“Perhaps it is just the job?” I began to avoid the airport on my days off. I tried to get my feet solidly planted on the ground, spent more time with my family. In reality my actions were a vain effort to hide the deep fear that now accompanied me. Of all the airline companies, all the daily flights and all the flight attendants working the skies, what were the odds such an event would strike me? I quickly dismissed the warning as nothing more than anxiety and forced myself to devote more time in the weight room. I would drive my body to exhaustion, seeking repose. I became isolated in an attempt to simplify my life. I postponed any future adventures and concentrated on performing my duties inflight to the best of my abilities.
Finally, Scheduling gave me a prize of an assignment. It was a flight on the 10 to Mexico City with a wonderful extended layover and lodging at a first class hotel, the El Presidente at Chapultepec Park. The thrill of exploring the Mexican capital was extremely uplifting. Perhaps my luck was changing. I day-dreamed about venturing into the renowned Zona Rosa enjoying fine cuisine, savoring Mariachi music, meeting new and different people, and getting myself back on track.
The cabin crew was assembled in the briefing room where each F/A would choose a work position according to seniority. Some faces I recognized but some were new. My eyes were directed to a lovely Hispanic senorita. I determined her status because the tell-tale diamond of every married F/A was absent from her ring finger. Like the blooming roses my father had nurtured at our home in East Los Angeles, Reina Patricia Torres was as precious in God’s creation. Olive skinned with radiant black hair I could not help but be dazzled by her marvelous features. Once on the plane and on our way her elegance glowed as she walked down the aisle, performing her tasks and seeing to everyone's needs. I soon found myself hypnotized by her presence. My eyes continued to follow her as she moved forward up the aisle, vanishing behind the curtain into First Class. I was perplexed because I had no intention of trying to make a play for her. Yes, she was extremely attractive and possessed a bubbling personality but my emotions for her were motivated by a reverence. Reina was something special, yet peculiar. Hispanic culture admires honor and respect above all and Reina possessed an inner splendor that vied with the physical luster, if that were indeed possible. I was truly awed. This creature was far more worthy of respect and esteem than any silly flirtation.
I got to spend some one on one time with her in the aft of the cabin once all the services were complete. She expressed a deep gratitude for her strong family ties, having eight brothers and one sister. Her family had been fortunate to escape the ravages of war in El Salvador. Coming to this country as a young child she spoke about always wanting to be a flight attendant and informed me of all the airlines she had applied to. I felt that our company was indeed fortunate to have her.
“I believe one day I will be killed in a plane crash,” the words came so easily from the same mouth that seconds before had displayed such a radiant smile. My reaction was to remain stone-faced. Then my jaw dropped and I turned away in disbelief.
“I did not just hear that.” I tried to be sober. I had flown with other flight attendants who spoke of having a bad feeling yet that is all it remained, a feeling. All at once that chilling breeze returned causing me to feel insecure.
“Come on Reina, how can you know such a thing?” I tried to appear composed.
“I just know,” was her simple response. I looked right into her face, her sparkling eyes providing a sense of comfort. She was calm, she was cool and she was real. “I’ve had dreams of the event since I was a child,” she continued as if speaking of everyday views and opinions. My mind went numb.
“This knowledge, it doesn’t bother you?” I asked in bewilderment.
“If it be God's will, I accept it,” she whispered, releasing the full effect of the grand innocence of her soul. “I even know the flight numbers, 2-6-5.” I had to admit that I was shocked. Uncomfortable with what had just been revealed to me I made an excuse of seeing a passenger needing assistance and escaped up the aisle. I would have no more conversation with this wonderfully enchanting woman.
. “Man, this is nuts,” I thought to myself as I worked my way up the aisle seeking the refuge of the mid-galley. As I moved forward, I imagined a tugging at my apron strings pulling me backward, a physical presence requesting that I return to Reina. It was in a way enticing, the temptation to seek more information from this lovely angel, but I was not that brave a person. I didn't want anything to do with what she claimed to have hidden in her thoughts. Once on the ground and huddled in the safety of my room at the luxurious hotel, I checked a company timetable involving every flight in our company's flight system. Flight 2-6-5 was not to be found anywhere. Perhaps her premonition involved another airline? Perhaps a flight she may board one day on holiday? Feeling more at ease I proceeded to explore the wonders of the Mexican capital that evening, to enjoy myself and block out the revelation presented to me that day. Over a magnificent dish of pollo y mole and a cold bottle of Bohemia, I firmly decided to make every effort to avoid Reina Torres in the future.
In December of 1978, a plane glided down below the clouds, and through the mist. Silently, it descended toward an airport. Out of fuel, out of power, the commercial flight crashed into a suburban countryside. “Only ten” people died. The coroner, the investigators for the National Transportation Safety Board, the Federal Aviation Administration and the news media all came. The latter scavenged fact and fantasy to make the next day’s newspapers scream at a shocked flying public.
Gliding into 1979, I had selected a path of continuous routines. I had secured a position that commanded respect from the public and the approval most Hispanic males tend to seek in their lives. My daily ritual of physical training had become a novena, forging discipline in place of a less-than-noble past. It seemed strange to me because I had always enjoyed a quiet yet disorderly sort of life. Formally. stability had not been important or appealing to me. Slowly, I began to look upon my job as a punch in punch out sort of existence. It was becoming obvious to me that something had to happen to allow me to break free of an ambivalent life that had slowly crept around me. Perhaps my workouts could offer a solution?
Prior to the transition period in which hard core bodybuilding transformed itself into the purported health industry, I busted my butt in the gym. At first it was to satisfy a craving for continued challenges in athletic activities. One day I accepted an invitation of a friend to work out at a facility aptly referred to as the Animal House. There I found myself surrounded by energetic new comrades who were the cream of the sub-culture crop. I instantly realized that I had discovered a valuable tool. What I detected next was all the motivation I needed. Among the serious minded athletic competitors was an institution of great knowledge. For the first time I could tap into my inner source and truly listen.
But as time sped by, the initial training routines given to me by far wiser colleagues at the gym were not enough to satisfy my acute hunger for change. Individuals commonly arrived at the rear of the facility and quickly ducked into the locker room, opening a bag that contained a syringe and a vile of their favorite anabolic steroid of the week. I respected their dedication and discipline but when invited to learn more, I politely refused. The whole point of the struggle in my personal journey was to make the effort a pure one, something to be earned and cherished. Pushing beyond my capabilities I would become frustrated, so I sought to find a greater quest.
In one of the many fitness magazines of the period I was caught by an advertisement for a physique competition located in the Midwest. I realized I had not the knowledge, the genes nor the pharmacist to be competitive in Southern California, the mecca of the sport. With flight benefits however, I could give my best in a different venue, without possibly embarrassing myself. I knew very few people in that region of the country and such a venture would demand great dedication. At that instant I decided to fight against the doubts that filled my life.
In February of 1979 an a
ircraft from the United States was on final approach at Benito Juarez International Airport at Mexico City. The multicolored jet flew over the now dried lake-bed, once described as a water haven by Hernan Cortez in 1519 when he first entered the largest city in the New World. Much had changed in 450 years.
The finely designed jet was directed to Runway 23 Left, the more often used of the two runways at the airport. The plane glided down under the midday sun, the wheels touching the pavement before a multitude of people. They stood on the fringes of the airport hoping to get a glimpse of the festivities that were about to commence. The aircraft, designated Air Force One had arrived in Mexico carrying President Jimmy Carter.
Once the craft parked, a red velvet carpet was laid at the jetway stairs where President and Mrs. Carter would descend to a military band's rendition of the Star Spangled Banner. The Carters were officially greeted by President Jose Lopez Portillo, the leader of the United States of Mexico. Carter was visiting Mexico in hopes of reigniting stalled negotiations between the two countries over natural gas and the newly discovered rich oil fields of Mexico's eastern border. The negotiations had been going on for over two years and an energy-hungry United States wanted to play a role in how their little brother to the south developed and used that abundance. The care of the oil was under the control of Petroleos Mexicana (PREMEX), the publicly owned oil company of Mexico. The gist of the disagreement was that Mexico wanted the help of the U.S. to develop and industrialize the country in exchange for oil and natural gas. The United States represented by the Carter Administration wanted no part of any industrialization of Mexico, and simply wanted the gas and oil. Mexico's representatives in the dialogues had retreated in disgust, in their eyes it was just another insult on top of numerous others since the U.S. in Mexico's eyes “had stolen” half of their country 150 years earlier.
Now Carter had arrived to try and get the deal sealed. His plan was to work with Lopez Portillo personally, win his trust and build on a newly developed friendship. If that was what he had in mind as he stepped off Air Force One, he instead, abruptly put his foot in his mouth. In his remarks in front of the press at Benito Juarez he chastised Lopez Portillo and the Mexican Government for what he interpreted as their dismal human rights record.
I recall viewing that evening's news report on the TV as video of that speech was broadcast. I focused in on Lopez Portillo's face, which looked as if he wanted to run up and strangle Carter.
“What an idiot,” I thought. “You arrive in a foreign country and instantly insult your host.” The U.S. purchase of natural gas was completed by the two countries but the damage had been done and the visit will always be remembered as just another black eye in U.S./Mexican relations.
The uneasiness in me continued to grow, an intense preoccupation with being right in the middle of a major airline crash. Of course I was expected to do my duty with honor, a pillar of professional strength, should it ever happen. It seemed to be something in the back of the minds of all flight crews. It was very simply the last thing there is to experience, fearsome yet enticing.
I was also becoming distracted in my everyday life. In the middle of a conversation or while enjoying an interesting film there would be a flash, a wave over my thoughts calling attention to itself. By the start of March, I had become “obsessed' in the minds of some of my family.
The dedication to workouts at the Animal House had become a religion. Even without realizing it, time in the gym soon became the most important aspect of life, demanding the highest priority. The big payoff would come in some ordinary Midwestern town I had never been to, participating in a Mr. “Whatever” competition later that year. It made no sense to my parents. It made no sense to anyone, but as my body reaped the benefits of my undying devotion, I became more in tune with myself. Change was taking place. A mystery seemed to be engulfing me and like it or not, I would not be able to escape it. It was all-consuming.
In May, a Los Angeles bound DC-10 crashed in Chicago. I really should say incinerated. “No One,” read the bold print on the newspapers. My warped fantasies placed me in their jumpseats. While on duty, locked inside the McDonnell-Douglas jumbo jet, I would look up and down the rows, seeing a typical passenger load. I became breathless knowing that to the very end one had to remain totally professional. Logic dictated that as a flight attendant on such a tragic trek, I would be instantly destroyed. Honor and respect, the first rules by which one survived in my old neighborhood, would demand that an F/A play out the entire scene to its conclusion. Being a Hispanic, Roman Catholic, and male whipped up a sense of martyrdom in my young impressionable mind.
Maybe only in a crash does a flight attendant’s career converge with the ultimate fascination of society. It was becoming clearer with each new airplane disaster. The public’s eyes were becoming jaded and only a destroyed jumbo jet evoked awed. Maybe it was not the mystery of death that grabbed them, but the disbelief that this consummate achievement of man, a sleek beautiful bird, could fail so momentously. The fire, that horror was indeed a larger fear than death itself. With eyes glued to the televisions when such an event happened, the responses were very similar. There would be a period of deep soul searching, then a dog food commercial came on and all was forgotten.
The possibility of “Muerto” accompanying crews was always there, but now there was something physical to attach to the fears. The DC-10 became a target. Since our company flew that aircraft, the vehicle brought the reality all too close. The insider jokes throughout the industry were rampant. DC-10 flights would be dubbed the “barbecue” flights. I became one of the most notorious at such sick humor but that was all on the surface. Inside I was dealing with the conflicting rumors of the craft’s capabilities and its purported shortcomings. Now when one rolled away Terminal 5 at LAX, the feeling was different than before. That radiant joy the company staked its claim on was gone; a wary business attitude replaced it. I began to ponder the possibility of my flight being the next casualty and wondered how I would handle it. How could I seat someone who was going to face such a horrible demise? I did not want to cope with such thoughts, so I blocked them out with jokes.
More and more the thought of what Reina said came to mind. My initial decision to avoid her wasn't necessary. One can go years without running into a specific flight attendant. Our encounters were no more than an occasional glance across the lounge. I found it far more difficult to shake the words of her premonition.
Reina had eagerly shared her vision with others. The truly fearful consulted the company's flight schedule, as I had, to discover with relief that the airline was void of any flight #265. Yet, by the quality of her character I took to heart that she indeed had these deep feelings and even more importantly put stake in them. Something told me that perhaps I should, too.
The occasional flashes were becoming more detailed: a scene of an air crash with me in the middle of the hurricane. The daydream assigned me a seat as a spectator, although I was well aware that I was a participant in the tragedy. I would be observing the tail section of a company plane, an interior view. Forward was the normal image of the cabin with seat backs, escape doors, windows and a few passengers standing in the aisles. Quickly, I found myself separated from the main cabin. At the conclusion of the vision, I would retain only one thought: that I had escaped “completely clean.” This troubled me since major bodily injuries could still be characterized as coming away clean. In my imagery I received no injections from the assisting medical personnel, a relief from my childhood fear of needles. That was truly coming away clean. The vision should have been taken seriously but nonetheless it was only vaguely connected with my future. I was determined not to let such warnings interfere with the day to day dealings of my life including flying on the DC-10.
In reality, my immediate future presented great opportunities. I had interviewed for and was selected to participate in one of television’s favorite game shows, Joker's Wild. With my workouts going very well and a strict adjustment to my diet, I
was synchronized from within which certainly helped me have a focused performance on the show. Luck was also on my side as I was faced with questions from categories I was familiar with. I played up to the audience by hesitating in my responses but the reality was I was dealing with subjects like politics, geography and history, which were my strong points. The show's host, Jack Barry, was pleased with my progress as he emphasized the amount of my winnings up to that point. Defeating my opponents qualified me for the bonus round. I was required to pull down the lever of a huge slot machine, trying to accumulate more money and prizes before a menacing dragon appeared on the panel. Each time I pulled the bar the cash and prizes piled up. Then the host, relishing the buildup, would ask if I wanted to take yet another chance. If I did and the dragon appeared I would lose all the booty I had accumulated to that point. The studio audience became involved in the frenzy as I continued to win round after round. A trip to the Galapagos Islands appeared on the slot. I jumped for joy and my confidence was pumped up even more. A cruise down the Amazon, a beautiful camera and more wealth were added to my winnings. The host and the audience continued to egg me on.
“Eddy, do you wish to try one more time?” The emcee created a hysteria with the circumstance. Suddenly it struck.
“Stop,” a voice within me whispered with assurance. I could see the dragon coming up on the next pull of the lever. “I know what’s next,” I stated to the handsome master of ceremonies. The crowd insisted all the more for me to continue but I was done. “I have a feeling,” I nodded to the host who jumped on the opportunity and used it to created more excitement.
“Oh he has a feeling,” he repeated with sarcasm. “Well Eddy, try it one time just for fun, you will retain your winnings, but I want to see how accurate your feelings are.” I stepped up and yanked the bar: round and round sped the dials and in an instant, the dragon appeared. The crowd was stunned and roared with relief for my good judgment. “Do you have these feelings often?”
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 7