Around the World in a Bad Mood!
Page 5
Looking back, I guess the only good thing was that I met Bitsy Heatherton on that trip. Who in the hell is Bitsy Heatherton, you may be asking yourself? She is another flight attendant, and she had recently transferred to the New York base. She was looking for a roommate to share a studio apartment with her in Manhattan. Maybe things were turning around. God knows, they couldn’t get any worse.
Manhattan
Capital of Reality
THANKS TO BITSY HEATHERTON I was able to finally make the long-awaited move from Queens to Manhattan. She was desperately looking for a roommate to replace her last one, who could no longer handle the glamorous excitement of the airline industry. While on an Athens layover her roommate had called the company and said, “I quit!” She had a Greek lover who apparently offered her a brighter future than did a career as an international airline hostess. Anyway, she was gone and Bitsy needed someone right away. It was my golden opportunity to move to Manhattan.
Getting there was not easy, figuratively or literally. I did not have a car, but I did have a lot of stuff, some of which I never even got around to unpacking. My dilemma: how to get all my boxes, stereo, cross-country skis, and the little furniture I had acquired in Queens into Manhattan. I began by putting a few of my boxes on my luggage cart and some of my clothes into a garment bag, which rested on top of the cart. From there I proceeded out the front door, dragging the entire ensemble behind me to the local subway station, where I caught the F train into Manhattan. Then I took a bus up to the new place. After about three round-trips I was exhausted, and it seemed that I had not made much of a dent in getting things moved out of there. Also, there were a number of things I needed to move that could not be taken on public transportation. I began throwing things away, and finally decided to move the rest of it in a cab. Fortunately for me I met up with a delightful cab driver. His name was Victor and he fell in love with me as he helped me load the Panasonic stereo into the trunk of his gypsy cab. Now, I’m not sure if Victor had car insurance, or even a license for that matter, but without his help I don’t think I would have been able to get everything to my new home. His English was limited, but we were able to communicate enough for him to ask if he could take Bitsy and me out for dinner. We accepted. And so the first official night at my new home in Manhattan was spent having pizza and a cheap bottle of Chianti at a dive on Second Avenue with my new roommate and my new friend, Victor the Albanian gypsy-cab driver.
It may not have been a palace, but Bitsy and I loved living in our little studio on the Upper East Side. The rent was $750 a month, which isn’t a lot—especially when you divide it by two—but we weren’t making the big bucks yet. And we were living in Manhattan, so every time we walked out the door we spent $20 on something. We decided to take a few more girls in on a temporary basis in order to reduce the rent. We weren’t concerned about crowding because we would all be on different schedules. It was unlikely that we would all be there at the same time, so we bought a futon and plastic shelf unit and Bitsy and I decided to share the closet. We didn’t have any intention of hanging around the apartment that much anyway; I was going to be a big star and she was out to meet a rich man and be a socialite. Now that we were no longer on reserve and were holding schedules (crappy ones, but schedules nonetheless), we were ready to set the world on fire!
I was flying trips to Madrid, and although I love Madrid and enjoyed being there once I arrived, getting there required an enormous amount of intestinal fortitude. I never knew just how difficult it could be to drag my ass from point A to point B until I became a flight attendant. To begin with, Bitsy and I lived on the fifth floor of a five-story walk-up, so every time I came home from a trip I had to navigate the stairs with my luggage cart. At this point in history the ever popular rollerboard had not yet come into fashion, so I had two blue WAFTI-issued bags that had to be arranged on separate carts and then tied together with a bungee cord. Leaving the apartment, once I made it down the stairs, in my blue polyester uniform including my blue pumps with two-inch heels, I had to schlep six blocks to the Lexington Avenue subway and then trudge down another flight of stairs against a teeming assemblage of other harried New Yorkers coming up the same stairway. The next obstacle was maneuvering my way through the turnstyle. And then there’s the lengthy wait on the platform (this part was particularly horrid in the summer months because of the sweltering heat, which was only made worse by the oppressive polyester uniform). And then finally boarding, and usually standing on a jam-packed number 6 train downtown to Grand Central Station, where I would catch the Carey bus to JFK Airport.
I’d only allow myself the luxury of a taxi if Bitsy or one of the other assorted roommates was also going on a trip to Grand Central at the same time. Taxis were a nonessential item that did not fit into my tight budget. I could hardly afford to take a taxi from the apartment to the Carey bus, so taking a taxi all the way to the airport was completely out of the question, although I longed to do it quite often. In any case, getting to the Carey bus was just the first leg of what was a long day’s journey into night. Once I arrived at JFK I had to hustle up to the check-in office where I checked in, met my crew, and got our flight information. We then boarded the limo (really a big van that smells of stale car freshener combined with patchouli oil) bound for LaGuardia Airport, where our trip would begin. Why didn’t we just check in at LaGuardia and eliminate the hassle of going out to JFK? Because that would make sense. One of the phenomenons I’ve discovered about the airline industry is that the less something makes sense, the more likely it is to become a standard operating procedure. So, along with seven other flight attendants, I would settle into the limo for a nice long ride in rush-hour traffic from JFK to LaGuardia.
Upon our arrival we would then hurry over, en masse, to the 5:00 P.M. shuttle and fly, as passengers, up to Boston, where we would have a two-hour sit before our 9:00 P.M. flight to Madrid. Since I left my apartment at 1:00 P.M. I had already put in an eight-hour day, but according to WAFTI the workday was just beginning. Alas, the time clock does not start until the captain starts the engine. At that point we still had an eight-hour flight ahead of us—providing there were no delays—and then another hour to get to the hotel and sign in for our rooms. Often the rooms would not be ready for new occupants and so the available rooms were given out in seniority order. In other words, the junior people on the crew would have to wait in the lobby. I’ve fallen asleep in the lobby of many a hotel in this world while waiting for my cell—uh, I mean, room.
The worst part of this was that it was my weekly schedule; I had to do five of these three-day trips a month. After about three months I was getting burned out and pretty ragged around the edges. I was already a haggard battle-ax of a gal at the ripe old age of twenty-four. However, I was not as bad as some—at least not yet. I’ll admit it, I have met some flight attendants who have scared the hell out of me. I’m sure you know the type because they terrorize everyone on the plane: “Fasten that seat belt!” they bark as they come up the aisle, slamming the seat backs of poor slobs who haven’t returned to the upright, locked position as previously ordered. In short, these flight attendants possess all the charm and conviviality of the Newark Airport parking lot at about 4:00 A.M.
Mona Lott
“TESTING, ONE-TWO-THREE. . . . hello? Is this thing on? Oh, for Christ’s sake. . . . OK. Welcome aboard We Apologize for This Inconvenience Airlines, also known as WAFTI. OK, this is flight 5050 to, ummm . . . to . . . let’s see here, today we are going to . . . umm, well we will figure that out later, ummm, it’s on your ticket if you really need to know. This flight is under the command of Captain Booze, assisted by First Officer Chance, and as we like to say here at WAFTI, if Booze and Chance can’t get ya there . . . nothing can! All right then, moving on. My name is Mona—Mona Lott—and I’m your senior indentured servant for this flight. Once airborne, if we should ever live to see the day, this flight will take about four hours to get to wherever the hell we’re going! We will not be showing a mov
ie on today’s flight because we don’t feel like passing out the headsets, plus people never have the correct change and I’m getting sick of spending the whole flight trying to change a fifty when I could be sitting in my jumpseat reading People magazine. Now for your comfort we have four lavatories on this aircraft: one in first class and three in coach. However, only one is working, so pace yourself on the drinks! The airphones are not working, we have only three pillows and two blankets, and we’re short two flight attendants, fifty-five meals, and one good engine. And by the way, this flight is oversold. We do not have any magazines or newspapers, but we do have the pamphlet How to Deal with Anger in a Positive Nonviolent Way. Today we will be passing these pamphlets out in lieu of the meals. In the meantime, please remember that to be human is to know pain and suffering and to be a prisoner—I mean, a passenger—on WAFTI is to know rage. We here at WAFTI appreciate your business and we want you to know that we’re constantly upping our standards. . . . So up yours!
“Now it is time for the safety demonstration. This information could save your life so please pay attention, and remember ladies and gentlemen, next time your plans include air travel, wherever your final destination may be, please keep this thought in mind: Flight attendants are on board the aircraft to save your ass, not kiss it! Is my crew ready? All right, it’s time for the ‘Safety Demo Shuffle.’ I will now be dimming the cabin lights to enhance the beauty of our flight attendants. Oh yes, one more thing: When the captain turns on the seat-belt sign I want to hear one click! Sit back, relax, and enjoy your trip.”
SAFETY DEMO SHUFFLE
If you’ve never traveled by car
this is your seat belt, please know
where they are. To fasten the belt,
just pull till it’s tight and don’t let
go till the end of the flight!
This is for safety, especially yours, pay
close attention as we point out the doors,
please keep in mind this aircraft has eight,
they all have slides and we hope they inflate.
If we have to get out, there won’t be much time,
so head for the door and follow in line, should the
cabin lose pressure, place this mask on your nose,
if the plane’s going down, just reach for your toes,
if we have a water evacuation, use your tushy
cushion for your flotation, pull up and remove,
then hold to your chest, dive in the water, and
hope for the best!
A few more reminders, then off on our way:
No smoking, no cell phones, no meals today!
Thank you for flying, we’re glad to arrive.
If you want to get there faster, if you want
to get there sooner, if you just want to get there
why don’t you drive??? We dooooooo!!!!!
Melrose Place?
SO, THERE I WAS living in a studio apartment with Bitsy and a bunch of other new flight attendants who came as quickly as they left. To call it an ever-changing cast of characters would be an understatement. We did have a lot of fun, and the neighbors thought it was something to have all these wacky chicks coming and going. And wacky we were!
I had started taking voice lessons and could be heard vocalizing at odd times of the day. I was also taking tap-dance lessons, and when none of the other girls was around I would practice my tap and vocalize at the same time, killing two birds with one stone. We also had a girl from Alabama living with us for the summer, Kitty O’Malley. Although she was a bit older, she was junior to us because she had started three months after we did. Kitty was quite pretty, recently divorced, and glad to be out of Alabama. She had a Southern drawl and a general Southern charm that drove the men crazy. Often I would come home from a trip to find Kitty sitting on the futon, sipping champagne with some Wall Street guy who was hoping to get to know Kitty a bit better. I always hated to break up the party, but I was exhausted and there was a house rule that those coming in or going out on a trip called the shots. Since I had just come in from a trip, whatever I said was the law of the land. After all, it was a one-room apartment. In any case, I think my wanting to lie in bed and watch television might have taken something away from their romantic evening. Kitty never seemed to mind, but I certainly got some evil looks from her assorted dates. Actually, the general layout of the place didn’t really inspire romance. You walked in the front door and there you were in the middle of the kitchen. To the right was a little dressing area and a small bathroom, which always had panty hose, slips, and other hand washables hanging in the shower. To the left was a perfectly square room that had two tall windows that looked out to a brick wall. We had furnished it with two single beds (in front of each window), a futon across from one bed, and a tall plastic collapsing shelf unit across from the other. We also had some folding lawn chairs that we stored behind the shelf unit. There were always suitcases and uniform pieces strewn about the place, which gave it the feel of a flophouse rather than the pied-à-terre of international flight attendants. Bitsy had filled her side of the shelf unit with her mug collection. She had recently entered a phase where she was questioning her career: “What is the point of this insipid little job anyway?” she asked us daily. “All I have to show for the last four years of my life is a mug collection. Some people have homes, cars, kids, husbands. I have mugs.” Her mug collection consisted of a mug from every city she had ever visited, even if it was just to get off the airplane to buy a mug. Some of the mugs were pretty ugly, but they meant the world to her so we never asked her to get rid of them. They kind of grew on us after awhile.
Bitsy, Kitty, and I also had another girl living with us on a part-time basis. Her name was Rose. She had been flying for ten years and held terrific trips to Asia. She really lived in Phoenix, but since there was no base there Rose had to fly into New York the day before her trip. She always needed a place to spend the night. This is what’s known as “commuting.” Some people think it’s a big deal to have to commute an hour to work by car. People in the airline industry often spend eight hours getting to work by plane, and that’s pretty much what Rose did. She would leave Phoenix on the first flight bound for JFK; if she didn’t get on that one she would have to wait around for the next one. When and if she got to JFK she would then have to take the Carey bus into the city, and then a subway or cab up to the apartment. Then the next morning she’d have to get up and get ready and go back out to JFK for the trip she was assigned to work, and when she finished the trip three or four days later she would just hop on a flight back to Phoenix. If for any reason she missed the flight or couldn’t get one, she would come and stay at the apartment again. Why would someone put themselves through this torture—and believe it or not a great many airline pilots and flight attendants do—just to get to work? Because they want to live where they want to live, and if there’s not a base in that city then they have to get to a city where there is a base. Since we airline employees can fly for free, why not? It’s complicated, but definitely part of the airline life.
Anyway, one hot August night all four of us went out carousing around the Upper East Side: smoking, drinking, and looking for men. Unsuccessful, we went home to the apartment, which lacked air-conditioning. We were all drunk as hoot owls. We were also a bit irritable because it was crowded with all four of us there at the same time and it was so bloody hot—even with the windows wide open and two fans blowing it still felt like an oven. None of us could fall asleep. Bitsy and I were each in our respective beds, and Kitty and Rose shared the futon.
“We should close the windows, it just brings more hot air in here,” Bitsy pointed out.
“I don’t think so, if we close the windows we will just trap the heat inside; at least this way if there is a bit of a breeze, we might feel it,” Rose argued. We discussed this subject for about fifteen minutes and then Kitty got up, stumbled to the bathroom, and began taking a shower. She returned to her futon naked, with a bath towel soak
ed in cold water, and laid the cold, wet towel on top of her. I thought this was odd, but she said it felt wonderful and began to doze off. Then Rose decided to try this remedy, and it seemed to work just as well for her. I was next, and Bitsy was last. By the time Bitsy returned from the shower the rest of us had fallen asleep. Somehow in the darkness—with all the naked bodies and luggage lying about the place—Bitsy accidentally tripped. She tried to save herself from falling to the ground by grabbing the collapsible shelf unit. Unfortunately for Bitsy, the collapsible shelf unit collapsed, and all her mugs fell to the ground with a great crash. “Goddamnit, there go my mugs,” she screamed. “All I have to show for my miserable, banal, rotten life lies before me, shattered in a million pieces!”
We spent the next day taking inventory of which mugs had survived the great crash and which would have to be replaced. Billings, Paris, Chicago, Rio de Janeiro, Baton Rouge, Dallas, Cozumel, Aspen, and San Diego all survived. We were sad, however, to report that Boston; Washington, D.C.; Dublin; Tokyo; Lisbon; and Nashville were permanently destroyed. It would be very difficult to replace some of the goners because we had discontinued service to some of those cities. This was very disheartening for Bitsy because she figured that the ruined mugs represented at least two years of her life—gone in one fleeting moment. We observed a moment of silence in honor and in memory of the forever-lost mugs.