Around the World in a Bad Mood!

by Rene Foss

  Then it is time to meet the crew. If you’re lucky you’ll be with a nice, fun, cooperative group of people. This is usually the case, but every now and again you end up with some real oddballs and, believe me, these freaks can make a simple two-day trip a living hell. Now it is time to board the plane. This is where things will most likely be screwed up. For example, there is usually a shortage of supplies—like food! Once you make this discovery, tell someone right away. If you delay because you want enough food so all the passengers can eat, you will be getting a call on your layover and someone is going to want to know why the flight left three seconds late. Never mind that you were missing twenty meals! I once heard of a crew that was so short on breakfasts (boxed cereal, wrapped bagel, and apples) that they didn’t have enough food to get past row twenty-two. So they fed the front half of the plane, then went through and collected the uneaten and unopened leftovers from the first twenty-two rows and then offered these leftovers to those passengers in rows twenty-two to twenty-eight. For psychological stress some people recommend therapy, but I recommend denial. It’s a lot cheaper and easier to schedule. I spent years of my career in denial and look at me, I lived to tell the tale!

  The next piece of advice I offer to the new hire is to develop the virtue of patience. If you don’t have this you are doomed! Forget about carrying a tin of shoe polish in your tote, you better have the patience of Job in your pocket, because it is going to be tested . . . daily. Let me start by saying that you’re going to say “hello,” “good-bye,” and “I’m sorry” to a hell of a lot of people in the course of a day, let alone the course of a career. You’ll be giving the safety demonstration sometimes five times a day (sometimes more), offering coffee hundreds of times a day, and in this global economy in which we are now living, you will be conversing or at least attempting to converse with people from all over the world. One of the greatest joys of this profession is all the intellectual stimulation it provides. Oh yes indeed, flight attendants are permitted to engage in so many enervating conversations with passengers. They usually begin with one of the following questions:

  Will our luggage make it?

  Can you get me a pillow?

  Will I make my connection?

  Do you have raspberry kiwi iced tea?

  Is this decaf?

  Is that your natural hair color?

  Has anyone ever told you that you resemble Monica Lewinsky?

  What time is it?

  Is this your regular route?

  Can I borrow your pen?

  Can you find out the score of the game?

  Why?

  Why not?

  Where?

  When?

  Who?

  What river is that?

  Where are we?

  Can I have another bag of peanuts?

  Can I have the whole can?

  Doesn’t the air-conditioning work on this airplane?

  Is this your regular route?

  Where do you live?

  Are you married?

  Have you ever been married?

  Do you have a boyfriend?

  Have you ever had a boyfriend?

  How old are you?

  Can I have another beer?

  Where is my seat?

  Can you bring me drinking water?

  Where can I hang my wedding dress?

  So, you live in New York. . . . Why?

  What’s your rent?

  Can I use your Chapstick?

  Who is in charge here?

  Why can’t I use my cell phone?

  Can I move up to first class?

  Do you have a refrigerator?

  Is this your regular route?

  Do you have soy milk?

  Who is flying the plane?

  Can you heat this up in the microwave for me?

  Where are you staying tonight?

  Is this your regular route?

  Can you take this diaper?

  Do you have a place I can stow my cheesecake?

  As I mentioned, many times these questions can lead to in-depth conversations regarding important issues like world peace, global warming, and the economics of underdeveloped nations. They also lead to discussions about major life decisions, such as what type of light snack a passenger might enjoy on a particular day.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Hello. Would you like the almond rocca or the brownie?

  PASSENGER (very long pause with a blank stare): What?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Would you like the almond rocca or the brownie today?

  PASSENGER: What?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Would you like the almond rocca or the brownie today?

  PASSENGER: What did you say?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Would . . . you . . . like . . . the . . . almond . . . rocca . . . or . . . the . . . brownie . . . TODAY?

  PASSENGER: Ohhhhh. . . . Well, ummm, brownie . . . I guess. . . .

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: OK, here you go. . . . Jesus Christ! (The “Jesus Christ” is whispered under the breath, of course.)

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Hello, would you like the almond rocca or the brownie, sir?

  NEXT PASSENGER: What?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Would you like the almond rocca or the brownie?

  PASSENGER: Ummmm, what?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: You know, you could probably hear me a lot better if you took those headphones off. OK, now, would you like the almond rocca or the brownie?

  PASSENGER: Do you have any peanuts?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: No.

  PASSENGER: Can I get a Coke?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Yes, it’s on the beverage cart behind me, sir.

  PASSENGER: What is that?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: It’s a cart with drinks on it.

  PASSENGER: No, that pink thing in your hand. What is that?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: That is the almond rocca.

  PASSENGER: I thought you said you had brownies.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Look pal . . .

  PASSENGER: Well, what is almond rocca anyway?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: It is a fine butter toffee elegantly wrapped in gold foil. Now do you want one or not?

  PASSENGER (pouting): Nah, nothing.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Fine. Buh-bye.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Hello, would you like the almond rocca or the brownie?

  PASSENGER: Listen, my husband and I were separated . . .

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: Yeah, well, nothing lasts forever.

  PASSENGER: No, I mean we were not seated together. We purchased these tickets six months ago and we were promised two seats together, and I’d like you to do something about it.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: There is not much I can do about it now, but after I deliver all the almond roccas and brownies, I can try to see if someone will switch seats with you.

  PASSENGER: You are going to do something about it right now, young lady. Do you know who I am? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM? Well, do you?

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT (over public address system): Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? We have a passenger on board who does not seem to know who she is. If anyone can identify her, please ring your flight attendant call button.

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT (to next passenger): Would you like the almond rocca or the brownie?

  PASSENGER: I’ll have the almond brownie!

  FLIGHT ATTENDANT: I’ll be right back.

  Seeking SWF F/A to Share Manhattan Apt

  $400 Per Month or Less

  AFTER TRAINING, being assigned to the New York base seemed like a dream come true. I was convinced that I’d be able to have my cake and eat it too—that is, I would have this airline job with benefits and also be able to pursue my acting career in the Big Apple. Little did I know what lay ahead. First of all, I had nowhere to live, let alone any kind of theatrical connections. Youth gave me a kind of indefatigable confidence that I could do anything and that something would work out. Of course it did, but it wasn’t exactly what I had planned.

  I pictured myself living in a swanky Manhattan apartment. It mi
ght be small to start out, but eventually (like within a month or two) I’d have some great digs. Just before graduation WAFTI sent us out on a one-day base-familiarization trip. The minute we arrived in New York I began scouring the board with advertisements for available apartments, sublets, and that sort of thing. My aim was to find another female flight attendant who had her own apartment in Manhattan and was willing to share it for less than $400 a month. What can you say about a young chick from the Midwest, except that ignorance is bliss? Needless to say, there was no such situation available. In fact, much to my chagrin, there was not even one notice on the board regarding housing. The only notices appearing before me were a “never worn wedding dress for sale . . . cheap” and a 1979 SAAB in excellent condition that was also up for grabs. Would it be possible to live in a SAAB?

  It was then that I met Olive Douglas, a seasoned, sassy New York flight attendant. She listened to my tale of woe and said, with the cadence of a native New Yorker, “donworryaboutit.” It turned out that Olive knew of some flight attendants who were looking for a new housemate. “Whaddya know?” They worked for a charter company, and had a big house in Queens near the airport. These men were great—all five of them—and I’d have my own room, all for $300 a month. And there was no lease. I had to find something and I figured if it didn’t work out, I could get out of it easily enough and the price was certainly right. (I was about to discover the meaning of the phrase “you get what you pay for.”)

  “So whaddya say?”

  “Ummm, is there any way I could see the place or at least talk to the people who live there before I make a decision?”

  “Look, I’m givin’ youse a great opportunity here. I make all the arrangements and anyway the boys are all out of town this week. The place is great, ya gotta just trust me. Besides, what other options do ya have?” As she asked me this, she eyeballed the “never worn” wedding dress sign.

  I had to think fast. I didn’t really like the idea of living with complete and utter strangers—five men, no less! Queens was not exactly Manhattan, but these people did not work for WAFTI. Maybe that was a good thing. Ahh, what to do? I looked around at the desperate, frightened faces of my classmates, who were also trying to find places to live. Olive was working a buyers’ market. If I said no someone else would jump on this and then where would I be? Living in the SAAB.

  “Okay Olive, I’ll take it. I’ll be out here next week. Can I move in then?”

  “Sure, donworryaboutit, no problem.”

  Olive and I worked out the details regarding keys and phone numbers and then she gave me the address. My first New York address: 22 Lefferts Blvd., Top Floor. It wasn’t exactly Fifth Avenue. In fact, it was about as far away from Fifth Avenue as a girl could get, and yet I was thrilled. I had found a place in New York on my own and I was now about to embark on a journey that held all sorts of possibilities.

  I began making my plans. As soon as I was settled, I would start my acting classes, get new head shots, find an agent, and start looking for an apartment in Manhattan. Oh yeah . . . and fly a few trips. After all, my first priority would have to be my job. I arranged to have my boxes shipped out (courtesy of WAFTI). I had a lot of boxes because I planned on staying in New York, and since the shipping was free I decided to take advantage and get as many of my personal effects as possible (like my clothes, books, cross-country skis, tennis racket, roller skates, and assorted other necessities, not least of which included my stereo, the speakers, and about three hundred albums—this was the eighties) sent to my new home, 22 Lefferts Blvd., Top Floor. I had arrived! I had a roof over my head and a song in my heart.

  Il Fait Souffrir

  (One Must Suffer)

  ALL TOO SOON I discovered the song in my heart was the blues. This living-in-Queens thing was worse than I imagined. To put it mildly, it sucked. My housemates were colorful (to say the least), and the ringleader had a flair for drama and a hot temper the likes of which I’d never seen. Combine the temper with a few vodkas and you had quite a lethal combination. He was home a lot and unhappy. I was home a lot, too, so we spent a great deal of time together. Joy. Why was I home so much? After all, this was my new life, wasn’t I the one who was going to take acting classes, get an agent, and be a star? Yeah, that was the plan, but in making these plans I forgot to include the part about being on reserve with WAFTI. You know, sitting on call twenty days out of the month, ready to be at the airport with one hour’s notice (and no beeper allowed)! Sometimes I would fly ten days in a row. I felt as though I lived in my uniform and the only good thing I can say about that is that it reduces your dry-cleaning bill considerably. If you never take it off, you can’t get it dry-cleaned!

  Plus, getting in and out of Manhattan was no small feat. I had to walk eight blocks and then take two trains. I could really go in only on my days off, which were irregular, thus making it difficult to take classes consistently or to attend auditions. It also made it difficult to look for an apartment. You see, I discovered that in New York there is a whole system to obtaining a decent, or for that matter an indecent, apartment. To begin with, you have to decide whether you wish to navigate the stormy sea of rental properties alone or with the assistance of a broker. Going it alone requires a lot of phone-calling, running around, and encountering some unsavory characters along the way. Enlisting the services of a broker also requires a lot of phone-calling, running around, encountering unsavory characters, and shelling out a huge sum of cash to the broker in the event he or she finds something for you. The advantage to using a broker is that if you’re fortunate enough to hook up with a good one, he or she can speed the process along and prevent you from going on some wild-goose chases. I didn’t have the money to use a broker or the time to go on a wild-goose chase, so I simply stayed where I was—22 Lefferts Blvd., Top Floor. It was sort of like a bad marriage.

  Actually, the housing thing was the least of my problems. The guys were nice and for the most part they were gone for eight- or nine-day stretches. Even the ringleader had to fly his trips, so often I was alone in Queens, just waiting for a trip. Sometimes it would be two or three days of waiting, and I cried a lot. I began to feel that I had made a horrible mistake with my life. I wanted to go home, and yet I didn’t want to just give up. I had come this far and I was finally in the Big Apple. Eventually, I would get off reserve and hold a set schedule. In the meantime I would just have to endure my miserable, wretched life. And let me tell you, it was miserable. I’m the type of person who likes to sleep at night and be awake during the day. However, when you’re flying on reserve you might be working a red-eye one night and then working a trip that has a 5:00 A.M. check-in one day later. Your time clock is completely shot. I also like to have a modicum of control over my existence. Who doesn’t? Being on reserve, you might as well throw the idea of control out the window. You’re controlled by central scheduling, so you’re no longer a human being with needs such as sleep, food, and regularity. No, you’re merely a number, a body required to fulfill the minimum number of crew members on board an aircraft bound for somewhere (and often nowhere). Not only that, when you finally do get let out of your cage and assigned a trip, you’re at the bottom of the barrel when you bid in with the crew. This translates to having absolutely no choice of where you work on the airplane. Bidding for your working position is done in order of seniority from the most senior flight attendant down to the most junior flight attendant. Junior flight attendants get what nobody else wants, and, believe me, there is a reason nobody else wants those positions. Eventually one works one’s way up the seniority list, but it takes an eternity! So there I was, living in Queens, at the bottom of the seniority list, trying to grow out my bad training haircut and battling constant jet lag. I pretty much looked like crap most of the time. I realized that I had never known the true meaning of the word “exhaustion” until I became an international air hostess. Even to this day I wonder what long-term effect crossing the international date line so often has had on me. I remember one hel
lish week in July: I was lying in the sun (supposedly this alleviates jet lag) on the tar roof outside my bedroom window, fondly known as “Tar Beach.” I had the tunes cranked and the phone stretched out from the hall onto the ledge. It wasn’t exactly Saint-Tropez, but it was better than sitting in the house watching General Hospital. Riiiinnng! The phone rang, ripping me from a sweaty slumber. It was scheduling.

  “We have a London trip for you leaving at nine P.M. tonight, short London layover, returning on the third day. Check in at JFK at seven-thirty P.M. Thank you.” Click.

  Most people would be excited about the prospect of going to London, albeit for less than twenty-four hours, but not me. I was getting sick of London. I was still tired from my trip the day before, and definitely not in the mood to force myself to stay awake all night serving a full ship of Brits, only to arrive just as the sun is rising in jolly old England. But what choice did I have? I, of course, flew the trip and made it back to JFK three days later. The worst part came when I arrived back home at 22 Lefferts Blvd., Top Floor. It was about 2:00 P.M. when I walked into the house, stripping off my nylons and polyester uniform, to the dreaded ringing of the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “This is scheduling for flight attendant Foss, we have a trip for you.”

  “What? I just got in from London. I can’t possibly go anywhere else today.”

  “The trip is for tomorrow. Tokyo, departing at three-thirty P.M., check-in is at one P.M. Thank you.” Click.

  “Ahhhhhhh, my God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me like this?!” I screamed. Coming in from London one day and then going off to Tokyo (which is geographically on the other side of the world) the very next day cannot be conducive to good mental or physical health. Not to mention the trip is fourteen hours in the air, if everything goes accordingly. Sometimes there is a fuel stop in Anchorage, making it even longer. I wanted to scream and claw my face. Fortunately, I resisted the urge and took a cold shower instead. Yes, I flew the trip, and I think it was at that point that I came up with the phrase “Around the world in a bad mood.”