and batting eyelashes!