by Joe Thomas
The flight attendant working yelled, "What are you doing?"
"I have to pee and I can't hold it," he answered calmly,
The quick thinking flight attendant pulled out the trash bin so the passenger could finish relieving himself. Anything works better than the galley floor. A full grown adult on a commercial airline yanks his dick out and pisses on the floor and thinks nothing of it. Are you kidding me? Unbelievable.
But it gets worse. I suppose urinating on the galley floor doesn’t seem so bad when you compare it to the drunk guy who woke up on a red-eye flight, had to piss, and started drowning a little girl sitting next to him with urine. When the girl’s father awoke from what sounded like someone treading water in the seat next to him he began screaming profanities at the urinator. That didn’t make a difference. The urinator continued spraying her down like she was engulfed in flames. Splash. Tinkle. Splash. The father witnessed his daughter’s first golden shower. I guarantee that dad is still in therapy. Maybe the drunk passenger was dreaming that he was a fireman? We will never know.
The bottom line is that people are fucking crazy. I struggle with them each time I approach an individual on the airplane and they leer at me like they’re fighting back the urge to kick me in the head rather than place their personal carry-on item under the seat in front of them. There was a time I blamed the TSA fully for making airline passengers so obnoxious at the airport. That’s until I became a flight attendant and interacted with these people on a daily basis. I’m not saying the TSA’s security theatre doesn’t play a considerable role in making people’s lives miserable-take your shoes off, throw away your bottle of water, take off your jacket, pull out your laptop, discard your tube of toothpaste, steal your iPad-but now that I understand the airline industry, I’ve concluded that most of the blame falls on these crazy passengers.
There’s another trigger that turns a normally laid-back person into an unmanageable mess when it comes to air travel: our mood-altering friend, alcohol. Don’t act like you don’t know who I’m talking about. Alcohol has been a good friend of mine since I was 16 years old. We have a love-hate relationship. Actually, now that I am older it’s more of a love-hangover relationship. Alcohol is the gift that keeps on giving once the airplane has departed from the airport. What makes most people dance, sing, and have fun at their local Irish pub has more of a dark approach on people once they are intoxicated on the airplane.
One evening on a flight out of Portland, Oregon I had to remove an intoxicated passenger from the flight after she stumbled onto the airplane. She fell over her suitcase and slurred her words so badly she barely used the left side of her face. I immediately checked the manifest to confirm that Mary Jo Buttafuocco hadn’t boarded. Listen, I don’t mess with New Yorkers who survive a bullet to the fucking head. No way. That’s just asking for trouble. My idea of living dangerously is accidently undercooking pork, not going head to head with Superman’s long lost Aunt.
It wasn’t Mary Jo, which bummed me out. It was, however, some cunty bitch who thought she was above the word of the flight attendant. After watching her collapse into her window seat, I decided she needed to sober up inside the airport, not inside the airplane after departure. To say she was enraged sounds childish. She made an angry caged tiger look like a hungry kitten. The first thing she did was threaten me with a lawsuit. Drunk people always want to threaten you with a lawsuit. I don’t get it. They are drunk, you are sober. From my experience, it’s a safe bet to say that the sober individual is in the right. Why am I even trying to rationalize the thought process of a drunk person? That’s like attempting to understand a toddler throwing themselves on the ground during a temper tantrum because you didn’t put the correct number of ice cubes in their sippy cup. It makes no fucking sense.
The drunk Portland lady dropped threats on me like ice in a hailstorm. She was hell-bent on tracking me down and ending my career. I stood in the aisle with my arms folded, watching security handle her like an oversized bag that needed to be checked. She slung insults my way that fell to the floor without harming me or my nicely pressed uniform. I have no memory of these insults. It’s probably a good thing. No need to remember negative comments delivered by a drunk person. I have enough of those from Irene.
What I do remember her saying was, “I know the owner of this airline. Do you know him?” She looked over at me while security tended to her, “I will have your job. My husband will be calling him tonight.”
My facial expressions vanished. I stood as still as stone. I figured by ignoring her I’d keep my cool and not lash out, which was the only thing I wanted to do. I refused to respond which infuriated her “Do you know who I am?” she asked.
I fought back the urge to scream, “I don’t give a fuck who you are. You could be the Princess of Portland and I wouldn’t give a flying fuck.” I pushed that thought so far down I almost shit myself.
With airport security looming over her she had no choice but to leave. After 10 minutes of her continuous, “Do you know who I am?” and, “I will have your job for this,” the security guards convinced her to either walk off the airplane or be carried out. Without another word, she stood up at her window seat and slammed the top of her head into the overhead bin. My decision to have her removed was instantly validated. That bitch was too sloshed to fly on an airplane for a five hour flight. I’ve learned dealing with drunk passengers is easier on the ground so security can escort them off the airplane. Once the airplane departs the only alternative to handling a disorderly drunk passenger is to divert the airplane, which is what happened during a regularly scheduled non-stop flight from Seattle, Washington to Dallas, Texas.
At one point in my flight attendant career I was given the position of conducting flight attendant checkrides. If you think that was an easy job, you are correct. It was significantly easier than lifting heavy bags, serving Diet Cokes, and dealing with asshole passengers. I am thoroughly aware that a high percentage of flight attendants fall into the asshole category, but I’d rather deal with an argumentative flight attendant any day than a self-absorbed airplane passenger. My favorite part of the job was that I got paid to fly around the country without having to wear my uniform. There I was, an average Joe, in my khaki pants and button down shirt, occupying a passenger’s seat while evaluating other flight attendants to be sure they were in compliance with airline policies and procedures. It was heaven. Sure, I was deemed a traitor by a few of my peers but that had no effect on my decision to take on this responsibility. The harsh words and dreadful looks rolled off my back. I never blamed my coworkers for being abrasive towards me when I’d surprise them with a checkride. I’d hate that shit too. Part of the flight attendant culture is an us-against-them point of view. It doesn’t matter whether you are a ground operations employee, a pilot, a gate agent, or a flight attendant supervisor—if you are not an active flight attendant—then you aren’t with us. It’s odd and childish but that’s the way we come out of training. Us against everyone else.
After ending a fantastic full day of sightseeing in Seattle, I masturbated—What? I got needs— took a quick nap, showered, shaved, and hopped on the hotel shuttle van to the airport. Earlier in the week I emailed Doug, the flight attendant I’d be evaluating, letting him know to expect me in Seattle. No need for any surprises when I arrived at the gate. Sometimes I sent an email; sometimes I did not. It all depended on who I’d be completing the checkride on. Actually, there’s no reason to dance around the subject, it really depended on where the flight attendant was based. This was a Miami crew which instantly brought my threat level from code orange to code red. Senior flight attendants can sometimes be super bitches and Miami was full of them. Many of the senior flight attendants at my airline are based in Miami. It’s a fact you don’t want to fuck with these individuals. They’re ruthless and give off a tremendous amount of attitude. Enough to make reserve flight attendants cry just by looking at them. Even their supervisors are scared shitless. If one of these senior mamas happen
ed to be in the crew lounge, you’d find most of the supervisors hiding under their desks. Think I’m joking? I’m not. I’m as serious as a red-eye boner. On their knees and under their desk. That’s really not saying much though, most of the Miami flight attendant supervisor’s spend their Friday and Saturday nights on their knees in the Twist parking lot. (For you straight readers, that’s a gay bar in Miami Beach.) I guess they just look at it as practice for their work week. I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been on my knees in a parking lot. I save all my knee work for the bathroom stalls inside the bar. I hate gravel.
These senior Miami bitches are crustier than the last slice of bread in the loaf. A select few would rather spit in your face than take the time to look at you. It’s true. I promise you there are flight attendants from my airline reading this book on the jumpseat and laughing because they know I am talking about them. They won’t even hide it. They’ll happily agree and add, “He’s talking about me, I just know it.”
If they could bitch slap me in the face and not get terminated they would; especially when I walked up and greeted them with a friendly, "Hi, I'm Joe and I'm here to do your checkride.” Because I knew that I always carried extra tissue in my pocket for the unexpected bloody nose. Well, that and the unexpected quick jerk session on a long airport layover.
When I arrived at the gate I was perkier than a set of teenage tits. Rested and ready to get to Dallas, I was eager to meet Doug and the other two flight attendants working the flight.
Doug’s warmth wrapped around the gate area, “Hi Joe. Thanks for that email. I really appreciate the heads up.” My smile was large enough that everyone waiting to board the flight knew I’d never had my wisdom teeth removed. He didn’t have to say anything else, he basically had me at, “Hi. Joe.”
Doug wasn’t bad on the eyes either. Unless he generated a decompression or poisoned a passenger with expired coffee creamer, he already passed his evaluation with a rainbow of colors. Now that I think about it, all three of them were pleasant and friendly. I had never encountered that from Miami based flight attendants before. Was it a trick? A ploy to get on my good side so they’d have the chance to distract me, roofie me, and then report me to my supervisor for falling asleep on the job? Talk about being paranoid. I’d either have to stay alert during this evaluation or stop watching James Bond movies. Who am I kidding? I’d stay alert.
Our flight was booked with only 70 passengers. Simple. A great flight to complete a checkride. Enough time to talk with the flight attendants, answer all their questions, and still get all my work done before we landed in Dallas. After I introduced myself to the pilots I obtained my seat assignment from the gate agent and followed the crew to the airplane. Doug was working the mid cabin position so I happily took a seat in the empty exit row.
Stopping at row 14, I placed my bag in the overhead bin and told Doug I’d join him in the back of the airplane for the first part of the evaluation. Time went by quickly during this process. With my checklist in hand I followed him up and down the aisle watching while he completed his security checks and answered all the questions I tossed his way. He did well. I’d ask a question and then swiftly check off the coordinating box on the checklist. The position was easy enough that a lobotomy patient with permanent brain damage would ace the job.
Within minutes the passengers started to board and Doug took his place in the middle of the airplane while I quickly returned to my seat. I spread out my paperwork and laptop computer on the empty two seats marking my territory. It's like a cat marking a new piece of furniture. We've all done this when rewarded with an an entire row to ourselves.
Once airborne, I sat in my seat trying to stay undetected and keep my eyes open. My day exploring the Space Needle, Pike Place Market, and the first ever Starbucks was catching up with me. I simply wanted to land in Dallas and catch a day nap before my flight back to Cleveland. To be honest, I didn't give two shits about this checkride or any other checkride for that matter. I rarely did. But it had to be done, so on went my game face and I pushed through it. And I hate tooting my own horn but I had an unbelievable game face. I used it often. It should come as no surprise that it was also the face I used to deliver a heavy passenger their fifth bag of nuts. It was needed. I could never let a flight attendant know that I'd rather receive a prostate exam by The Hulk than spend one more second watching them pour a Sprite Zero.
I say that as if having The Hulk’s finger in your ass was a bad thing. Not for many. Probably only bad for an Airbus captain. They seem to hate everything. Did you notice I didn’t say first officer? You’d have to fight them off with an oxygen generator while they fought to get to the front of the line.
When we reached cruising altitude, and the seat belt sign came off, most of the 70 passengers stretched out in their rows to sleep. Damn them. Jealousy had me green with envy. Or was that the gumbo I had for lunch at Pike Place Market? No worries, I’d figure that out soon enough. I went from sleepy to exhausted in the 15 minutes it took for us to reach 38,000 feet. I surmised the barista gave me decaf instead of blonde roast. The benefits of being a Starbucks Gold Member mean nothing when you are about to fall asleep on the job. With my tray table down I dove deep into the checkride paperwork. The faster it was done the quicker I’d get back to the book nestled into my tote bag. While conducting checkrides, if we had downtime—which we always did—we were never allowed to watch television or listen to music. Basically, no earbuds in our ears. Understood. But the rules said nothing about reading a book. So that’s what I always aimed for. That was my goal, to get the work done quickly so I could sit back and read my book while getting paid. Not much different than when I’m working as a flight attendant.
After a few minutes of jotting down notes on Doug, I felt the passenger sitting behind me fiddling with the back of my seat. It wasn’t constant but it was noticeable. He’d grab the top of my seat and give it a strong tug backwards. What the fuck was he doing? And why the fuck was he sitting behind me? There were rows and rows of empty seats on this airplane and this dude had to sit directly behind me? I shrugged it off hoping he’d stop once situated. I didn’t look back. I had no idea what he looked like. As employees of the airline, we are discouraged from confronting passengers on the airplane when we fly standby. We take our seats, shut up, and enjoy flying for free. It’s really not a bad deal. The only time I struggle with that is when I am surrounded by screaming children and I can’t tell them to shut the fuck up. That’s painful. Even though I wasn’t flying standby, I considered this to fall within the same category.
Like clockwork, the flight attendants all stepped into the aisle to start beverage service. With most passengers stretching out to take full advantage of their own row, many had fallen asleep before the flight attendants glided down the aisle like ghosts collecting drink orders. I was the first row in Doug's section. He politely stopped and greeted me, "Hello sir. May I get you something to drink?"
He was cute, "No, I'm good. I’ve got my own bottle of water."
Doug passed to the next row after confirming the person across from me was asleep. As soon as he was out of view, I flipped my paperwork over and went right back to checking off boxes under the service section of the checklist. I barely marked off two boxes before my ears picked up on some unfriendly banter coming from Doug and the passenger behind me. He stood firmly in the aisle and I heard him say, "Sir, I’m sorry but we charge for alcohol and headphones."
"That’s bullshit. Since when?" The passenger’s condescending tone instantly struck a nerve and I wasn’t even the one interacting with him. I felt bad for Doug. I tried recalling any features of this guy’s face but nothing surfaced. Any memory of what he looked like was lost among the distractions of conducting the evaluation.
"We’ve always charged for those items.” Doug kept his cool. I already began noting his professionalism while managing this passenger. It was obvious this guy had been drinking well before he arrived at the airport. Doug continued, “May I get you something
to drink?"
He sharply responded, "Just give me a Budweiser.” Then without any reason added, “Don't be such a pussy."
At that point I found myself straining my neck to see behind my seat. It was time to put a face with this disrespectful voice. I didn’t know who to expect. I sat there twisting in an extremely uncomfortable position. Honestly, I am not flexible. I can barely step out of the shower without needing two Vicodin. I blame it on my age. I was almost at the point of needing a chiropractor to get me back in alignment when Doug addressed me from above, "Can you help me with this?" He asked so the passenger heard his request and then bent down to whisper in my right ear, "He smells like a bottle of booze."
There went being incognito for the flight. As much as I didn't want to get involved, leaving Doug alone to deal with this asshole was out of the question.
“Sure.” I placed my paperwork in the seat next to me and locked the tray table in place. I stood up and spun around to face the passenger seated behind me.
It was dark throughout the entire airplane so it was hard to make out his facial features. As I moved in closer his brightly lit television screen immediately gave away all his nooks, crannies, and wrinkles. He wore a dingy Dallas Cowboys baseball cap, a dark colored t-shirt, and jean shorts frayed at the bottom. I looked his ass up and down. His face was withdrawn and he had no facial hair to hide his double chin. That’s chubby boy etiquette 101: always have facial hair to hide that unwanted neck skin. He looked exhausted. I’m guessing at some point he’d been dragged through a muddy swamp and left out on the river bank to dry in the sun. The best Hollywood coke addict couldn’t keep up with the lines on this guys face. If humans were aged by lines—like rings around a tree—I'd guess this guy wrestled velociraptors during the late Cretaceous Period.