by Rene Foss
Here you go, sir. Oh, you couldn’t find room for your carry-on? You’re tired of lifting it and you want someone to get it out of your way?
And I guess I’m the lucky someone. I cannot believe my good fortune. Jesus, what has he got in here? A dead body? If this six-foot, 200-pound bruiser can’t lift it, how does he possibly think I, five foot four and 110 pounds—all right, 120 pounds—can lift it? I’ll probably rip my shoulder out of the socket if I hold it in this position much longer. Well, I’m glad to see that all my hard labor isn’t interfering with his enjoyment of his cocktail. He doesn’t seem to even mind all my grunting and groaning. The last thing I would want to do is disturb him. I guess things could be worse; I could be married to him. That’d be a real treat: picking up after him, acting interested in his dull stories about his big job at the plant. . . . No, he doesn’t work at a plant, let’s see what does he do? Probably some sort of job where everyone runs around kissing his ass all day long while he yells at people and probably threatens to fire them, all the while hoping to God that nobody discovers that he has no clue what he is doing. Look at him, a cell phone in one hand, the Wall Street Journal in the other, boy does he think he is important. He’s probably talking to a dial tone on the other end. I bet he doesn’t even know how to read; he’s probably just looking at the letters trying to impress everyone around him. I wonder if knows how to tie his shoes yet.
You know, sir, I think this bag is a little big for the overhead. Perhaps I could check it to your final destination?
Better yet, perhaps I could check you to your final destination and put the bag in your seat. The bag would probably be a lot more interesting.
Unacceptable, you say?
I’ll tell you what’s unacceptable (aside from the size of your bag): your personality! He probably thinks just because he’s sitting in first class that he’s entitled to be rude to everyone in the world—I’d be willing to bet my right arm he’s an upgrade. I wouldn’t want to deprive him of the opportunity to be rude. He probably knocked over a few women and children so he could be the first one in line to board. Well, I’m checking this bag, whether Mr. Congeniality likes it or not. I’m not even going to ask any questions. I’m just putting the tag on it and shipping it off. I guess I’ll have to drag it to the front door.
Oh, I didn’t mean to disturb you. . . . Yes, well, it looks like the only available option is to check it. It sort of exceeds the size requirements.
A little bit like your ego, pal. Oh boy, he’s getting up now. Well that got him into action! Probably hasn’t moved that fast in years. My, my, look at those muscles. . . . Amazing how he can heave that two-ton bag into the overhead. Just two minutes ago he didn’t have the strength. That gin and tonic did wonders for him.
Now, there’s no need to use profanity, sir, I’m sure we can . . .
Yep, he’s pissed off now; I pretty much ruined his day. I don’t suppose it would make the situation any better if I told him about all the people in the world with real problems. No, that’s probably beyond his scope. If having to stow his own goddamn suitcase is the worst thing that has happened to him today, I’d say he is doing all right. Maybe I should give him a copy of Elie Wiesel’s Night for some in-flight reading. Oh, I forgot, he doesn’t know how to read. Well, at least that’s over. Oh wait, now he’s going to pout. Wait until he discovers there isn’t a meal on the flight today—that will probably put him right over the edge. I guess I have to pretend that I care and ask his royal highness if everything is “acceptable.” Another opportunity to converse with him.
Thanks so much for helping with your bag. I’m glad we didn’t have to check it. . . . My name?
My name . . . what the hell does he want my name for? It’s not like we’re going to be buddies. I hope he isn’t under the mistaken impression that we’re going to be on a first-name basis with each other anytime soon. I’ve had years of experience in this department; it will really be better if I call him “sir” and he calls me “miss.” I mean, after this flight we won’t be hanging out or anything like that. In fact, if things work out the way I am hoping we will never see each other again. So why on God’s green earth does he need to know my name? He’s probably going to write me up. Why me? I’m just standing here, doing my job, risking my chiropractic good health trying to help this brute with his bag. And what do I get for all my troubles? This idiot requesting my name. Maybe I’ll just make up a name. . . . My name is Pain and Humiliation. That’s it, good ol’ Pain and Humiliation Foss. My friends just call me Misery for short.
Oh no, you don’t need to apologize. I’m sure you’ve had a hard day and having to tow that heavy bag of yours around has got to be tiring. . . .
Hard day? I’ll give you a hard day . . . my day! Now that is a hard day. Five stops between Chicago and Indianapolis, airplanes of people just like this jackass. And I’ve got to do the same thing tomorrow and the next day, too. This is one of the worst trips I’ve ever had in my life, and I just wanted to bear down and get it over with. There I was just trying to do my job . . . serve the Cokes and pick up the garbage, and now suddenly he walks into my life asking me to make him a gin and tonic and stow his bag and give him my name. What did I ever do to deserve this? All I want is a simple life: to do my job, go home, hide under the covers, and watch television until my next god-awful trip. Is that expecting too much out of life? I think not. So why is it that I am constantly subjected to encounters with such utter fools? Why me?
Tonight? Well, I’m flattered, but I have an early pickup in the morning and I . . .
God, I hate my life. I don’t think I can take much more of this. We haven’t even left the ground and he’s already asking me out. Next thing you know he’ll be inquiring about the Mile High Club.
Who me? What do I do for fun?
Oh, I like to spend time talking to people like you, trying to figure out ways to get out of situations like this. Another fun thing is watching TV. Yep, I watch a lot of TV. It meets all of my emotional needs. Nothing like sitting down by yourself in front of the tube with the dog, a bottle of wine, and a big plate of pasta on a Saturday night. My favorite shows are Cops, Jenny Jones, and wrestling. Oh, I’m a big wrestling fan. I would go out on more dates with eligible men like yourself, but there are just so many fabulous programs that I can’t afford to miss. Another thing I like to do for fun is the laundry . . . now that is some serious fun! It’s more fun than sitting through an evening with someone like you, I’m sure.
Oh, really? One of the best restaurants in Flint. No I can’t say that I’ve ever been there.
Oh, I don’t think I can, but you’re so nice to offer. Oh yes, I’m sure there’s a lot of great nightlife there, but I really have to get to bed early tonight because I have to wake up at 7:00 A.M. Oh, aren’t you funny, you won’t take no for an answer. . . .
Oh, he’s funny all right. Funny as a crutch. I can’t recall the last time I met someone so funny or so debonair—usually you have to be at a trailer park or a bowling alley to meet someone of his status. Well, I imagine he’ll keep pestering me until I agree to go to the finest restaurant in Flint with him. Maybe if I’m lucky I’ll injure myself in the galley, you know slip on the floor and break my neck, and then I wouldn’t have to go. I could just tell him I’m busy with my broken neck and have to spend the night in the finest hospital in Flint instead. He couldn’t expect me to go out to dinner with a broken neck.
You’re right about that, a girl does have to eat. I guess as long as I’m back by a reasonable hour . . . oh well, why not? I accept away, sir. Charlie? OK, Charlie. Oh, me too. I’m really looking forward to it.
I’m looking forward to it about as much as I’m looking forward to paying my taxes or getting a root canal. Oh, I probably deserve this. Somewhere in the past I must have done some dreadful act for which I am now being punished. The agony of it! I must remember this feeling; perhaps I’ll be able to use it in my acting work. Maybe someday I’ll have to play a character who is desperate and o
ut of all possible options and I will call to mind this day and my new best friend, Charlie. Charlie this, Charlie that, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. . . . How will I ever live through it?
Oh, get you another gin and tonic? I’ll be happy to, Charlie. I’ll be right back!
Germ War Fare
EVERYBODY HAS A PHOBIA. I know a flight attendant who is scared to death of flying. It’s true! She takes a Dramamine before every flight, wears a St. Christopher medal, and avidly watches the Weather Channel. When it gets really turbulent she goes to the cockpit full of questions, and she bids to work near the forward part of the cabin, where the ride is generally more placid. She has been flying for more than twenty years. One of the phobias both Bitsy and I developed was (and continues to be) “germs.” When a passenger tries to put a used Kleenex or a dirty diaper in my bare hands I go crazy! First of all, I won’t even take it. I simply smile and say, “I’ll be right back,” then walk away, and if I’m not too pissed off I’ll get a garbage bag. I’ve been like this to some extent my whole life, but when I started flying it got worse. To this day my hands are like sandpaper from washing them so often with that awful airplane soap. For a time I didn’t think that soap killed germs, so I got in the habit of taking a little vodka and pouring it on my hands after the meal service. I figure the alcohol is more effective than the soap and it certainly smells better. Besides, the bathroom lines are so long that it can be three hours before you can actually get in there to wash. In the meantime you have to keep reminding yourself, “Don’t touch your face, don’t rub your eye, don’t scratch your nose,” and of course that makes your nose start itching like crazy. You can’t imagine how thrilled I was when they invented Purell. It has changed my life.
And if you think the food is bad when you’re eating it while crammed into your seat next to a big fat guy, try eating it while sitting in the jumpseat right next to the bathroom. There is often a line of people staring at you (yes, ladies and gentlemen, flight attendants do eat) while, with your meal tray balanced on your knees, you try to shovel some slop down your gullet. That is when people usually want to ask you a question: “So is this your regular route?” Or else they want to ask you for a drink: “Can I have another beer?” (He has had only five and needs another one right now, never mind that you haven’t had a morsel to eat in the last ten hours.) Meanwhile, the rest of the line is moving in and out of the lavatory. Many a lousy meal has been ruined for me in this fashion. The only thing that can be said for eating your breakfast, lunch, and/or dinner near a lavatory is that it’s probably a great way to lose weight.
One time I was strapped into the jumpseat that faces the passengers and the kid in the passenger seat directly across from me threw up right as the plane was landing. He didn’t get to the barf bag in time. It was all over the floor in front of me and on my shoes and nylons. I jumped up and screamed (really professional), and I can still remember every gory detail. That was about ten years ago. Lucky for me I had another pair of nylons and another pair of shoes. It’s not only the snot and barf that perpetuates my phobia—it’s also the air. It might just be my imagination, but it seems as though a lot more people are coughing and sneezing on me these days. Maybe you’ve heard about this on the news, but the recirculated air is really bad. As I understand it, a certain percentage of fresh air comes into the cabin, but a larger percentage is just stale air that keeps circulating throughout the cabin during the entire flight. I’ve been told that the cockpit can control the amount of fresh air that’s mixed in with the stale air by turning on more packs, but that uses more fuel. So in order to contain fuel costs the airlines encourage the cockpit to limit the amount of packs they use during the flight. Also, there’s about zero percent humidity in the cabin (ergo that lovely dry feeling) and those things combined probably account for the reason you feel like crap after a flight of any length.
I’ve come to believe that flight attendants develop wonderful immune systems because we really have to combat a lot of foreign particles. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Bitsy’s trouble began when she got called in for excessive sick calls by good ol’ June Larson. It seems that Bitsy had exceeded her allotted sick calls for the year and June wasn’t too happy with her. She told Bitsy she would have a “watch dependability” in her file.
“But June, there’s been a bad flu going around this year and I didn’t call in sick at all last year. I can’t help that I’m sick. In fact, I think it’s amazing that I haven’t been sick more often when you consider all the germs we’re exposed to on those airplanes. I’m surprised I’m alive.”
“Yeah Bitsy, I hear your concerns, blah, blah, blah. Now I want to know what you are going to do to improve your dependability. We can’t have people at WAFTI we can’t rely on.”
“Well, if I’m sick I don’t think I should come to work. That would just make everybody else sick. I think if I am sick I should stay home,” said Bitsy.
“Sometimes you’re so sick you need to stay home, but other times you need to tough it out. Now I don’t want you calling in sick the rest of the year. Do you think you can do that?”
“Well, June, I’m not going to make any promises. I’ll do my best.”
“Super! Now what are you going to do to prevent yourself from getting sick for the rest of the year?” June inquired.
“Frankly, I don’t know. I take vitamins, I eat, I sleep, I exercise.”
“OK Bitsy, why don’t you think of some other things you might do to prevent any more illnesses this year and get back to me.”
Needless to say, Bitsy was very unhappy after that encounter with June Larson. It became a running joke—how could we prevent getting sick? Did not calling in sick include accidents? For example, if we were in a car accident and Bitsy broke both her legs, was she expected to come to work? Certainly some people abuse sick time, but Bitsy was a very good employee and really didn’t call in sick unless she was sick. I suppose that’s what made her so mad about the whole thing. By the time Bitsy ran into June again, she had acquired a plastic eye shield, rubber gloves, a surgical mask, paper shoes, and a gown from a doctor friend of hers. On her next outbound trip, Bitsy put on all the medical garb over her uniform, armed herself with a can of Lysol, and marched into June’s office, announcing that she had found a way to prevent any further illnesses for the year. She was quite confident that she would not miss any more trips. June didn’t find the whole thing very funny and gave Bitsy a serious reprimand, but to us it was worth it and we kept the costume for a possible Halloween outfit.
Boarding
A Shakespearean Tragedy
THESE DAYS IT SEEMS that people will almost kill for a first-class seat. I guess it’s because conditions are so deplorable in coach. One day I saw two grown adults get into a fight over the last seat in first class. Apparently the computer had made an error (hard to believe, I know) and there were twelve seats but thirteen passengers. Now, we’re one of the most civilized, technologically advanced nations in the world, but the behavior of these passengers took me back to the fifteenth century. There is only one word to describe it: “barbaric.”
It was a dark and stormy night. There was thunder, lightning, heavy rain, and a full moon. The three flight attendants prepared the galley and checked the meal count, and as they did so they began to chant:
“Double, double toil and trouble
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.”
“What does thou serve for those who sup in first class?” asked the head flight attendant.
The second answered, “Filet of rattlesnake in the cauldron boil and bake. Wool of bat wrapped in a leaf.”
“In other words, chicken or beef,” said the third.
A lightning bolt flashed and heavy thunder rumbled. “A drum, a drum, the passengers doth come,” cried the boarding agent.
The first passenger, let us call him Macbeth, boarded.
“How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags! What is ’t you do?” he inquired, as he removed h
is cape and hat.
“A deed without a name. We live to serve,” responded the flight attendants.
“Hail Macbeth, hail to thee. Here is your seat, you have 1B. The last remaining in first class. Now give me your cape and your boarding pass.”
As Mr. Macbeth got situated in his seat, he heard a strange eerie voice that whispered:
“Macbeth, Macbeth, Beware Macduff
Beware the Thane of Crete
Beware Macbeth, she wants your crown
Beware Macbeth, she wants your seat.”
It bothered him that no one else seemed to hear the voice, but he had been working hard and was tired and things weren’t going so well with Lady Macbeth back at the castle. The stress was probably getting to him. Maybe he just needed to take it easy and relax he decided, but he would mention this to his doctor on his next visit. At that moment the thirteenth passenger, Ms. Macduff, entered and the flight attendants assumed the position. In unison they chanted:
“Hail, Hail, Hail Macduff
We see thy crown, we kiss thy feet.”
“Enough, enough. There is someone in my seat!”
The junior flight attendant came rushing to her aid, “May I see your boarding pass?”
Ms. Macduff shoved it in her face and sure enough it was the same seat assignment.
The junior flight attendant, not knowing what to do and feeling very afraid of Ms. Macduff, ran to the senior flight attendant and whimpered, “Fie, fie, fee, fee. . . . Ms. Macduff also has seat 1B.”
“Ah me, toil and trouble, boil and bubble, when seat assignments here are double!” She pulled the junior flight attendant into the galley and tried to decide what type of service recovery would best suit the situation. Meanwhile, the passengers took matters into their own hands—which is always a dangerous thing.
“Pray, kind sir, but you’re in my throne, where I shall rest till dawn. Remove thyself and get thee gone,” Ms. Macduff proclaimed.