by Joe Thomas
“What do you want me to say?” She’d ask.
“Don’t worry. I’ll handle it. Just call me in thirty minutes.”
“Why not five?”
“Cause I’m a hungry bitch and this restaurant is nice.” Click.
Unfortunately, I was in New Orleans with no Peggy and no restroom. My first task was to find a restroom and use it as a distraction to end the night.
Abbie broke the silence lingering around like his stale smoker’s breath, “Well, I think it’s important that minorities have these types of events. They deserve it.”
I interrupted, “I’ve gotta piss. Let’s walk towards Harrah’s to use the bathroom.” There may be no Peggy to call but I had the next best thing.
We crossed to the other side of the street and continued heading towards the large purple disco shaped ball positioned on top of the casino. Normally, the dancing lights from the casino put me in a gaming mood but tonight I was nothing but a sour apple. My face frozen in what could possibly be a never ending scowl. The silence was welcoming for the few minutes it lasted. For a moment it seemed that Jimbo was done with debating, but who was I kidding.
He was only quiet long enough to collect the ignorant thoughts bouncing around in his Neanderthal brain, “What about me? I deserve it, too. You don’t see me flaunting my lifestyle around, do you? It’s not normal for that type of behavior.”
I threw my drink on the ground. You know I’m angry when I waste even the smallest amount of liquor, “Are you kidding me with this? Are you FUCKING kidding me with this bullshit? You know I’m gay, right?”
“I know you’re gay, but you are a cool gay guy. That’s why I brought it up.”
“You don’t fucking know me,” I stopped walking again, “You don’t know if I’m cool or not.”
Abbie’s cat had ahold of her tongue like it was filled with fresh catnip. She stood between us with one arm on her hip and the other one holding her drink. She followed the conversation as it escalated while her head swayed back and forth like she was watching a live tennis match.
“Don’t get offended, Joe.” He pulled out another cigarette and struck the end of it with a match, “You’re a cool guy. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
I couldn’t conjure up any words. I was so mad my heart was vogueing inside my chest. My temples pulsated like subwoofers. I focused on walking fast and getting to Harrah’s to duck inside the restroom. What was I going to do in there? I had no idea. Sneak out the back of the hotel? Hide in the restroom until he got tired and left? I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I just knew that Harrah’s was my escape from this backwoods pig.
My fight or flight response was working overtime. Technically, I was on a layover so I couldn’t club my captain’s head in with a baseball bat. Where would I find one? Probably from one of the homeless guys we passed on the street, but who in their right mind bashes in their captain’s brains on a sidewalk in front of a casino in New Orleans? Can you imagine? I can see the headline, “Gay Flight Attendant Bashes Captain’s Head In,” on the front page of the New Orleans Advocate. Now that I think about it, the airline would most likely have handed me an award and presented me with my own month. A month I refused to share with any other minorities.
That wasn’t how the night played out; I had to flee and go AWOL before fists started swinging. And when I talk about fists I mean mine attacking his chubby face. I wanted to punch him so hard that his double chin twerked. If that happened I would lose my job faster than Kirby ditched us at the sports bar. Don’t get me wrong—I wanted to beat the shit out of him and leave him on the side of the road to be swept away with the rest of the trash, but spending the night in the slammer was not my idea of how I wanted to end my career. I always imagined my last official act as a flight attendant to be spilling hot coffee on some lady’s tits who asked for an orange juice, seltzer, and coffee with cream and Splenda on a 35 minute flight.
When we finally arrived in front of Harrah’s I continued up the steps leading to the casino and walked directly inside. I didn’t look back to see if Abbie and Jimbo were behind me but I knew they were. When I stopped to hand my driver’s license to the heavyset black girl at the door, I wanted to whisper to her that the fat dude behind me was a bigot and hated the month of February. I also wanted to warn her that he hated Martin Luther King, Jr., and decorated his bathroom with Confederate flag wallpaper. I kept my mouth shut. I guess there’s a first time for everything.
The white devil followed me into the restroom and stood next to me at the stall. He instantly struck up conversation about the piano bar as if the last 30 minutes never happened. This was awkward for more reasons than just my dick being in my hand. All I wanted was a moment of peace from this troll. Would I ever get it? Not soon enough. I stared at the ceramic tiles while listening to Jay Z’s song, 99 Problems echoed from the speakers around the casino. I‘m sure powering through 99 of Jay Z’s problems was easier than the fucked up one I was dealing with.
While we both peed, I gave him the cold shoulder. What else was I supposed to do? Talk about paid time off at the airline? Winter was coming early in New Orleans, or at least at Harrah’s, where I quickly washed my hands and rapidly shook them to dry. Waiting for Abbie to emerge from the restroom I tried to control my anger. It slightly subsided since we were on the street but I still wanted to destroy him. His arrogance was mind blowing and he proved that by assuming I would talk to him at the urinal.
Abbie walked out of the restroom and towards me, about to speak, but Jimbo changed her mind. She turned around facing the slot machines lined up like soldiers ready to take our money. I spun on my heels and moved towards the front entrance to evacuate the casino. The noise from the bells and whistles was annoying. It confirmed at least some people were having fun in New Orleans. Stepping out of the hotel I held the door for a few patrons which allowed Abbie and Jimbo to walk outside. If only I could have slammed the door in his face. Who am I kidding? What would that prove? That I was a just another crazy gay guy who fell part while debating with a prejudiced right wing Republican. He never admitted to being a Republican but that was a no-brainer.
With my buzz officially wearing off I could finally think clearly. It was time to be intelligent and level headed. I didn’t know if it was due to my racing heart beat, the evacuation of my bladder, or the sweat from the humidity but as the three of us walked towards the steps leading to the sidewalk I realized how crazy this entire night had become. It needed to end. Kirby would never believe it when Jimbo took the time, behind the secrecy of the flight deck door, to recall word for word what went down on the urine soaked streets of New Orleans. It was clear that nobody should have an all-out war after ingesting four gin & tonics in the course of 45 minutes. Especially someone like me with someone like him.
We reached the steps and filed down one right after another. While pulling out another cigarette he surprise us both by continuing the conversation where we left off before entering the casino, “Jesus Christ says in the Bible that homosexuality is a sin. Same-sex marriage is wrong.”
Abbie spoke up when she reached the sidewalk, “There’s nothing wrong with two loving people getting married.”
“Of course there’s something wrong with it,” he took a long drag from the cigarette crushed between his sausage fingers, “it’s not a lifestyle the church agrees with.”
Did I say I was thinking clearly and needed to be intelligent? That idea flowed with the murky street water right into the gutter. “I can’t believe how fucking stupid you sound. Listen to yourself, standing there smoking and preaching, I’m not even a fucking Christian.” I was on a fantastic roll, “You and your crazy beliefs don’t matter. You know what does matter? That you’ve ruined my fucking layover. That’s what matters.” If he reported me for insubordination I would have accepted that termination letter proudly and with my head held high. If he had the right to express his feelings and hate towards minorities than I sure as fuck had the same right to call him out on his pr
econceptions of homosexuality.
“I’m just—”
“You’re just what?” I had no plans on letting him finish his sentence, “Fuck it. I’m done with this evening.” I was too irate with Jimbo and the red hue of the world was back in focus, “I’m going back to the hotel. I’ve wasted enough time talking to you.”
“What do you mean? I was thinking we could go back inside and gamble?”
I stared at him and looked over at Abbie. She showed no emotion and looked exhausted and weathered from our nonstop bickery. Was this dude high on crack? Did someone slip this fucker a roofie? Was it Kirby? And if so was the roofie really meant for me? I had no idea. When Jimbo dropped that bomb I wanted to run for cover. “No. I’m not coming in to gamble. I’m fucking tired. I’m going back to the hotel,” I turned to Abbie, “Are you coming with me?”
“Yes.” There was no hesitation. She was already facing the way back to the hotel.
“Man, Joe, I wished you weren’t mad. I was hoping to still have some fun.”
We both ignored him while passing the garden beds and palm trees outside the casino. Abbie placed her arm inside mine and held me tight as we took a quick left and followed the length of the building until it was time to turn right onto Convention Center Boulevard. Our hotel was along this road and we briskly walked hoping to put some distance between us and Jimbo. I was shaking with anger and couldn’t help but yell and scream about Jimbo the entire way back to the hotel. Abbie pet my arm and laid her head on my shoulder to calm my nerves. It worked.
The next morning my neck was still bright red from my blood pressure explosion the night before. After my shower, I went downstairs to get a cup of coffee and reflect on my behavior and how I reacted to his ignorance. I strive to be a decent person. A person who takes pride in myself and stays above stupidity. Jimbo broke me down like nuns do to Catholic elementary students. Raw emotions flooded over me like water breaching a levee during Hurricane Katrina. I may not be perfect but I am no fucking Jimbo. I’ve always considered myself to be a lucky gay man who has not had the misfortune of interacting with ignorant people when it comes to homosexuality and equality. In high school, yes, but not as an adult. I guess my luck finally ran out. This wouldn’t be the week to gamble in Las Vegas.
I found myself a quiet chair in the corner of the hotel lobby and camped there enjoying my morning coffee. I heard the elevator ding announcing a new arrival but I was too preoccupied with my cell phone to look up. My instinct got the best of me and when I looked up Jimbo was making his way over. I kept perfectly still but that trick only works on a Tyrannosaurus Rex. I was not ready for this, nor did I want to rehash anything from the night before, but Jimbo had other plans.
“Morning, Joe, “ he said in a soft voice as he approached me and stood to my right. I didn’t look up from my cell phone. “I’m really sorry about last night. I guess it’s not smart for me to talk about religion when I’m drinking.”
“You know,” still not looking up from my phone, “It’s probably not a good idea for you to talk about politics, religion, or minorities when you are drinking.”
“I know man. I apologize. Are we cool?”
Placing my cell phone on my lap I finally broke down and looked up at him. He looked like he spent the rest of the evening being dragged behind a wild horse along Canal Street. Good. I hope it fucking hurt. “Well we have to work one leg together tonight so I guess we’re cool.”
To clarify: we were not cool. We were never cool. My distaste for this man was unmeasurable. As the words, “I guess we are cool,” came out of my mouth I knew I had instantly betrayed myself for even talking to him. The need to maintain my professionalism on the airplane and on a layover kept me grounded. I had to fight the urge to throw my coffee in his face but that would be so unfair to my cup of coffee. He thanked me, reached into his pocket for a cigarette, and walked out of the hotel.
Later that evening, we arrived at the airport to find out our flight was slightly delayed. The idea of having to spend one more second with Jimbo worsened my already pissy mood.
The four of us meandered towards the food court inside the airport. I wasn’t hungry, neither was Kirby or Abbie, but you guessed it, Jimbo needed to gorge himself on Popeye’s Chicken before our flight. If he had a heart attack in the flight deck, I was counting on Kirby to land us safely. We can’t bring the AED into the flight deck and I wasn’t strong enough to pull Jimbo out of his seat and into the galley to perform CPR. We followed him to the restaurant and the four of us found a wobbly table and took a seat. Our conversation was uninteresting while Jimbo stood in the endless line ordering his three piece chicken basket with two biscuits and an extra jumbo sweet tea. I am pretty sure he had a few add ons to that order.
Watching him devour that meal made me want to help the starving children throughout the world. His groceries alone could no doubt feed the entire population of Rwanda for a three day weekend. We sat in silence while he sucked the last remaining bits of chicken off the bones. His slurping, moans, and loud grunting almost made my coffee come up. He sounded like he was performing cunnilingus while drowning. Once he was satisfied that an ant couldn’t feed off the chicken carcasses, he drank the remainder of his sweet tea and stood up. Without a thought he grabbed the handle of his suitcase and exclaimed, “I’m getting another cigarette before the plane lands,” and walked off.
The three of us looked down at the orange tray filled with chicken bones and crumbs left behind for the Popeye’s employees to clean up. I shook my head in disgust. His curtain call undercover dick pilot move stunned all three of us. Should we have really been surprised? No, but that’s not to say we weren’t taken aback by his disregard for the airport employees. Being the professional flight attendant that I am, and because I was embarrassed by my coworker, I grabbed the tray and disposed the chicken remains in the trash can. We grabbed our luggage and walked side by side through the terminal towards security. Kirby had been quiet about his feelings towards Jimbo. We had no idea what his impression of Jimbo was but if he had the brains to go along with the brawn it probably wasn’t much different than ours. Something everyone should know about pilots is their strong bond. They are known for sticking together no matter what the circumstances. You practically have to torture them and threaten to remove a fingernail just to get them to rat each other out. It’s fucking annoying. They are nothing like flight attendants. We’d throw our best friend under the bus to move up one spot in seniority.
While standing in the TSA line waiting for our luggage to go through the conveyor belt Kirby finally spoke out, “I can’t believe what a dick that dude is. He left that mess behind for us to clean. What a fucking slob.”
I Hate Commuting
Commuting can suck a dick for Jesus Christ. I could have easily gone the Mohammad route but I’m no fucking idiot. Christian radicals have nothing on Islamic radicals. What’s the worst a Christian radical will do? Refuse my request for a marriage license? I rest my case.
Commuting to work is dreadful. Dreadful! If you consider spending 20 minutes parked on the highway during rush hour as a painful commute, you are sadly mistaken. I am not going to say that it’s not abysmal, believe me—I’ve done it, but there’s something to be said for having the ability to get behind the wheel of your car, drive at your own pace, and arrive at your destination with only a few feet between you and the start of your work day. The freedom to get behind the wheel of your car ultimately controlling the outcome of your commute is powerful.
Everyone has commuting hardships they must endure. Some people walk in the snow. Some ride a bike. Some take the bus or train. Some, like me and many other airline employees, board an airplane and fly thousands of miles before we even start our fucking day. That’s what I am talking about here: crew commuting and how much I fucking loathe it.
I probably hate commuting as much as I hated being on reserve. It’s hard to tell. I will say that I hate them equally; like cilantro and passengers who have chihuahuas as
service pets. If being on reserve sucks out your soul, commuting then takes it and rips it to shreds. They work in tandem making your life a living hell. Reminds me of my first ex-boyfriend and his ornery mother. She’s dead now.
In the event a flight attendant ever tells you that commuting is easy, you should be wary of this person. Stay as far away from them as humanly possible because this person has no soul. Did you hear me? NO SOUL! Seriously. Run to the basement of the nearest Catholic Church, drag Father Pedophile off an innocent four year old boy—the boy will thank you, Father Pedophile will not—and beg him for a few crucifixes and some holy water. Don’t forget the holy water! You should carry that small bottle of holy water in your pocket and be prepared to splash the evil right out that flight attendant like my grandmother did to the Jehovah’s Witness who knocked at her door. Anyone who thinks commuting is easy should have their asshole bleached with undiluted Clorox. Trust me, it won’t hurt them. They have no soul so they obviously won’t feel bleach turning their insides out. These flight attendants are soulless demons straight from hell and will do everything in their power to suck out your soul to replace theirs. I’ve actually worked with a few of these bitches before and it’s not a pretty sight. Luckily, as told by many pastors and preachers, I am gay and don’t have a soul. Even if I did, no demon soulless flight attendant would try and steal a gay man’s soul. Are you kidding me? That’s like trying to pry the Miss Gay America crown away from a drag queen. You better bring lots of backup glitter to blind them in that cat fight. In their defense—not the drag queens but the soulless flight attendants—I doubt they were always soulless. Early on in their careers I bet they had enormous souls. Souls large enough to be stored in an aircraft hangar. Ron Jeremy sized souls. That’s the kind of soul you want. The kind that you can fling over your shoulder and smirk at the captain as you exit the airplane. But shit changes after spending decades serving airline passengers. Those perky souls tend to vanish and fade away right along with taut skin, likeable attitudes, and tits.