Fasten Your Seat Belts and Eat Your Fucking Nuts

by Joe Thomas

  “Burning?” I responded, “I don’t smell anything. Do you have any trash?”

  “It smells like burnt matches and death. Like burning flesh.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I had to distract her before she caused a scene, “let me get you a glass of red wine and some extra napkins to cover your nose. I’ll be right back.” I lived through my sexuality being outed to my entire high school class in 1990, but I was damn sure not going to have this white haired Republican calling me and my stinky ass out on a flight to Miami.

  While Mr. KGB towered over me enraged about his absent drink, I noticed the whites of his eyes getting redder with each angry breath. On second thought, maybe it was alcohol poisoning. I tried focusing on the task at hand: managing this grim breathed son of a bitch who was practically foaming at the mouth and ready to scratch my eyes out. Great. I had a slightly intoxicated, foul breathed Russian werewolf on my flight.

  Our aggression bubbled over while standing in the aisle. Neither of us budged. His crimson eyes sent my nerves into overdrive but I didn’t back down. There’s not much worse than being eye assaulted by a Russian while flying over your own country. Totally tolerable in another country but not on your own home turf. Here I was, flying over the United States of America, the land of the free and home of the brave, being verbally attacked by a Russian. Acting out the movie Red Dawn was not part of the plan for this trip, but here we were rapidly heading in that direction. I blamed him for Patrick Swayze’s death, the cancer that killed him, and for ruining any chance of a sequel to To Wong Foo, Thanks for Everything, Julie Newmar. I also blamed him for Jennifer Grey’s career-ruining nose job.

  Taking a few quick breaths I forced my anger aside, "Sir. What is your name?” My hand shook so uncontrollably that the plastic white garbage bag sounded like leaves rustling in the breeze. That must be what it sounds like when Michael J. Fox takes out the trash.

  “Ivan Mudak. I need vodka.”

  “Yes. I know you do Mr. Mudak. I will be right back. Return to your seat and I will be there to take your order."

  I needed a quick 60 seconds to cool down and get him back into his seat. Ivan caused quite a scene in the middle of the airplane and with his broken English and thick accent, I was afraid a few of the gang members seated in his area might get involved and beat the shit out of him. Although I love when straight roughnecks come to my rescue, and the idea of Ivan’s face crushed under a steel toe boot was appealing, I didn’t want World War III breaking out on my flight. There was no doubt in my mind that Ivan held me personally responsible for the fall of the USSR. I couldn’t handle another cold war on my shoulders.

  I gave up collecting trash and stormed to the back of the airplane, passing a number of passengers holding up trash. I refused to make eye contact. The mere thought of interacting with any paying passengers put me on the verge of: a) screaming at the top of my lungs or b) punching someone in the throat. If any passengers had tossed their empty cans or egg shells at me, I would have probably made them eat it.

  Stepping into the back galley, the flight attendant I was working with looked up from her People magazine ready to attack, “Jesus Christ, Joe. I thought you were a passenger.”

  “I’m so angry right now, Felicia,” throwing the garbage bag on the floor I didn’t give her time to respond. “Calm down, Joe. Calm the fuck down.” I find talking to myself in third person always makes me feel better. And saying the word fuck. These two behaviors give the impression that I’m a complete lunatic, and if you mess with me, your face is bound to look like Rihanna’s after movie night with Chris Brown.

  “What happened?”

  I briefed her on my interaction with Ivan. She offered to handle the situation but I declined. I relish in the prospect of confrontation, and although this was a challenging one—honestly, I should have taken her up on the offer to help—I had to deal with this asshole myself. I came up with a game plan, knowing that if I waited any length of time he’d march to the back galley to continue our battle. Getting back out into the aisle was my top priority. The idea of being pinned against the galley counter with his breath burning the beard off my chin was about as appealing as sitting down to a meal of liver and onions. I’d kill him with kindness, and if that didn’t work, I’d manage the motherfucker right into a set of plastic handcuffs. The entire fiasco had me thinking about a fantasy that sits quietly in a corner of my mind, one that’s been there since finishing flight attendant training. Normally, I saved that fantasy for passengers caught smoking on my flight, but in a rare occasion like this, it worked perfectly. It is the fantasy where a passenger steps so far over the line that I am authorized to beat the shit out them badly enough that their family wouldn’t recognize them in baggage claim.

  The way things were going, if Ivan refused to back down when I approached him again—he’d be the one fulfilling my fantasy on our way to Miami. I envisioned him increasingly becoming more agitated the longer I made him wait for his drink. In a final fit of rage he’d snap and we’d find ourselves boxing like angry kangaroos in the middle of the airplane. I’d announce to the gang members—who were up and ready to stab us both—to sit the fuck down while the seat belt sign was illuminated as I repeatedly smashed the side of Ivan’s head against his aisle seat. Finally, to prove I was the alpha male, I’d drag him face down across the vomit-stained airplane carpet and then make his Russian bride my bitch until we landed. The idea of having his wife complete my second beverage service and pick up trash while I sat comfortably in her seat watching The Real Housewives of Atlanta was hotter than if I bent her over the armrest and made her scream for more vodka.

  Now, before anyone calls the police or reports me to the FAA, it’s only a fantasy. Flight attendants are not authorized to literally beat the shit out of a passenger. We have the authority to handcuff and safely secure them in a seat until the authorities arrive to cart them off to jail. That’s all. But for a minute, just think about how wonderful that fantasy plays out. Sounds fun, right?

  After another set of deep cleansing breaths, I picked up the trash bag, put it into the trash bin, and made my way up the aisle to 14C. I turned facing him and bent down on one knee staring directly into his bloodshot eyes. After another deep breath I began, "Ivan, this is the United States of America,” I reminded him in case he had forgotten, “we don't act like that on an airplane. What may I get you to drink?" The heat protruding from his mouth dried my lips. Goddamn his breath was atrocious. In all my years I had never smelled anything so putrid. Did Colgate come out with new shit-flavored toothpastes? Colgate Advanced Shitening? Colgate Sensitive Shit? Colgate UltraShit with Peroxide? Colgate Blast of Shit? That was the only explanation: Ivan brushed his teeth with shit. When he spoke, my contacts went fuzzy forcing me to shake my head to get them to refocus.

  "Vodka. Beer. Vodka.” He continued barking at me, “What kind of beer do you have?"

  My initial response was to pull out my own Tourette’s card and bark back, “Dick. Prick. Fuck you!” But he didn’t have Tourette’s. He was just as asshole.

  “Ivan, do you speak English?”

  “Da. Da.” He looked over at his wife who clearly wanted to crawl into the seatback pocket, “Of course I do. What kind of question is that?”

  “Do you understand that I will not tolerate you yelling at me on my airplane?”

  We stared at each other like two pugs who didn’t like the smell of each other’s bungholes. I refused to back down. I had Mr. KGB by his baby balls and with each rancid breath he shot my way, I squeezed those peaches tighter. A few more moments and I might have reached the pit but he eventually looked up, “Da.”

  Finally, I was getting somewhere with this creep. My pleasant flight attendant tone returned and I began listing the beers available on our flight for him. He blurted out, "Heineken. Bring me Heineken. What kind of vodka do you have?”

  “Absolut.”

  “That’s shit vodka,” he responded pushing me to break char
acter and bust out laughing. Informing him that our “shit vodka” went perfectly with his shit breath was something I could only do if I planned on terminating my employment once we landed. “That’s fine,” he stated, “Bring me one.”

  “What mixer do you want for the vodka?”

  He snapped, “Nothing!” That worried me.

  A few minutes later I delivered him a Heineken, a vodka mini, a cup of ice, and set them all down on the tray table on top of a napkin and walked away. Any further conversations with Ivan would only occur if we were faced with an emergency evacuation, and I made no promises even to fulfill that obligation.

  I walked up the aisle to the front of the airplane and entered the lavatory to fix my tie and splash water on my face. My collar was soaked after working up a sweat putting out the vodka volcano that erupted in the middle of the airplane. I needed to cool off. After painting on another fake smile I started back down the aisle collecting trash. When I reached Ivan’s row he dropped his empty Heineken can and vodka mini bottle into the trash bag. Let me explain why my eyes were forcing their way out of my skull while this happened: Ivan basically drank a full can of beer and downed a vodka mini within the same time frame it takes a normal human being to enjoy a sip of water. My first reaction was to get on the interphone and request assistance at row 14. There had to be an Alcoholic Anonymous sponsor on the flight who’d be able to help me out in this emergency. My mind raced with attempts to remember at least one of the 12 steps. I concentrated while looking down into the garbage bag. Think! Goddamn it, Joe, think! The idea of God came to mind. Did one of the steps have something to do with bending over while intoxicated and allowing God to ass rape you without a condom? Was my memory playing tricks on me? Something about giving it up to God? I lost it. I had no fucking clue. All the drunk friends that have come in and out of my life and not one of them had gone through AA. I guess that’s why they were my friends. I refused to be friends with people who are afraid of alcohol. An ass raping by God? Yes. A classic Manhattan cocktail? No. Without making eye contact, I smiled and continued walking down the aisle collecting empty cans and hoping it was the last time Ivan and I interacted.

  Thirty minutes later I was walking through the cabin collecting trash… again. After turning down Felicia’s assistance in managing Ivan, I was slightly surprised that she made zero effort to lift a finger to help out with any other tasks. She must have concluded that due to her being the senior flight attendant on the trip it liberated her from picking up trash. Whore! I reminded myself that if we crashed off the coast of Florida and I found her holding onto the raft’s mooring line, pleading for help, I’d cut it—by mistake of course—and wish her the best. “Bye Felicia. Ride your fucking People magazine back to Tampa.”

  Ivan gave me heart palpitations. It wasn’t a full blown panic attack, but just enough chest pain to make me question if we were allowed to use the AED on ourselves when dealing with mentally challenged Russians. My stress might have been eliminated if Felicia completed at least one trash pick up during the flight, but I knew that was asking too much. I’d have more luck being the pivot man in a flight deck circle jerk than expecting her to get off her ass. I accepted my destiny as solo trash collector on the flight. That was fine. She’d get hers if we crashed in the water. I officially marked her off as shark bait.

  Making eye contact with Ivan made the hairs on my arm stand on end. I attempted to look at each person and simply skip over his scowl but he grabbed my attention, “May I have another Heineken?” Surprisingly, his tone was pleasant and not the Mt. Ivan eruption I lived through from earlier in the flight.

  It seemed as if destiny brought me to this exact moment in time. A time where I’d find myself on a flight with an aggressive Russian who tested my patience and the ability to manage my emotions without getting terminated. A few months before meeting Ivan, I occupied the jumpseat next to Natasha, a Russian-born flight attendant at my airline. I have forgotten our final destination but I do remember questioning her about the personality of Russians. I referred to them as “her people” which she did not appreciate. Let’s just say I was pleased she’d taken her prescribed dose of Xanax that night or I’d have been peeling my cheekbone off the airplane door.

  She shared with me in the dimly-lit front galley that Russians are usually angry and drinking. She added that when Russians aren’t angry and drinking, they are enjoying their other two pastimes: being angry and drinking. She said, “Russians rarely apologize for anything. Why should we apologize?” She felt strongly about this, “If your flight is delayed why should I apologize? It’s not my fault. I understand you are not happy that your flight is delayed but it has nothing to do with me.”

  I tried helping her understand, “Yeah, but we work for the airline so we represent the airline. You are simply apologizing that the passenger is in the situation they are in. Not that it was your fault the flight was actually delayed.”

  Natasha didn’t agree, “No. I don’t apologize. That’s stupid. Not many Russians apologize.”

  Point taken. Russians don’t apologize. They also get snippy when you disagree with the reasons they give for not apologizing.

  “Russians love to fight,” she continued while I drank down her cultural knowledge like a White Russian, “It’s in our blood. We fight to dominate the situation. How you react determines the outcome.”

  But even before my talk with Natasha, and my run-in with Ivan, I knew exactly how abusive people of this culture were toward flight attendants. Based in JFK, I spent months at my crash pad in Kew Gardens listening to flight attendants complaining about flights to Moscow—that is, when they actually did work the flights. More often than not they called in sick just to get out of their Moscow trips. From my eight months in that crash pad I witnessed enough sick calls to wonder how airlines actually staffed these fucking flights.

  My mind refused to understand it. I’d have given up my best toenail to fly internationally and spend the night in Moscow. Walking the curious streets of Moscow sounded thrilling compared to overnights in Buffalo. People don’t travel to Buffalo to experience a different culture, they go there to die in blizzards. Listen, if I’m required by my employer to spend the night in a city with a temperature that drops below -10 degrees, I’d rather be in an exciting city on the other side of the planet.

  One flight attendant expressed how he truly felt about Moscow one night while we sat on the sofa watching a 2008 Presidential debate, “Those flights are the worst,” he dialed a number into his cell phone, “They’re a bunch of rude assholes and completely empty the liquor cart.”

  “The entire cart? Stop lying,” I questioned while placing my How To Visit Buffalo and Not Kill Yourself guide on the side table.

  “It’s true,“ he whispered while on hold with Crew Scheduling, “They start with vodka and work all the way down to the Malibu rum.” He put his finger up in the air to start the show, “Hello. Yes. This is Troy Smith,” he paused to cough and then shot me a thumbs up, “My employee number is 4458 and I need to call in sick for my Moscow trip tonight.”

  I placed Ivan’s second Heineken on his tray table and he pointed his finger up to alert me, "Wait. I have something for you."

  My anti-terrorist training kicked into high gear. As I prepared to pick up the beer and crack it over his massive skull, he reached into his pocket and produced a thick wad of cash. American dollars. Greenbacks. Fresh and crisp like a Vlasic dill pickle. He licked his thick dildo fingers—I almost threw up on the toddler sitting across from him—and starting flipping through his money. I felt like a prostitute. One who hated having a stranger’s salami stored in her meat pantry but then acts like it never happened once she’s collected enough cash for a weekend trip to Cozumel. That exact kind of prostitute.

  Without saying a word, or making eye contact, he pulled out $20 and flicked it at me as if I was one of his bothersome mistresses. I stood there motionless. The thought of slapping it out of his hand and asking, “What kind of flight att
endant do you think I am?” crossed my mind but I hadn’t had someone pay me off since I was 11 years old and caught Irene growing marijuana in my grandparent’s backyard.

  Ivan sat there fanning himself with the $20 like his air vent was broken. I glanced over at his wife. She looked at me solemnly, making me realize I should take the money and forgive his inexcusable behavior. The boulder-sized diamond on her wedding finger told me that this lady knew all too well about being paid off. I figured he either pissed her off quite often or pushed for anal way more than she agreed on her wedding night. Letting him off the hook that easy made my brain hurt. And don’t judge me, but I was curious to see if he’d offer up an anal option. Listen, even if you don’t want something, it’s always nice to have choices. You never know what sounds good until you have options. Just ask those greedy bisexuals.

  I instinctively declined his tip but he insisted, “You take money. Take it.”

  “That’s ok. You don’t have to tip me.”

  He looked at me and winked, “I don’t have to but I want to.”

  I snatched the $20 out of his hand faster than he expected. He instinctively pulled his hand back but not before that crisp $20 was safely in my front apron pocket. The wink threw me off. Although I thought about the anal option for a brief second, when he winked at me I realized that if I didn’t keep moving I’d be forced into a game of Russian anal in the back lavatory. That’s a bullet I was not prepared to take.

  As I walked away with more money than when I started the flight, I couldn’t help but feel pleased at how everything turned out. The right thing would have been for him to apologize and for me to hand him back his money, but that’s not how the situation played out. Who cares about doing the right thing when you’re managing assholes at 38,000 feet? I have no qualms with passengers paying me for their inappropriate behavior and Ivan was a bad boy.