Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “Eduardo Valenciana.” Kyle’s heart fell into a deep empty pit, yet he did not give up hope. He refused to give in to the despair so easily. Kyle was one of a few people who recognized and understood his friend's practice in seeking physical development. If Eddy was indeed gone, Kyle was certain he was not taken without a fight and maybe, just maybe that would have been enough to let his pal slip through the cracks. Kyle boarded the SEA-bound flight near tears. Real men do cry. He vowed not to fully succumb to the grief until he knew for certain. Like most flights throughout the company's system, the cockpit was unusually silent as news from the Mexican capitol was virtually non-existent. Once on the ground, Kyle found nothing enlightening in the operations headquarters.

  More than likely the impact that had destroyed the jumbo jet had claimed his amigo, it just might be true. His thoughts lingered on his fellow compatriot and the colorful exploits they had shared during training. Such memories consumed him as he boarded the Boeing 727 to “deadhead” back to DEN. As the streamlined bird glided over Elliot Bay, Kyle let his mind wander into the bizarre. He tried to place himself in the midst of the horror believing his dear friend had endured till the point of impact.

  “Why so gloomy Tillman?” Robin was a lovely, dark-haired F/A who had been a few training classes ahead of Kyle and his friend Eddy.

  “Ah, it’s the damn accident,” the dejected Midwesterner readily admitted. “My close buddy was on that 10.” Robin immediately registered a chill in her body.

  “Dear God Kyle, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?” One thing was to feel for strangers on 2605, another was to be close to someone who went to their end aboard the DC-10. The F/A did her best to console the sorrow felt by the boy from Iowa.

  “I really don’t know for sure what happened to him, but it doesn’t look good.” Kyle had decided that possibly it was time to let go and grieve for his buddy.

  “What was his name, Kyle?” Robin inquired.

  “Eddy, oh I mean Eduardo Valenciana.” Kyle stated in a soft voice.

  “Eduardo, Eduardo, was he a weight lifter?” Robin’s voice rose in pitch.

  “Yeah, that’s him,” Kyle replied believing that possibly the lovely flight attendant had flown with his friend recently.

  “Shit, Tillman, he made it, he’s alive.” Robin became excited as she rushed to find the latest edition of a San Francisco newspaper. The female F/A folded the paper to produce the article and the words leaped out at Kyle.

  “The miraculous escape of one of the crew-members. Eduardo Valenciana simply walked away from it.” Kyle Tillman, the survivor's close classmate, read the text over and over again and clutched the paper to ensure it would not disappear.

  “YES!” The jubilant friend jumped out of his First Class seat and gave a yell as the newspaper went flying. The paying passengers on board were startled by the strange behavior of the gentleman wearing a company uniform. Kyle could not have cared less about who might be disturbed. His dear friend was alive and in a small way he shared in that triumph.

  Lying on my bed in my cubicle room at the Holiday Inn I was becoming overwhelmed. Who would want to steal the left landing gear of the DC-10? My thoughts raced and I imagined the gear modified into an elaborate water fountain in the middle of some blue-blooded aristocrat's living room in the city. The limbs of the deceased jetliner rising into the air as disco lights flashed behind in rhythm. All for the delight of the master of the house and whatever guest he wished to display the ill gotten trophy to.

  “You’ve been given permission to leave.” Don Diego's announcement broke my daydream. “Here is your boarding pass and seat assignments.” I could hardly believe it after everything that had ensued the last couple of days. I was astonished how efficient the young Mexican official had been in arranging my departure. Daisy Ackley insisted that someone from the company accompany me on the flight as the airline could ill afford to lose me once again. A young manager from the Public Relations Office, Robert Collins, was selected to be my escort. I recalled this man being present during the earlier meeting in Daisy's room. He was a good guy with whom I felt comfortable. Bob Collins was a good choice as escort for the flight back to LAX and I hoped he could provide a foundation for me to recoup my sanity prior to getting on a plane once again. I felt fortunate to just be getting out of town in one piece but then that vile inner voice returned.

  “You'll be sitting relaxed in the cabin while others would will be in wooden boxes in the belly of the craft.” I tried to shrug the dissension off.

  “You've got to hurry my friend, the flight won't wait for you.” Don Diego smiled as Hugo helped to gather my things. Daisy arrived to send me off with a gracious hug and I thanked her for all she had done on my behalf. Reva also appeared to assure me that she would always be available to see to my needs. She was keenly aware that there were still many obstacles to confront me in the future. It was also time to say farewell to my life-line, Senor Hugo Garcia, who will always be a real hero. I fumbled to find the words that could even start to express my gratitude, yet all that was required was a sincere glance into his noble face and a nod, for he understood where my heart lay. Later, I regretted the fact that we had not exchanged phone numbers or addresses so as to remain in contact, but I was satisfied that if the time came I knew just where I would be able to locate him.

  “Vamonos,” I stated as Diego, Bob Collins and I left the Holiday Inn, with young Felipe once again shuttling us the few hundred yards to my departure from Benito Juarez International Airport, Mexico City.

  I struggled with the crutches into the terminal building yet felt enthused as I hurriedly hobbled across the lobby's marble floor. The three of us were waived right through Customs by a gesture from Diego, so we headed straight for the departing gate. A makeshift press conference had been set up where the surviving flight attendant of Flight 2605 would give the press a final statement. Word had quickly spread among the press in the capital city as lights and cameras were at the ready. The atmosphere was loud and the initial flashes blinded my eyes, I could only focus in on the number of the departing gate, 58.

  “What will you do with your new life?”

  “Relish it!” It was the right answer even if I knew I would not. I had crossed a threshold and for whatever reason this present version of myself was what I was left with. Who this current individual was might be difficult, if not dangerous to determine as revelations surfaced in my mind.

  I proceeded to give the media all the right “non-liable” answers. Certainly, I would set time aside for my family, maybe take a vacation, when in reality I had no idea what the company had in store for me once returned to Los Angeles.

  Suddenly, from the corner of my eye, I spotted the jackal, Comandante Primotivo Chavez de Leon. Certainly he would not let his prize depart the Mexican capital without one last impact statement even if only visual. First fear then anger swelled in my chest.

  “Gracias a la Oficina del Ministerio de Transportación y también la gente de la ciudad del Distrito Federal." The local press was all abuzz.

  “I thought he did not speak Spanish?” The inquiries flew toward Diego. I grinned as I locked eyes with my tormentor, the calm Comandante coolly lit another of those nasty cigarettes. I was immediately escorted down the jetway along with Bob Collins and company gate agents. Diego was left behind to create some lie about me practicing some Spanish so that I could thank the people of Mexico for their generous hospitality.

  Still in the jetway, I regretted revealing my understanding of the native language as I was well aware that at any time and any place, the long arm of the Mexican Federal Police could reach me. I scolded myself for allowing the comandante to goad me into revealing more of myself than I wished to reveal. Finally, Diego, the man of noble blood, was able to escape the inquiries of the press as he glided down the jetway on his way to bid me farewell.

  “Along with your new life you now have new friends,” the honorable diplomat stated. We exchanged phone numbers and he assur
ed me that he would not share the number with the dishonorable comandante.

  “Diego, I wish to thank you for all you have done on my behalf.” The good official brushed aside any sentiment.

  “You have a new beginning, amigo, may you soon forget all that is distasteful about this incident. Vaya con Dios.” His abrazo was deep and well felt as Collins and I turned to entered the DC-10. After a few steps inside I leaned back on the crutches. My body went limp as if I had hit a wall. Connie, a familiar flight attendant who was working this flight to LAX, quickly approached me. My fellow associate put an arm around me and I could tell by here demeanor that she too felt the great sense of loss that was apparent throughout the company. Once I regained my composure, Connie removed an envelope from her service apron and handed it to me..

  “From Senor Hugo Garcia.” I was caught by surprise once the container was open I was struck by the familiar odor of jet fuel. I reached in and removed the contents, my charred blue covered United States passport. I was amazed as I wondered how it had survived the inferno, being tucked away in my regulation suitcase. I pondered all that had been lost in this terrible tragedy, became fearful and confused and began to weep, El Gato was reduced to dread. Now that I did not have to worry about fending off the comandante, the press or the curious onlookers, the full gravity of the calamity was making its presence felt and I became drained both physically and emotionally. Away from the foreign threat my guard let down and I clung to Connie like a frightened child. Her quick action saved my pride and averted a public breakdown as the rest of the cabin crew was very aware of what was happening.

  Bob Collins interceded to inform me that we were assigned seats in first class in the front row, but before I could go forward in the aircraft I had to go aft. I crossed the service center and turned my crutches sideways, slowly making my way down the right aisle to position 4R. I laid the crutches down gently against some seat and carefully took up my position once again on the jumpseat, strapping myself in and tightening the harness. I sat and tried to imagine how everything that was visually around me had been so totally destroyed in a matter of seconds. After some time, hypnotized by the imagery I rose up and look at the jumpseat at 4R and thanked it for cradling me so firmly when it counted. I grabbed the crutches and began working my way back up the aisle. My thoughts drifted to the images of Gary, Tamlyn, Cary, Reina, Karen and Rod laughing, joking in the service area. I wished for that time again, before the disaster, before the pain, before the fireball. Lost in those thoughts I nearly stumble. I hesitated as I awaited calm to return. Gazing up I realized that I was the focus of the current crew as they stared and wondered what madness had sowed its seeds in my mind. I sheepishly continued on to my assigned seat, forward in first class where Bob Collins awaited me.

  “You okay?” He inquired. I just nodded my head in a positive manner and appreciated that Bob had given me time to settle myself down on my own. My escort from Public Relations did not follow me to the aft to see what I was doing, he waited knowing there were things I needed to deal with on my own. He was well aware that this mess had created a spider's web that warped my perception and it would take time to unravel this entanglement. I just hoped that the company would allow me the same consideration.

  The real passengers began boarding the DC-10 and it was announced that the flight was oversold. All the regular flight schedules at Benito Juarez had been disrupted by the accident, and fewer flights were getting in and out. An open seat out of the Mexico City became a coveted commodity.

  “You know we had to bump revenue passengers to get these seats,” Bob informed me. “Thanks Bob, give me one more item to feed my guilt,” I thought to myself. It was strange, there would be moments of tremendous joy when realizing I was still in one piece, but that would be immediately followed by overbearing sorrow and feelings of debilitating guilt.

  A petite, blonde flight attendant I recognized went past me and into the forward galley. I wanted to lock eyes, get an acknowledgment, say “Hi, it's me, Eddy” but it was evident that she would have nothing to do with it. When her eyes wandered in my direction she quickly looked away, opting to work the El Segundo section instead of first class and keeping her distance. This would not be the last time I would encounter such behavior towards me.

  The passengers jockeyed for overhead compartment space as every seat would be occupied. One of the company's pilots that I recognized from the meeting in Daisy's room was also returning to LAX. Since the flight was completely full he would have to sit jumpseat in the cockpit. The aviator noticed me sitting in the first row with my wrapped leg and crutches, conveying a positive acknowledgment with a nod. Other than crew members, no one else seemed aware of my presence as the gate agent shut the door and the crew readied the craft for departure. Unfortunately, we sat delayed at the gate, feeding my anxiety. The supervisor pilot who had entered the cockpit earlier exited in hopes of finding coffee in the first class galley.

  “What's the hold up?” I asked as he stood just feet from me.

  “Something to do with the jet fuel,” He remarked. I thought nothing of it at the moment as the craft suddenly backed away from the gate and the regular safety demonstrations and announcements began. My mind wandered back to 2605 as I watched the flight crew.

  “Gary busted his butt and for what?” I stated to no one in particular.

  “What?” Bob stare at me in confusion. “Don’t go crazy on me, Ed!” The statement seemed to release me from my trance as I chuckled and shook my head.

  As the jumbo jet taxied down the tarmac, I was about to be treated to one more incredible sight. Just outside the airport fenced area at the head of the runway, where the great metallic birds would wait their turn to speed up into the heavens, portable viewing stands had been erected and were filled with the multitude of the curious. Were these would-be fans patiently awaiting a return appearance of the Halloween sideshow?

  “What have we become?” I wondered as I gazed out the window. This was their entertainment. Then I began to laugh as I recognized the usual vendors peddling their wares to the anxious crowd that gasped as each craft fired up their engines and proceeded on their runs of departure. Soon it was our turn. The General Electric jets' roar heightened and the huge craft began to roll down runway 23-Left, which was now being made available to traffic. As our DC-10 rolled past the crash site, each head in the cabin strained to get one last look. The metallic bird lifted up with ease even though the flight was full to capacity.

  “I’m going home at last,” I thought to myself. “I will finally be truly free.” How naive and vulnerable I was, for I was to be proven so wrong once again.

  Once up in the air I felt content with the belief that the next time the jumbo jet set down I would be home back in the United States. So it was with deep disappointment to discover that the Mexican fuelers at Benito Juarez Airport had refused to fill our jet with the precious substance needed to get back to LAX. The workers' union leaders saw an opportunity to get a bigger piece of the financial pie that resulted from the traffic disruption, so the fuel crew went on a timely strike. I supposed Jorge Valenzuela, the airline's main man in Mexico, had busily been on the phones trying to work out a solution to a problem he was very familiar with. As a result, the cunning chief contacted a union boss in Acapulco and with a bit of persuasion (perhaps more first class tickets to Hawaii) reached an agreement to refuel our DC-10 for a more reasonable price than the Mexico City union chief proposed.

  After a bit of time cruising westward across the sky, the massive metal bird glided down, running on fumes toward the popular seaside resort. Once on the ground in Acapulco our craft was guided to a waiting area on the tarmac away from the main terminal building. Since the auxiliary power on the aircraft had to be turned off during the refueling process, several doors were opened so that fresh air could flow through the tightly-packed interior. I gazed at Bob Collins who had endured sleepless nights in the process of his duties, now sleeping soundly having finally found time for s
ome peace. Some of the passengers began to figure out who the guy with the wrapped leg and crutches was sitting in first class. Their curious looks became overwhelming.

  A portable stairway had be brought out to our craft and placed at the base of the open 1L doorway. The local fuelers would have to enter the aircraft when their job was completed to give the proper documentation to the cockpit crew. I arose and hobbled onto the top of the stairway just outside the fuselage. I wanted to hide from the multitude of eyes that glared at the oddity that I had become. I wanted none of this as the visual assault fanned the flames of my shame causing me to feel undeserving of such attention. Yet it all seemed familiar. My dreams leading up to the incident had reflected some sense of this current reality. Then there was the fear regarding Reina's prophetic dreams, it all had to have some logical explanation.

  “How did she know?” That was a mystery I may never resolve. I felt it best to keep all such information to myself. If I spoke even one word of these bizarre happenings I surely would be locked away.

  Standing at the top of the portable stairway I was startled by a woman poking her head out the doorway staring intently at me, then quickly gone. I gazed inside the cabin and witnessed some of the curious walking forward to have a closer look at me. Was I so different than others in the cabin of the aircraft? Even some of my own associates, fellow F/As seemed uneasy. Were they afraid I might try to speak to them? I imagined that I had come to represent a horrible reality that some in my profession wished never to acknowledge. I started to become agitated during this delay, exiled out on the tarmac. I now felt like a hostage having to remain inside the sister ship of the same aircraft I watched being ripped apart by the unthinkable and then incinerated. I wanted to descend the stairs and hobble away as I had from the sinister comandante, but I knew I could not deplane because customs would not allow it. We had all been informed that our stay in ACA was not supposed to be this long and it all seemed so senseless. Why couldn’t the craft have been refueled in Mexico City? Although frustrated I was getting used to this crazy game of aircraft hopscotch. The senselessness had been going on for many months as company flight after flight would detour to the second city for precious fuel. Of course no explanation was ever given and I was not about to engage in a conversation to find the logic in Mexican procedures. I was aware that it was all about money, always money as the minister had said himself.