by Joe Thomas
I stood at their row and looked at Cole. He was hotter than she must have been with that giant jacket wrapped around her. “Sir,” I smiled and they both looked up at me, “please grab your things and come with me. I have a different seat for you.”
He looked up at me and didn’t move. I was worried. Did I stick my foot in my mouth? Was he with her? Was this his wife? Girlfriend? Mother? That was impossible. He still didn’t move and my heart sank. For fuck’s sake, was he Norman Bates?
“I’m fine.” He finally spoke and gave me a slight grimace. At least he wasn’t the victim of human trafficking. Obviously, he didn’t want her feelings hurt. Hot and a gentlemen. My semi was back and hiding behind my demo bag. I refused to make him sit that close to Bonnie.
I repeated myself, “Please grab your things and come with me.”
This time he listened. Faith in humanity and my loins was restored. Cole grabbed his bag from underneath the seat in front of him and with one long stretch climbed over Bonnie's legs. He managed not to touch an inch of her body. I was impressed. I was also impressed by his height as he hovered over me like a tall oak tree. I took a moment to take him in; he smelled like a Tom Ford fragrance. It was a fantastic smell. Cole had me so rock hard that a terrorist could have shot me point blank and the bullet would have simply ricochet off.
Cole followed me down the aisle to the exit row where I presented him with an entire row. Presenting him with my entire hole sounded better, but flight attendant uniforms are a bitch to pull down in a hurry. “Is this better?”
He grinned, “Thank you so much. I appreciate it.”
I wanted to ask him how much he appreciated it but I had to get back to my jumpseat before we departed.
Watching Bonnie was like witnessing a train derailment. She was that intense. I fought the urge to gawk while strutting past her but it was impossible to turn away. She resembled a homeless person I once stumbled upon in Portland, Oregon who was confused and talking to the bridge she was sitting under. Bonnie wasn’t far off from crazy Portland lady. She stared at Cole’s empty window seat, having an intense conversation with herself. Listen, I have been known to chat myself up when I am alone but this was completely different. This was over the top extreme. She laughed, twitched, frowned, and then laughed again; all within the 30 seconds it took me to pass her while walking towards the back galley. I hadn’t seen such emotional range since the cemetery scene in Steel Magnolias. I was ready to charge her imaginary friend a full fare for the flight.
After takeoff, and during our initial climb to cruising altitude, I envisioned Bonnie running to the back galley and wrestling passed me to open the airplane door. That, or standing in front of me, pulling down her stained panties, and pissing all over my new shiny black work shoes. I almost threw up in my mouth thinking about her stained panties. They probably smelled like fishy cat’s breath. Talk about reasons to cancel beverage service for the remainder of the flight. Then, I thought, what could be worse than her cat breath? If she ran the opposite way to attack Cole for leaving her alone in row 16. There would have been no hope for me at that point. My only option being to stage dive over three rows and viciously attack her for even thinking about touching my imaginary lover.
Thankfully, none of that happened. I definitely suffer from an overactive imagination while seated on the jumpseat. After setting up my galley, I strolled up the aisle and started beverage service at row 13. Interacting with Bonnie was inevitable and I soon found myself handing her a napkin. She ignored me while watching an episode of SpongeBob Squarepants on her television. She wasn’t just watching the episode—too normal for Bonnie—she was using her crusty dark stained fingers to outline the characters on the screen. Her concentration was unsettling. I imagined she looked that intense when she was coloring, working on a large puzzle, or cutting up the neighbor’s cat. I considered fingering the screen was better than if she had a black sharpie in her hand. Wrestling a black sharpie out of her hand would have had me cursing myself for moving Cole to the exit row. Bonnie was stocky, strong, and I would need all the hot man power I could get prying that marker from her contaminated fingers.
I didn't know whether to take her drink order or throw spare change down on her tray table. I had put it off long enough. I had to talk to her, and to be honest, watching her with those fingers on the television screen made me mad. “May I get you something to drink?” I asked while waving the napkin at her. She snapped out of her psychotic trance and took the napkin. After a closer investigation of her fingers it was clear what she really needed was some kerosene and a match. It was time to set them fuckers ablaze.
She mumbled, "Coke.” The way her request sputtered out, I thought for a moment that maybe she was deaf and not a raging alcoholic who smelled like yogurt left out in the sun. I quickly moved to the next row, took my drink orders, and started delivering the drinks. I am fast at beverage service. I don’t fuck around. Some flight attendants take their sweet-ass time and practically crawl down the aisle serving drinks. Not me, I run over them bitches. I’m like Speedy Gonzales in the aisle, but instead of all the “¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Andale! ¡Andale! ¡Yii-hah!” bullshit I just yell, “Move bitches!”
When I reached Bonnie’s row I placed the Coke on her tray table, careful not to make skin contact. I smiled and turned to the row across from her preparing to hand a cup of coffee to a male passenger. Out of the corner of my eye I saw her raise her hand attempting to grab my attention. Was she trying to touch me? I jerked so quick I almost spilled the hot coffee on 16C.
“One second, please.” I placed the coffee on the gentleman’s tray table, “Be careful, sir, it’s hot.” When I was done tending to him I turned back to Bonnie and cracked a phony smile, “Yes. What can I get you?” She pointed at her cup but didn’t speak. Sadly for her, I don’t understand real sign language, just the made up shit I use on layovers in Charlotte. I stared at her for a moment then asked, “Can I get you something else?”
She muttered something under her breath that I couldn’t make out. I leaned in about a centimeter closer but stopped there. No way was I taking the chance of burning off my beard by getting my face near her skin. Standing at row one and yelling into the onboard bullhorn sounded perfect but that was not an option, "What was that? I couldn't hear you."
She finally blurted out, “Bacardi.”
“Oh. You want a Bacardi?” I asked and she nodded. "That’s gonna be $6.00. We only accept credit or debit cards.”
Bonnie nodded and went back to coloring in the television screen with her imaginary finger sharpie. Before I went to the liquor cart, I stopped in the lavatory, turned the water temperature dial to scalding, and ran my hands under the water. Not wanting my screams to frighten passengers I bit down on a wad of airplane maxi pads while my epidermis turned bright red. It’s just skin, right? It grows back. I’d much rather deal with third-degree burns than the hand-foot-and-mouth disease that Bonnie was trying to give me. When you interact with passengers like Bonnie, you make goddamn sure you burn your hands when you wash them. I don’t care if the CDC recommends washing your hands for 20 seconds this was a 120-second project: 30 seconds to lather up and 90 seconds to kill any skin cells that tried jumping ship onto my life raft. Fuck universal precautions—these were Bonnie precautions—and I took them more seriously than a diabetic Dominican lady (they ask for 15 sugars per one cup of coffee) over the Caribbean Sea.
After I was sure my hands were clean, I returned to the scene and placed the Bacardi mini on her tray table with another cup of ice and a stir stick. I did not want to return. I had the credit card charging machine under my arm and immediately began ringing up the sale. She didn't move a muscle so I thought I'd remind her, “That’ll be $6.00.”
I hovered over the seat waiting for her to produce her credit card. With a quick movement, that made me jerk back again, she started rummaging around. She hastily opened and closed her overstuffed jacket and pulled the seatback pocket forward to look inside it. All these dram
atics made me nervous. I try not glaring at a passenger when they dig for their credit card but it happens quite frequently and I honestly don’t understand it. So I glare. Passengers know they will be charged for alcoholic purchases but the second you ask for payment, they act shocked and surprised. Do they act this way at the grocery store after their items are all rung up? I doubt it. I turned my head down the aisle to grab a glimpse at the top of Cole’s head but I couldn’t see him. He must have been sleeping against the window. I bet he was a cute sleeper. I’d never find out though because I was dealing with Bonnie, the crazy Bacardi lady. When I looked back down at her she was holding a plastic card between her fingers.
Staring at her government issued Texas state ID I thought about how to react—because let’s face it—Bonnie was bonkers. My eyes scanned back and forth from the picture on the card to her disgusting fingers. I know I keep bringing them up- but they were atrocious. Each time I saw them I shuttered. Being finger banged by Edward Scissorhands for five minutes sounded more pleasant than shaking her hand for two seconds.
This brief moment with Bonnie brought me back to the time when I worked in the emergency department in the psychiatric triage unit. We saw every type of fucked up human being you could imagine. From the normal drunk person, who was brought in by the police, to the short young pregnant lady who went off her schizophrenia medication. She banged on the glass window in her cell until her hands bled. It was sad. This bitch had fallen off her rocker and there was no way to pick her back up.
She screamed at us every time we walked by, “This is Satan’s baby. You’ll all suffer at the hands of my child. He will be the next Hitler.”
I just wanted this bitch to shut up so I could read my book and get through my shift without drama. After three hours in her small locked padded cell she convinced me she would stop acting like a deranged whacko, so I let her out to use the restroom. I didn’t want to unlock the cell but the last thing I needed was some insane madwoman pissing on the floor, slipping on it, and aborting the next Hitler.
That doesn’t sound so bad now that I think of it.
The moment I let her out of the cell she started running. I have no idea where she was going because we were in a locked unit. I tackled her hard but lost my grip and missed taking her down. We wrestled for a few seconds while yelling obscenities at each other. She called me a motherfucker and I called her a bitch, just your average Wednesday night in the psychiatric unit. When I finally wrapped my arms around her and pulled her to the ground she sunk her schizoid teeth into my arm.
It was that exact experience years ago that kept my sarcasm in check while dealing with Bonnie. In the psychiatric unit I was prepared for interactions with dangerous demented patients, but on the airplane, my patience for crazy went as far as someone angry that we were out of Sprite Zero. Not knowing how unstable Bonnie really was made me tiptoe around her row. One snide remark from me and she might have easily reached up, pulled me by my necktie, and bit off my nose. Or worse, stuck her thumb in my mouth. The Bacardi mini sat on her tray table and my instinct told me she had no plans on paying for the drink.
I smiled, "That is not a credit card, that’s your ID." Her blank stare meant nothing to me at that point. Was she trying to destroy me with her mind? She had no idea she was already destroying me with her fingers. She placed the ID on the tray table and continued patting herself down. I thought about how many times she got away with stealing from 7-11 because the police refused to frisk her.
The farce went on long enough and I became annoyed, which was no good for either one of us. I decided that if Bonnie thought I was getting mouthy—and jammed her fingers down my throat—I would close my eyes and bite down really hard like I was grinding up a mouthful of almonds. I equated it to taking one for the team. If I could help another flight attendant, or the world, from ever having to look at those digits again I’d be doing the planet a huge favor. It would probably happen fast. I’d say something snarky, she’d jam—I’d bite—and then I’d wake up in the hospital attached to an IV antibiotic strong enough to kill the invasion of the Bonnie fingers that entered my body.
While she checked her jacket pockets for the fifth time I fought the urge to say, "Girl, the only thing you got in that jacket is dust mites and lost dreams.” I kept my mouth shut. I guess I really didn’t want to chew on her fingers. She continued fishing for her “lost” credit card and then abruptly looked up and said as clear as a Southern California day, "Sam has it."
Who in homosexual hell was Sam? Bonnie was tempting the evil demons right out of me, but I stayed calm. Deep breaths. Deep fucking breaths were my friend because I was mere seconds away from shoving my fist down her throat, “Who is Sam?"
"I’m traveling with him," she pointed to the front of the airplane, "he’s up there in one of those seats.” I honestly believed she expected me to walk up the aisle looking for Sam so she could drink the mini before I returned. Bitch, not on my watch. This was no fucking 7-11, this was my airplane.
"What seat is he in?"
"I don't know," she pointed again, "up there."
"Want to go find him?" My patience ran thinner than her hair. I had 49 other passengers to tend to and somehow this had become The Bonnie Show, a show that I did not sign up for. I was ready to cancel this shit faster than ABC cancelled Pan Am.
"No,” she looked back at the television, “I don't know where he is."
Even though I was unhappy I smiled. Then with a swooping motion I grabbed the Bacardi mini off her tray table. This time it was her turn to jerk backwards from my cat like reflexes. I cheerfully responded, "Well, when you find Sam and get his credit card please ring your call bell. I’ll gladly charge you for this drink." I placed the mini bottle in my front apron pocket and tried making eye contact. Her eyes never broke from the television. She seemed to play it off as if the entire conversation never occurred. I paused for an additional moment waiting for her to respond, but she never did. Once I realized she drifted back off to crazy land, I strutted away leaving her with her virgin Coke. There was never a Sam. There was never a credit card. And there was never a chance in hell Bonnie was getting a free drink.
The Undercover Dick Pilot
Working with dicks can be dreadful. Well, unless you are a whore, then it’s just a normal Tuesday. I’ve worked with dicks my entire life. Most likely—and I hate to admit it—I’ve probably been the dick a few times, too. Teachers deal with dick principals, nurses juggle dick doctors, and on most occasions flight attendants spend hours in a metal tube saving face with dick pilots. I spent 15 years working with difficult doctors and I’d much rather be locked in a medication room being injected with a Michael Jackson dose of Propofol than spend any significant amount of time on an airplane with a dick pilot.
Dick pilots come in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some black, some short, a few Asian, but mostly white fat Republican fucks who have a God complex. There are two distinct types of dick pilots: mega dick pilots and undercover dick pilots. You can search the dictionary for these two definitions but you will be searching for a long time. Trust me. How do I know? Because I made these terms up after having the unfortunate experience of working with both kinds.
Let’s tackle the ever demanding and miserable mega dick pilot first. I will be honest- you do not want to fuck with a mega dick pilot. Working with a mega dick pilot makes a diversion to San Antonio for seven hours seem fun and enjoyable. When I see them coming my first instinct is to run the other way. Mega dick pilots are usually under 5-feet 5-inches tall. There’s always the off chance that a few of them will measure in at 5-feet 6-inches, but I doubt it. Something important to remember right off the bat is to never let these short fuckers fool you. These little guys are vicious. They have the ability to gnaw the skin off your kneecaps without having to bend over. They can lick your balls while doing double duty as a bedside table. I could name all the uses for these short fuckers but it might take up the entire story. If you haven’t seen one of these petite guys y
et don’t beat yourself up. You probably walk with your head held high so it’s easy to miss them as they shuffle by your feet like tiny elves. What these guys lack in height they make up tenfold in nasty attitude. That’s why I call them mega dick pilots, not for their height, but for their ginormous attitudes. Attitudes so big they could be contestants on the Biggest Loser.
Why do these mega dick pilots think they know everything when their skulls are so much smaller than the average person’s? Great question, right? The last time I came face-to-face with a mega dick pilot was in Raleigh, North Carolina. He didn’t have to say a word; I could read his body language loud and clear as he walked down the jet bridge toward the airplane. At first I thought he was the first officer’s luggage but then, once I made contact with his beady little eyes, I knew exactly what was up. Shorty Smurf had an appalling attitude, was a Federal Flight Deck Officer (he carried a gun), and frowned like he was just stood up by a really tall prostitute. His sourpuss made me want to throw up my $10.00 airport sandwich. Shorty stepped onto the airplane with his chest protruding out as if he was riddled with osteoarthritis. The moment his size six shoe touched the airplane he started barking orders like Irene’s chihuahua (you will learn more about her later), “We need to board 20 minutes early. I have a commute to catch and I need to get home.” He adjusted his tiny belt and pants, “Also, give me a trash bag, a cup of ice with a Diet Coke, and I’d like a black coffee before we start boarding.”