Amidst this incredible chaos, whole families were frantically running back and forth in a desperate attempt to escape the despair that now enveloped them. Once again I witnessed mourners tearing at their own clothing or yanking handfuls of hair from their scalp. Like me, all were hoping to find a way to avoid the inevitable facts that lay buried and burning just outside the door.
Some recognized the company logo on my soot-filled service apron and my tarnished flight wings still pinned on the fabric. They determined that I was the person who might process the answers they sought.
“He is from the crash,” I heard one say. Heads instantly turned and searched about until most eyes became fixed upon me. “He looks in one piece,” another voice stated. I imagined their thoughts. “Possibly, maybe, perhaps by God's good grace, my friend, mother, uncle, neighbor, loved one would also be found in a similar condition.” They reached for me. They wanted a piece of the magic that they surely believed had saved me. I was greatly saddened to think that they would only learn the worst. I cursed God, believing the emotional devastation that was sure to come would take away their ability to ever hope again.
My Mexican guards strained to force me through the collapsing crowd; they would see that I would not drown in this growing tide of human misery.
“Does your mother know you are alive?” A voice yelled to me as I was now lifted above the growing crowd.
“Such clarity of thought,” I muttered as we finally arrived at the Operations office. The first thing I had to do was to get word to my mother, my family. This task posed a difficult problem since it was still quite early in the City of the Angels. As the chaos continued in the halls of the airport terminal I decided to take action. My Spanish came in handy as I frantically grabbed one of the many phones in the airport office and proceeded to contact an international operator, requesting a call to Los Estados Unidos. I heard the ringing on the other end of the line.
“Hello.”
“Tommy. Listen to me,” I tried to accomplish my goal with the least amount of words.
“Do you know what time it is?” Tommy was rightfully disturbed as he struggled to awaken.
“Shut up and listen,” I became very stern, something I never would ordinarily do in his presence.
“I am in Mexico, our DC-10 went down and there are people hurt.”
“Holy shit, what do you need?”
“Call my parents, tell them that no matter what they may hear from any source concerning this mess, I am alive and fine. Tell them I will get word to them the first opportunity I get.”
“You got it and call us again when you can.” Tommy’s response gave me a sense of assurance. I knew he wished he could be by my side at that moment, surely he would know what to do far better than I in these matters. My head lowered as I once more began to doubt myself. My eyes became fixed as I noticed the amount of blood on my uniform pants for the first time. I had told Tommy to let my parents know that I was okay but were those words true?
A vicious paranoia made its presence known as people now filled the room and doorway, all silent and focused on my every word and movement. Sitting at a company desk in the operations center, I experienced the total exhaustion that wrecked my battered body. I held a company phone in my left hand as I noticed the index finger of my scorched right hand shaking uncontrollably. I attempted to dial for a line connecting me with the international operator once again. It would be my undesirable task to call the airline headquarters in Los Angeles. I had a responsibility to inform them of the disaster, that massive inferno outside that had somehow transpired despite the presence of a supernatural God that I'd been taught all my life existed. A God who bestowed mercy upon the sick and oppressed.
“Bull Shit!!” My frustration surfaced to the confusion of my two bodyguards who now stood by the doorway, keeping the needy and curious at bay. Suddenly a woman appeared, anguished and desperate as she frantically argued with the men standing guard. I expressed my desire to speak with her. The woman's daughter had been a passenger on the plane.
“She's nineteen years old,” the woman stated. “Her name is Penelope.” How was I to know who that possibly could be? All at once I recalled the lovely young lady that had boarded the craft back at LAX. I remembered how I was disappointed that she sat across the aisle in a seat that was not in my section.
“Yes, I remember her.” A glimmer of hope crossed on the desperate woman's face. But what could I tell her? I had no power over life or death yet her pain demanded that I give her some sense of hope. “She was in the rear section,” I said. “Those in the rear like me had a better chance of making it out.” That was all I could say. By her reaction I could see that her spirits were lifted as she stepped forward to touch my face. In the depths of her own anguish she shed a tear of joy… for my survival.
“Thank God you made it and are alive.” She stated the words I was unable to recite. Perhaps in her faith she would be rewarded. Most likely she would be crushed. I returned to the phone and proceeded to contact Flight Attendant Scheduling at LAX.
“Hello, what's that?” A female voice, a company-scheduler on the other end of the line had answered.
“We crashed,” I said in a very simplistic tone.
“Yes dear, we just heard about it,” the response came as the grief began to overwhelm me. “How many made it? Ed, where is the rest of the crew?” A male voice had entered the conversation on an extended line.
“Not many?” I replied and began to weep. My mind went blank as I could no longer remember Skip's name. He was the only one I knew for sure had made it out. The male scheduler went down the list of the crew manifest but in my foggy state no name jumped out at me. I knew Gary, Rod and Jeff. The name Ronald Mitchell, Skip's real name, made no connection. The schedulers concluded rightfully that I was in a bad way. The call was concluded with assurance to me that the full powers of the company would be extended to assist me and others during this painful ordeal. I hung up the phone with a promise to contact them again.
I thought about those who perished, recalling a vision of my childhood. I attended the funeral of my mother's dear Godmother, and was lifted by my mother to gaze into the open casket at the elderly deceased woman. I asked my mother to lean forward so that I might touch her face one last time. I vividly recalled the shock of discovering how icy cold her rose-tinted cheeks were. Suddenly, I recalled the face of Reina and I started to cry.
Those standing about were perplexed, wondering what could be done to ease my pain to alter the fates that were occurring this day. I lifted my head to see my tears falling upon my right arm, upon the blood soaked pieces of fabric that had become one with my skin.
“I want to go back in time.” I begged to be free of these obstacles that were weighing on me. “I want to go with them,” I blurted out. One of the Mexican gentlemen, the one who spoke English, understood my words. He locked onto my eyes and realized that what I had expressed was a desire to be with my crew in death. He became concerned for my mental state. A disease grasped at my throat as I asked the eternal question, “Why?” for the first time and, unfortunately, not the last. Yet, even at the beginning there was something about the sickness that was seductive in this desolation. I could only muster one word in prayer, “Reina.”
I began to feel my right leg being squeezed and someone applying pressure. Immediately I noticed a tall, dark skinned figure had squatted down, focusing on my leg.
“The wound is nearly close but still bleeding slightly,” he said. “We have to clean it and get the swelling down.” This new face, a stranger, had entered the office without my notice and was now taking charge. “We also need to get you to a hospital.” The man sternly took on the duty at hand, taking care of my obvious needs. I slowly stood and for the first time really noticed the details of the tattered uniform hanging on to my battered body. I also noticed that my new-found friend also wore the crimson and white colors of my airline. I supposed this likable figure to be an agent stationed in the Mexican c
apital. The kind man rushed from the office but quickly returned with a damp cloth and began to wipe my face, which had been blackened by the soot. The possibility of internal bleeding caused a growing apprehension. It raised my anxiety to a pitch. Mental and physical fatigue made its presence known as the friendly Mexican agent continued to wipe my face and neck. Small blisters, a branding of remembrance from the flames of a murdered jumbo jet, now appeared in patches on my skin.
“What do you want to do?” The man spoke in clear English with just a hint of an accent. It caught me by surprise. The possibility of letting go was inviting but for now I was back in the center of the madness. “You need help amigo.” Here was someone who was truly concerned and I decided I had better be also. The strain took its toll.
“What can I do?” I reluctantly put trust in this native with a warm smile.
“I can see that you get some help,” he said with authority. He purposefully locked onto my swollen eyes as I recognized the same tranquil peace I had seen in Reina’s eyes. The Mexican leaned closer and softly spoke. “I can see that you get some protection.”
“Where do you want to send me?” I inquired.
“To the British-American Hospital.”
“Do it.” This was Mexico and I was very familiar with the modus operandi of the country south of our border. The institutions of the United States of Mexico would be intimately involved in all aspects of the investigation that was to develop very soon. There would be an investigation that was sure to bring Los Norte Americanos from the United States, officials certain to breed contempt in the eyes of the Mexican host, my host. Distrust and plain dislike would be an unexpected advisory that I recognized as an unequivocal fact yet to play out in this dreadful scenario, the reality just outside the terminal walls. It was evident that I was all alone and would need friends and this Mexican man's offer of assistance made him appear as a guardian angel. The gentle fellow associate with rich black hair took charge. He beckoned those around us who seemed hypnotized, to task and duty. The agent emphasized the value of time in the importance of seeing to my care. Everyone up to that moment seemed to lack his essential knowledge of the many needs that required attention. All the rest had been so consumed with a desire to know how I had survived. It became unbearable for me to remain in that room. The company agent was the point of convergence now and he was ready to move me. My time at the Benito Juarez Airport had to end.
The injuries to the cerebral would now make their entrance as I was taken through the one route of the airport terminal that was familiar to me. With a proficient escort, I found myself gliding on a stretcher, through narrow corridors, bound for the terminal’s main lobby. The sound of the wailing sirens in the distance caught my attention. Lamentation by an ancient people filled the great hallway. The now present stench of burning human skin and jet fuel completed the horrendous scenario.
“Reina, help them!” The statement came very easy. I did not wish for God to abandon me yet but I found it impossible to call upon His name. The Mexican agent was positioned at the head of the escort assembly. His deep eyes were focused on penetrating the thick crowd that had quickly gathered around me to sneak a peek at the wounded on the stretcher. Perhaps it was someone they knew? Perhaps it was their loved one who still had not been accounted for? The morbid procession became a total haze to me. In my dreamlike state I wondered why I would assume that Reina was now in a position to intercede on my behalf? I began to wonder if there could be others from 2605’s crew other than Skip and myself who survived! I wanted so badly to believe there were. The face of total despair is cruel. The teasing anguish of desperation disguised itself as hope.
“Mi madre!” A woman screamed and I cringed as my body tensed with great pain. One of our escorts, leaped forward to block her access to me.
I imagined myself as Odysseus strapped to the mast of his wrecked ship, driven mad by the sirens of the forbidden island. Childhood recollections of mythology came to life as the distressing cries echoed off the marble: walls thrashing my senses, paining my heart.
“Of all the airlines, all the flights and all the crew?” I recalled Kyle and Mark, my partners in mischief as a slight smile finally broke the weighing grief. I began to laugh loudly and those who had carried me, looked squarely at each other, contemplating whether I had submitted to the seduction of insanity. None spoke a word as we hurried.
“Muy afortunado.” An elderly Hispanic businessman gazed upon me for an instant as we quickly passed. Consumed by exhaustion I suddenly found myself being lifted into an old 1960's-era ambulance, its attendants rushing about in a panic. A wicked game was now in play. I did not want to get involved in any type of detailed discussions involving this accident. I quickly found my wits.
“Por favor mister, I need, quiero, maybe you, como assistano?” I tried to address the frantic ambulance attendants in a gringo style of Spanish. Yes, I was Hispanic, but if I could solidly create a supposed language barrier, it might offer me my best defense. One attendant seemed to get my frenzied message. The dear Mexican agent standing nearby witnessed my actions and immediately understood the gist of my plan. My guardian angel smiled and gave a wink, acknowledging he too would be a participant in my deception.
“Hey, what’s your name?” I shouted at him through the noise of the chaos.
“Hugo, Hugo Garcia.” The door shut firmly the siren screamed loudly. The driver stomped on the pedal and they accelerated in grand Mexico City style. My thoughts were with the kind Mexican gentleman.
“Hugo Garcia? Good name.” I smiled briefly then settled back for the excursion already in progress. I finally relented, hoping to give in to my bodies wants, to simply let go and sleep but the violent turns of the ambulance made it clear there would be no peace.
The city’s early morning traffic was bedlam. I was losing hope of getting to the British-American Hospital, as was the original instruction given to the worried attendants by Senor Garcia. The driver panicked and drove the vehicle onto the shoulder of the road, which further complicated the entire situation. The ambulance jerked to a halt.
“Flight Attendant Dies in Ambulance.” I shouted the imaginary newspaper headlines that flashed through my weary head. The world would remember me as the most unfortunate of those who were fortunate. Sarcasm dulled my pain.
The two attendants rattled something off to each other and quickly made the decision to target another hospital. The driver revved the motor but we did not move. At that moment a skeleton figure, the face of a calavera, a skull, appeared outside the rear window. A curious array of repugnant costumes and themes began to wander about the stalled vehicle, a witch, a ghoul, a grotesque mouse-like figure all appeared as they pressed their gruesome faces upon the glass to get a closer look at the freak inside. Their voyage upon the streets on El Dia de Los Muertos seemed to confirm that the poor soul inside the ambulance would not be allowed to exit any time soon, certainly not restored in one piece, new as before. A couple of the curious removed their masks and made the sign of the cross, a gesture on my behalf. On the morning of October 31, 1979, there were only two kinds of people in the Mexican capital: those that prayed and those that died and my mind would not consent to an affirmation of either group.
I took comfort in the accepted belief that the company would surely see to my well being. Is this not what we were taught in training? Somehow I could see a more frightening picture developing.
“What a mess I'm in.” I was streetwise and well aware of the institutional processes of my host country, Mexico. I knew the true score.
The ambulance driver gunned the engine and we were off once again. I struggled to hang on as the vehicle jostled from side to side through the crowded morning traffic. I already knew somehow that there would be no company representative awaiting my arrival at the hospital. I was on my own in the most populous city in the world.
“Accept this fact.” I scolded myself for if I did not recognize the obvious I would get eaten alive by the powers that be tha
t were sure to come down on me. All the lessons derived from growing up on the Eastside of L.A., surfaced. “Protect your own ass!” I repeated the phrase over and over. It was finally getting through my clouded head that the plane crash was just a prelude to the real problem; the true test for survival was yet to come.
Chapter VI
The Chief Executive Officer of the airline received the early morning call while in a sound sleep, in bed at his residence in California. Mario Reddick’s first reaction was to curse the timing. He had secretly been trying to forge a merger of the company with another regional airline based in Denver. Such an alliance would have strengthened the chances of survival in the developing competition of airline deregulation. Now this incident complicated matters. The company had a game plan in place for such a situation and a nervous Mario Reddick immediately gave the go ahead for its commencement.
Jack Mckay was a jovial Scotsman who had made quite a reputation for himself in the airline industry for his outstanding diplomatic skills. As a senior vice president, he became Reddick’s first choice for the pivotal position of point man in the delicate negotiations that would certainly arise with the Mexican Government. The elderly man who had been born in China to missionary parents was one of the first to be summoned to Reddick’s office at the company’s headquarters at LAX.
“Jack, thank God you’re here,” a frantic Reddick stated as he rushed to shake hands with his associate.
“I came as soon as I heard. How bad is it Mario?”
“Bad.” the nervous chief stated. “Listen, Jack, you’ve got to get on the next flight down there. You understand those people. Damage control must be the priority, for all of our sakes.” Reddick tried to remain cool and composed. Mckay could see that the chairman was taking the loss of 2605 very personally.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 15