“I am extremely grateful for all the airline has done for me, seeing to my well-being.” No one was holding a gun to my head but I was not taking any chances. Edmundo didn't want to be considered a possible liability. The NBC crew thanked me and told me that the piece would be on the local evening news.
Next, I was introduced to a woman reporter from one of Los Angeles' leading newspapers. Right from the start it became evident that the “no-nonsense” woman was not interested in some human interest story. Keeping a jovial smile and friendly demeanor I prepared myself for an onslaught.
“Was the flight normal?” She went straight for the jugular.
“I'm sorry but as a flight attendant I do not have the expertise to determine what constitutes normal or abnormal in the function of the DC-10,” I stated with a naive grin upon my face.
“Do you have any idea why the plane crashed?”
“I don't wish to speculate on anything I am not qualified to determine.”
“Did you speak with the pilots during the flight?”
“Yes, I did.” I turned and could see that the representatives of Public Relations were becoming uneasy as the newspaper reporter saw an opening.
“What was said?”
“I asked them if they wanted their coffee black or with cream and sugar.”
“Did you see people die?” The woman would not back off. Suddenly, Edmundo faded into the shadows as Eddy resurfaced.
“Yes, I saw people die. I saw people burn and scream. Would you like me to describe the details of severed body parts and my inner thoughts as I saw young boys playing catch with a human hand?” The reporter stopped writing on her yellow legal pad and looked straight at me. “Yes, I saw all those things and more. Now, what good would it do to rehash such specifics? Do you really think this is what your readers want to know?” There was a long silence.
“How does your family feel about your survival?” The lady redirected her questions. I turned once again and could see the relief on the faces of my company's representatives.
Photos were taken to appear with an account of my actions. Once the interviews concluded I was told to call Daisy Ackley.
“Eduardo, I wish to thank you for your contributions to the employee meetings. You know, the psychologist and I believe that our associates in other base cities would benefit from such a presentation and we were wondering if you would be willing to participate in such an endeavor?” Oh dear God, the dog and pony show was going on the road. I thanked her and told her that I would need a little time to consider her offer. Having had my fill of the day's events I quickly left the executive offices and headed onto the freeway to Santa Monica, to Saint John's Hospital for a wonderful reunion with Skip Mitchell.
Skip's ankle had been greatly damaged and problems were complicated by the efforts of the medical staff in Mexico City. The beleaguered F/A lay exhausted in the hospital bed burden with a large cast on the injured leg. He cracked a smile staring at me.
“What do you remember, Skip?”
“Not much,” he replied. “A flash here, debris there and the heat of the fire.” I was grateful he was spared the malady that now haunted my mind. I shook his hand and was happy for him. We agreed to see each other again soon and drink ourselves silly to celebrate our good fortune.
After leaving Santa Monica I headed to Grunion's Bar in Manhattan Beach where I met up with Tommy Acoba to have a few beers.
“Do you mind if we watch a news report coming on in a bit?” We asked the familiar proprietor.
“Go right ahead,” was the reply and Acoba adjusted the television. The NBC broadcast started with the serious events that were occurring in Iran. The condition of the hostages and their well-being was a vital question being considered by the White House. President Carter would not rule out the use of military action if Tehran refused to release the American citizens. Tommy and I just shook our heads as we both recognized the possible ramifications of such a powder keg of a situation was not handle with care. Suddenly, the anchorman announced the piece dealing with the airline survivor, a story that was nice and heartfelt yet it was the only report that night regarding the demise of flight 2605.
“Why did such an experienced pilot crash his jumbo jet, causing so many to lose their lives? Was he misled by the Mexican Air Traffic Control? Was he misdirected by the Tower at Benito Juarez Airport? Was there a malfunction of the aircraft? Why were there construction trucks on the runway? Was there any information that the airline or the Mexican Government could provide to clarify the reasons for such a tragedy?” No such questions were addressed nor would they ever be again as far as I could determine. The story of the survivor would mark the end of the media's interest as their resources were now occupied in a much more important matter. It played right into the hands of those who desired to conceal the true facts. I felt greatly repulsed by this reality.
Upon my arrival at home that night I noticed that there were more envelopes taped to my door. I was right to assume that more legal representatives of the dead and injured had found out where I lived. I shook my head and realized that my future involvement concerning what I experienced was going to be dominated by widespread grappling for the almighty dollar. Mexican law limited economic compensation to $70,000-a mere pittance in the minds of the avaricious. Therefore, most of the cases the airline lawyers could not buy off would be conducted in courtrooms in the United States.
I noticed that my front door was ajar just a bit which made me apprehensive. I was sure I had locked the door upon leaving in the early morning. As I entered nothing seemed out of order but under the conditions I was extremely paranoid. I went to bed truly uneasy.
“Why did they leave me behind?” The young Mexican boy asked with a deep desire to understand.
“No Javier, you are not alone. They also left me,” I stated, so wanting to soothe the child.
The angelic teary face of the boy turned and we locked eyes.
“Will I ever be good enough?” He seemed filled with uncertainty which perplexed me. I was sure the young boy was pure innocence. The real question should be if I would ever be good enough. Muerto had a quick response to that,
“Never!”
I awoke with a terrible anxiety I found hard to dismiss. There was only one solution; the Animal House Gym would be open early in the morning. The hard core bodybuilders loved to work out with the rising of the sun. Perhaps I could sweat some of my discomfort out.
“You are not allowed to have pleasurable things,” the voices persisted. “You must be disciplined and inflexible.” My body was still extremely sore but I needed to turn to what consoled me. A good effort at a partial workout would release endorphins to ease my mind. I drove inland seeking a sense of peace.
“There is the luckiest S.O.B.,” a future Mr. America stated as I entered the weight room through the back door. The few athletes present ignored the workouts in progress to greet me graciously. “All those long hours here in the gym paid off, huh?” They reflected on the fact that my condition had played a big part in my survival. I smiled sheepishly but remained silent. I was aware that I was far from healed. Removing my clothing I caught sight of my image in the large mirror in the old locker room. I focused in on the scabs on my face and closely examined my body.
Both upper thighs displayed shades of fierce black and blue. One bruise looked like an ugly plague that crept just below the skin. I had various degrees of deep bruising on my calves and three places on my back. My deltoids had contusions, lacerations and burns. There was a stream of dried blistered skin across my back and my hands had small lacerations and tiny dried blisters. My front torso revealed shades of dark gray and deep blue on both side along my rib cage. The interior of my mouth on one side still exhibited a mark from a blow courtesy the comandante. The back of my head was still tender to the touch. Yet, as a whole, I retained a look of peak condition, ironic for a plane crash survivor. I completed a workout of careful stretching that morning primarily for the unseen injuries of
my mind.
Upon returning home in a much more composed state I discovered phone messages awaiting my attention.
“Hello Mister Valencia, this is Derek Romero. I would appreciate it if you could call me at your convenience.” Mr. Romero was an investigator for attorney “A.” There was another message from the offices of attorney “B.”
“Please contact us during the hours of 8AM and 5PM.” Then I recognized the voice of Flight Attendant Supervisor Kelly Ryan.
“Ed, please contact me as soon as possible.” I immediately called the Supervisor's office.
“What's up, Kelly?”
“Oh Eddy, thank you for returning my call.” Kelly seemed so serious. “I was the supervisor for Tamlyn Surutan Bailey.” I was surprised by this revelation. “You see Eddy, I am meeting with Tamlyn's mother and sister this afternoon. They have taken the loss of Tamlyn very badly and I was wondering perhaps if you could come along with me, help the situation.” I was a bit confused by the request but stupidly fell into the Edmundo mode. Had not his words been so comforting to my fellow associates at the employee meetings? I just assumed that they could work their magic on the aching hearts of Tamlyn's loved ones.
“Sure, Kelly, I'd be happy to help.” I agreed to meet Kelly at Tamlyn's mother's home which was in the immediate area, not that far from where I lived.
I assumed I would be encountering much grief but felt confident that we could help soothe some of their pain. Arriving at her mother's home I was totally unprepared for the anxiety that consumed Kelly. It turns out she had been met by great hostility when she last approached the two ladies.
I entered the comfortable little home naive to the true circumstances. I was introduced and there were no pleasantries. I stood in the middle of Mrs. Surutan's living room; I was met with resentment. I was alive and Tamlyn was not. In the depths of their grief they could not venture past that reality. I viewed a mother and sister completely destroyed by Muerto's handiwork. Both engaged in sorrowful wailing, which instantly returned me to the burning wreckage on the tarmac of Benito Juarez. Mrs. Surutan's cries were mostly expressed in her native tongue. Tamlyn's younger sister tried to frantically find some sense of logic. She demanded answers.
“Why did she have to die? What happened? Why did the plane crash?” The weeping sister approached me. “Tell me why?” I stood dumbfounded, unable to speak. Kelly tried to be rational with the mother.
“Mrs. Surutan, please, Eduardo was on the flight with your daughter.” The broken woman screamed all the more. Feeling light headed I sat on the sofa and feeling totally useless in my efforts to provide any sense of comfort. Pandemonium showed its face as the ladies only focused on their need for answers. When none were provided they vehemently blamed the airline and anyone representing it.
“I don't want you alive. I want Tamlyn alive!” Shouted the grieving sister. Looking a layer deeper I witnessed pure despair. Deep inside I actually sympathized with their reactions. I too shared these feelings regarding this whole mess. It was not long before Kelly found herself flustered and overwhelmed indicating it was time for us to leave. The grieving Surutan ladies finally gathered their emotions and began to apologize.
“I am sorry, so sorry.” Mrs. Surano generally was apologetic for her behavior. Hell, I couldn't fault the poor woman. The situation was overwhelming and Kelly and I quickly made our exit. The company supervisor presented her own apologies to me once we were out on the street. I assured the shaken, good intentioned supervisor that there was no need as I fully understood. In reality, I was affected by the encounter much more than I wanted to admit. I recalled my last conversation with Tamlyn in the cabin of the jumbo jet.
“I am getting out of flying, Eddy, My mother is afraid.”
“Of what, a crash?” The words were more frightening now considering the scenario I had just witnessed. I would later discover Daisy Ackley laid into Kelly pretty heavy for not consulting with her prior on including me in the visit to the Surutan home.
Returning to Manhattan Beach I walked along the landmark pier. I gazed into the deep vastness and uncertainty of the Pacific Ocean. Why? An eternal question that could never be answered. Like a dog chasing his own tail it was an endless voyage that could only result in madness. Yet, the sinister inner voices compelled me to take that ride. I was losing control. I became hypnotized by large white seagulls gliding on the wind's current, making their task look so simple.
“Pilot Error.” I should just leave this mess the way it stands. I wanted to shift my thoughts and focus on healing and getting on with my new life. Sure, that is what everyone supposed must be done but since I never did what was logical in the past why would this be different now? I stood facing the ocean breeze and the sun was setting and I had to prepare myself for another crew-member funeral. This one was for Cary Diller, a service much different than the others.
The Diller family had made it clear that they wished all to participate in a celebration of Cary's life. There would be no wailing or shedding of tears, only a heartfelt acknowledgment of the beautiful spirit that was Cary.
“What you doing up here, Mexican?” Her little jest brought a smile to my sullen face. Cary had been married for a short time and I recalled how happy she was when expressing her feelings. I tried to remember the exact words so I might relate them to her loved ones, express how upbeat she was that night.
Entering the Diller home it was quite evident that they had prepared for a party. There were colorful decorations, snacks available, soft drinks and a whole lot of liquor. The crowd was just getting started as I said hello to familiar faces. A good soul informed me that there was a keg of beer in the backyard so that is where I immediately headed. I found the large metal cylinder, grabbed a plastic cup and was just starting to fill it up when the silence was suddenly broken.
“Can you believe that there is a crash in Mexico and who in the hell walks out of it but the Mexican?” I turned and was surprised to see Skip Mitchell sitting on a small white chair. He wore gray dress slacks, a long sleeve white shirt and a maroon tie. The slacks had been altered on his injured leg to accommodate the large, white cast which encased his ankle to his knee. He dragged on a cigarette and appeared half-inebriated with a sly smile on his face, feeling no pain.
“Dear God, it is so good to see you.” The party inside the house intensified but I needed to remain outside by his side. The quick-thinking survivor was in his humorous prime which provided me with great comfort.
I would have the opportunity later in the night to speak to Cary's grieving husband, telling him what words I recalled. The man tried to find some threads of comfort in them. I felt so inept in this task that fate required of me. I walked out of the room leaving him to contend with his personal Purgatory. Muerto was still riding high. I wandered through the house, viewed photos and items that once belonged to the perky flight attendant. I stared and imagined that I could hear her voice.
“Don't steal anything, Mexican.” I chuckled and chose to believe she was relishing the joy of her new surroundings, sharing pleasure with all she encountered. My attention shifted when I noticed a tall, well-dressed figure enter through the front door. He looked about in a friendly manner and carried a slight smile; it was our V.P., Barry Lane.
“He is one guy who cares about the working man.” I recalled the words of so many associates. I pressed forward through the crowd to pay my respects. In a way I was drawn to him.
“Eduardo.” The tall executive was taken by surprise as he firmly shook my hand. He gazed about the room. By this time the memorial for Cary had turned into an all-out joyous party. Flight crews were cruising high on the fuel of alcohol. The music was blaring and flight attendants, all friends of Cary, had abandoned their inhibitions as they danced wildly to the pulsing beat. Some associates raise a yell in memory of their lost friend, a reflection of how well she was loved.
“This gathering seems to be a little more upbeat.” the sincere Vice President observed with a degree of innocence.
I stood by the boss' side for some time but remained silent. I was just content to be in his company. I became hypnotized by the festivities and slowly began to wander about. The beer started getting to me as fellow associates approached me.
“We're so happy you made it out, Eddy.”
“Good job, Ed.” I pretended to dance as my body was still too stiff to fully embrace the sounds that filled the house. Slowly, the atmosphere and liquor became an adrenaline for those who might have been too shy. A lovely, smiling redhead approached me.
“You don't remember me Eddy but we flew together last year and….” I thought to try and be noble but an invitation soon followed.
“Hi Eddy.” A smiling blonde associate embraced me in a bear hug.
“Eddy, come over here.” I broke loose and jumped to the middle of the dance floor. The attention became a plague on my soul. A brunette F/A approached me and made a request but I claimed I could not hear any conversation because of the music. Most encounters were sincere friends expressing their joy at my good fortune but as the liquor flowed the missives continued. I was not Pilot Ken Franks. I was overwhelmed by all that occurred in the last week.
“You don't deserve to be happy.” The serpent voices returned. “You have no right to relish life.” I hurried away into another room isolating myself, biding my time, and when I felt as though no one was watching I left.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 32