by Joe Thomas
The first guy I ever dated was a smoker. Caught up in the excitement of my first love—and that he peeled my shrimp at dinner—I looked past the fact that he spent more time on the patio with a cigarette in his mouth than he did in the bedroom with my dick in it. A year and a half of playing second fiddle to a pack of Kools will only last so long. Don’t even get me started when it came to kissing that motherfucker. Kissing him reminded me of what tonguing gutter trash from Les Miserables resembled. Resuscitating a decomposed cat carcass tasted better than placing my lips on his. Not that I ever placed my lips on a dead cat, but you understand the image I am trying to relay. Listen, if I have to scrape my tongue across teeth that are yellow and gritty, I’ll just deepthroat a fucking stick of butter. After him, I promised myself never to date another smoker. I’d fuck them but I wouldn’t marry them, which follows the same guidelines I set for guys with small dicks.
In 1988, when I was 16 years old, Irene and I traveled from Orlando, Florida to Hartford, Connecticut to visit family and friends. I’d never flown, and the excitement of flying on an airplane had me counting down the months and days in advance. The countdown started at 185 days, and each morning after breakfast I’d scratch out the current date on the typewritten piece of paper that was taped to my bedroom closet door. I imagined that’s how girls prepared for their first period; a taped countdown on their closet door with the hopes to wake up a woman. I just wanted to go on vacation.
Irene booked our seats together in the back of the airplane. I didn’t understand what that meant until 45 minutes into the flight and I thought the airplane was going down. “Mom! Did an engine explode? Why is there so much smoke?”
“This is the smoking section,” she replied pulling out a Winston 100 and grabbing her lighter, “I can’t go two hours without a fucking cigarette.”
“Are you trying to kill me?” I questioned sitting up to witness all the smoke billowing from each seat in our section. It had to be the most intense cloud of smoke I had ever experienced in my entire life. Only the citizens of Auschwitz had seen this much smoke in the air at one time.
Claustrophobia set in. The fuselage walls began closing in on me. I had to get up. Squeezing passed the guy sitting next to me, I finally broke free into the aisle. The thick fog of smoke disoriented me, but I managed to find my footing and started toward the back of the airplane. Finding the lavatory was my main objective. I didn’t have to pee, I simply needed a break from the gas slowly suffocating me.
When I reached the back galley I peeked through the dark gold curtain to see something out of the Twilight Zone. Two of the flight attendants were standing up in the galley wearing surgical masks and preparing food. Surgical masks? On an airplane? Something told me that they weren’t performing open heart surgery on the beef tips we were having for dinner. Another female flight attendant had an oxygen bottle tucked between her legs attached by a tube to the plastic mask, which she sucked on like she was about to blast off into outer space. Their muffled conversations made me want to strap myself down, open the airplane door to let in fresh air, and possibly suck out the entire back half of the airplane-including Irene.
I will always remember that flight as the worst two hours of my life, and I’ve sat through Three Men and a Baby.
Worried the flight attendants might choke to death in the back galley, when I got back to my seat I looked over at Irene, “Mom? Those poor flight attendants have to deal with this smoke all the time.”
“That’s what they get paid to do,” she answered taking another puff off her cigarette. Then after a moment she added, “They signed up for this job.”
“I think they signed up to hand out soda and nuts, not live the rest of their lives in an iron lung.”
“Why are you such a smart ass?”
That was my initial education on flight attendant seniority. The junior reserve flight attendants worked in the back of the airplane leaving the senior mamas up front. Seniority was more than just getting a better schedule and service position, it was living an extra decade without going through chemotherapy. These poor flight attendants started their day smelling like Dior and left smelling like Marlboro.
My disgust for cigarette smoke has lasted my entire life. When smoking bans took place in bars and restaurants I rejoiced happier than when my STD screens come back negative. The afternoon I graduated from flight attendant training I made it known to anyone who listened that at no time, under any fucking circumstances, would I tolerate a passenger smoking on my flight. Never! I’d nip that shit in the butt the moment a passenger walked on my airplane. Yes, my airplane. If I’m working on it, it belongs to me. Cigarettes in your front shirt pocket displayed like a trophy? Not on this flight. Hide them cancer sticks for the entire flight. No need for you to even think about lightening up. While seated on my jumpseat, I’d create these elaborate stories of how I’d react to a passenger smoking on my flight. These scenarios usually started with me walking down the aisle, smacking my plastic handcuffs in my hand, making even the two packs a day smokers cringe in their seat. It’s hard to smoke a cigarette when you are hogtied and handcuffed on the floor in the front galley. I’d add that to my safety demonstration just so passengers understood that I had a zero tolerance policy for smoking shenanigans on my flight.
My first run-in with a passenger smoking on one of my flights did not turn out as dramatic as I had imagined. Madison and I were flying from Minneapolis to Atlanta. She was a doll: statuesque, blond, cute, perky, and taught me how to put my cell phone in a plastic cup and listen to music in the galley while preparing for service. Best trick ever. Who knew a plastic cup could project a Madonna song all the way up to row 20? Not this guy. Madison was the lead flight attendant while I held down the back of the airplane. Delays, mechanicals, and short overnights made me want to kill everyone who requested a wheelchair for when we landed in Atlanta. We had just completed service and I was in the back galley—jamming out to Jennifer Lopez—when I noticed a Hispanic male making his way to the back galley. I turned down my music and smiled as he approached me. He stood in the galley with a blank stare obviously looking for the airplane lavatory. Why do passengers make using the bathroom such a project on the airplane? It’s either a swinging door that you pull open or a bi-fold door that you push and slide aside. It’s that simple. Most passengers stumble around the lavatory door like they are drunk college girls trying to enter their dorm room.
“Bathroom?” He asked pointing towards the coffee maker.
“No. That’s a coffee maker. The lavatory is right there,” I pointed at the door, “it’s open.”
He looked over but didn’t move. I refused to open the door for him. He was a full grown adult and at some point you have to let nature take over and hope for the best. A minute later he moved over to the door but still had no luck opening it.
“It’s a door. Turn the handle and open it.”
With the same hesitation I have when it comes to shaving my balls, he slowly twisted the door handle and entered the lavatory. The door wasn’t closing so I pushed it shut with my foot. Something told me that this guy’s massive shit could take down a Cessna 182 on a sunny day over Pompano Beach. Being trapped in the galley while his impressive shit Kraken emerged was not an option. I evacuated the area walking up the aisle to visit with Madison.
Madison and I stood in the front galley bitching about our brutal trip while an array of passengers made their way to the back galley to use the lavatory. To be honest, I lost track of who had gone back there. Men. Women. Children. Puppies. I couldn’t have cared less. My mind was filled with thoughts of landing in Atlanta, riding the van to the hotel, taking a scalding hot shower, burning my uniform, jerking off, and then passing out with a smile across my face.
After the crowd cleared away I started back down the aisle towards the back galley. It didn’t take long for the smell to assault me, it hit my face like a ton of dicks; a passenger had been smoking.
I have this weird sense of smell. It’s a
power sense gifted to me by the universe. Probably because I am blind as a bat and deaf from too many years listening to my Walkman at full volume. There’s no medical confirmation on this diagnosis, and it’s plain conjecture on my part, but I have a nose as powerful as a blind person, which makes me believe I was Helen Keller’s dog in a past life. My nose can smell odors that other people in the room cannot. It is a blessing for sniffing out fires and freshly baked chocolate chip cookies, but a curse when seated four rows from a shitty diaper.
At 38,000 feet, in a metal tube with recirculated air, you know the difference between roasted nuts and cigarette smoke. I sprinted to the back galley to catch the perpetrator. Man, woman, or punk-ass teenager, I didn’t care-someone was getting put in a headlock. My heart raced and I felt my blood pumping in my temples. Where were my handcuffs? I couldn’t remember where I’d put them, but I’d have Madison grab hers once my knee was in this terrorist’s back. The back lavatory was unoccupied. I opened the lavatory door and the stench washed over me and my eyes began to water.
I quickly stepped into the lavatory and opened up the trash receptacle bin to search for the cigarette butt. The crucial detail when catching a passenger smoking on your airplane is finding the cigarette butt. Did the smoker throw it in the trash can? Did they flush it? Is there going to be a fire onboard the airplane? There’s nothing worse than burning up on your way to Atlanta because some asshat decided to smoke a cigarette on a three hour flight.
The missing cigarette butt caused my neck to turn a dark shade of red. I was ready to fuck someone up. You can always tell how angry I am by how red my neck gets. It turns pink for passengers who haven’t fastened their seat belt after I’ve asked them five times in a row, crimson for anyone who orders coffee on a 30-minute express flight, and scarlet for fuckers who decide to smoke on my airplane.
This was a scarlet moment.
I stormed up the aisle to the front of the airplane. Before Madison had a chance to look up from her magazine, I turned the airplane cabin lights on bright and grabbed the interphone to make an announcement. It went something like this, “Ladies and Gentlemen. Sorry for this interruption but we have a problem!” One hundred heads popped up in unison, “I want you all to know that one of your fellow passengers has endangered each and everyone of us on this flight. One of you was smoking in the back lavatory. I need to know who it was.” While I scanned the crowd making eye contact with each passenger, Madison tried fitting herself into one of the service bins. Filled with enough rage to challenge the Westboro Baptist Church, I transitioned from happy-go -lucky Joe into a split personality that Sybil would avoid. Sybil had nothing on Outraged Joe. Outraged Joe didn’t give a fuck. He was saving lives by making an unprofessional scene on the airplane. What was the airline going to do? Fire him? Me. You know what I mean.
Addressing the entire airplane I continued, “I need to find out who was smoking. If I don’t, we’ll have security waiting for us when we land in Atlanta!” I slammed the interphone down onto the receiver and started marching down the aisle like it was D-Day. Madison followed behind me to show her support, but mostly for fear of what I’d do if left alone.
As I advanced down the aisle, scanning the faces of the tense passengers in their seats, it didn’t take me long to sniff out the lady in 17A and her male travel companion in 17B. I zoned out. Madison stood behind me while I leaned in hovering over 17B, “Excuse me?” I stared at the two of them. Both of them ignored me which increased my shade of red. Waving my hands in front of their faces, the guy in 17B finally broke concentration and looked up at me. I calmly asked, “Were any of you smoking in the lavatory?”
“No,” he answered. One simple word and then he abruptly turned back towards his regularly scheduled programing. Did he think he had a choice in this interaction? We all know the answer to that-even if he was oblivious to it at the time. I was delivering an emergency broadcast alert directly at their faces.
Super pissed, and my neck hitting Merlot status, I stuttered out, “Uh. Hello! Are you sure? Cause from where I’m standing it smells like a dirty ashtray in your row.”
He looked back up at me, “I already told you we weren’t smoking.”
The female passenger in 17A had yet to make eye contact with me. My Stevie Wonder senses alerted me that this bitch was the firestarter I was looking for. If I squinted just right I could see the haze of cancer hovering around her. Dragging her out of the seat and into the aisle to sniff her breath seemed to be the logical thing to do. I let that idea pass without a second thought. I may be reckless but I’m not stupid. An action like that would end my flight attendant career.
“Listen,” I directed my anger towards 17A, “I know you were smoking in the lavatory. It’s obvious. You guys smell like you just walked out of a bar.” I could have left that insult out but it was too late. My mouth had been working without the help of my brain since I picked up the interphone, “I just need to know where the cigarette butt is.”
“I told you. We weren’t smoking.”
“Alright. Be that way. We’ll have security waiting for you when we land.” I regained my posture and walked towards the back of the airplane.
Madison followed behind me and put her hand on my shoulder, “Are you ok? Maybe you should listen to some Madonna.”
I shut off the airplane cabin lights, “No. I’m not ok!” I slipped my hands into plastic clear gloves and moved towards the lavatory door. The tight gloves made a rubber band snapping sound as I secured them around my wrist. I wished it was the sound of my hand gliding across 17A and 17B smug faces. “Who the fuck smokes on an airplane?” I opened the lavatory door, pulled out the trash bin, and sifted through dirty snot rags and a bloody used tampon trying to track down the ticking smoking time bomb.
“Wow. That’s strong.” Madison stated as she held the door open for me so I wouldn’t be stuck in the lavatory with the odor.
After five minutes of intense searching, the cigarette butt was nowhere to be found. My next move was to call the flight deck and report the incident to the pilots. Pushing all my emotions into the lavatory I focused on delivering nothing but facts and data. Anyone in the airline industry will tell you that when completing incident reports or reporting disturbances to the flight deck, you should never allow your personal feelings to get in the way. Only give pilots and management the facts and data. They only want the facts and data. Simple enough, right? Sometimes. It sounds all fine and dandy written down on the pages of the flight attendant manual, and recited in your head while waiting for the pilots to pick up the interphone, but delivering facts and data can be challenging when you’re enraged with a blood pressure of 210/135 because some asshole was smoking in the lavatory. I did my best, “Captain, the passenger in 17A was smoking in the aft lavatory.”
He asked, “Did you actually catch them smoking?”
Did that matter? I continued reminding myself about the facts and data but my emotions were gradually decompressing, “I didn’t physically catch her smoking in the lavatory but the smell is so strong at their row that unless they bathe with cigarette smoke-scented soap it was one of them.”
He sighed, “Well if you didn’t actually witness them I don’t know if there’s much we can do. I’ll still call ahead for security to meet the flight.”
“I guess that’s fine. Thanks.” My dissatisfaction was evident but I was positive that once airport security walked on the airplane and smelled what these two fuckers were cooking they’d both be handcuffed and carted off to jail. And they’d sit there trying to afford bail. I expected bail to be set at $10,000,000 for smoking on an airplane. Possibly even more.
While picking up trash during our final descent into Atlanta, I strutted passed 17A giving her the most unpleasant expression my facial muscles could create. Instead of looking angry and intimidating, I resembled a pug trying to take a shit after a week of constipation. That didn’t bother me; that’s how I normally look during fits of rage. I spent a few extra seconds at their row
fiddling with the trash bag to get their attention but they refused to acknowledge me. Frustrated, but feeling confident that I’d win the war, I finished collecting trash from the rest of the passengers, cleaned up my work galley, and strapped myself into the jump seat.
During takeoff and landing our flight attendant duties include a 30-second review. A 30-second review is an FAA requirement to keep emergency information fresh in our minds for the off chance our airplane breaks in half during landing. Knowing which side of the airplane we are seated on, how many passengers are on the airplane, and where our disabled passengers are seated seems to be crucial to surviving an airplane crash. I don’t know about you but all I care about is where I am seated and whether we’ve crashed on the ground or in the water. That alone determines whether I’m even going to attempt to get out. None of that mattered while we were landing. I was fixated and preoccupied with 17A. Trying to recite which side of the airplane I was seated on didn’t seem as important as obsessing about this whore who smoked on my flight. My 30-second review turned into a five minute fantasy of these two fucknuts being carted off the airplane by security.
We landed safely in Atlanta. Once we came to a complete stop at the gate, I got out of my jumpseat before the captain turned off the seat belt sign. I disarmed my two airplane doors and paced back and forth in the galley like a hungry tiger.
A male passenger approached me with his young child, “Can she use the bathroom? She can’t hold it.”
Insane and practically foaming at the mouth I aggressively responded, “No sir. This lavatory is evidence regarding the passenger who was smoking on the airplane.” None of that was true. Pure and utter bullshit but I believed every word that came out of my mouth. It’s funny how you can make up nonsense and believe it in a moment of hysteria. I had personally gone through the entire lavatory with my own gloved hands and came up empty handed. Even with that reality, I firmly believed the airplane would be taken out of service while security never rested until the cigarette butt was located and destroyed.