“She showed no fear even when we were on final approach,” I stated matter of fact.
“You mean she mentioned this on the flight?” Natalie's eyes grew wide as she stared right at me. Dear Lord, I had said too much.
“She told you she was gonna die?” Janette now inquired. I became very uncomfortable as I just looked at Caitlyn who seemed to suggest that it was okay that I tell the truth.
“She mentioned the flight could be the one.”
“I just got chills up and down my spine,” Natalie said as she crossed her arms and rubbed her shoulders.
“What did you do when you heard that?” Janette stared intensely wanting to hear each and every detail of what I might reveal. I became uneasy. They had no idea what was going through my mind.
“You may have heard that I had strapped myself into the jumpseat and tightened the straps so tight I could barely breathe.” Three heads nodded. “Well, now you know why. Excuse me.” I pretended like I had just recalled something I needed to see to. I went back to my seat in first class. I left it to Caitlyn to fill in the details. I was once again frazzled. I sat for a long time and pondered. I knew that someday I would have to testify in the court cases that were being lined up against the airline. What kind of impact would there be when I started to ramble on about premonitions and visions.? “Oh yes, even Tamlyn knew it was coming. That is why she tried so hard to transfer out of flying. Yeah that's gonna go over big.” This was insanity. Then, the no smoking sign illuminated indicating our descent into Honolulu International Airport.
“Have a good time,” were the joyful wishes of the crew. I thanked them and said my farewells. I was totally unprepared to venture on to Kauai: wrong clothes, bad timing and a short budget. I figured I would look pretty foolish toting a heavy raincoat in 82 degrees of tropic jungle. I would stay on Oahu and find a place. I called my friend Lonnie Grimes who lived on the windward side of the island. I had not spoken to him since the accident.
“Hey, gosh, I saw it all in the newspapers and on TV.” He was speaking of the short window allowed in the media before the Iranian Hostage situation. “Eddy, you still there?” My disdain had triggered me into silence.
“Yeah, I'm sorry…..I'm here in Honolulu and..”
“Well come on over, you can stay here.”
“Yeah?” Off I went to Waimanalo.
The next morning the sun shone brightly along the coastline as my heart was lifted. Now I needed to get in the ocean. With Makapuu Beach just down the road I was able to unload the pressures inside by riding perfect waves, a wonderful method of distraction as the wind cooled my mind.
Leonard was a master of body surfing commanding the swells and their massive power with graceful swirls, cutting through the wall of cascading water. I, on the other hand was not. I continued to eat it big time, getting taken right down, plastered onto the sandy bottom. I would pop up out of the water and stupidly head back to deeper waters. I am sure there were more than a few local guys out there who were entertained by the “poor bugga” who seemed to have a great desire for self-punishment. Lonnie finally swam over and suggested we go have lunch. Exiting the water I was exhausted, bruised and battered, but it didn't matter. I felt wonderful.
My dear friend was kind enough to provide a fine lunch at a Mexican restaurant and yes, they served Bohemia.
“So, Eddy, what was the crash like?” My good friend never uttered those words. Instead he focused on what was important. “Shit, you're here!” The sincerity of my island friend emphasized what he believed to be the bottom line. We were soon joined by local friends who became aware of my story.
“You hit the jackpot,” was another expression used.
“I never met anyone who won the lottery,” a local Japanese man stated. The whole thing perplexed them. I just smiled and nodded. Later, in private, I would confide to Lonnie providing specifics.
“It's the investigators and legal representatives who are driving me nuts these days,” I said.
“Well, you always have that special knife,” Lonnie smiled in an effort to lighten the conversation. I laughed and drank another Bohemia. His words would have been cherished by a wise and disciplined man; I was neither. Instead, his words jumped out and stuck in my memory. I thought about his fine gift.
“Yes, I do have the knife.” I thought to myself.
“You gonna stay a few days?”
“Got to get back to L.A. I have an audience with a prince of the Holy Catholic Church.” My deeply tanned friend's eyes widened with curiosity.
“Is he gonna hear your confession?” We laughed and then we grew silent.
“Perhaps he should,” I whispered as I grabbed another bottle of beer.
Arriving back at LAX I stood to deplane the DC-10 when I felt a hand slap my shoulder from behind.
“Glad you made it, buddy.” I turned to see the face of a familiar ship cleaner. The name on his company work shirt read Raul. I knew him only by sight. He would board on any given assignment as I was deplaning. I really never had spoken to him before.
“Thanks.” I smile and became shy. His sentiment was pure and genuine. Just like in Mexico, it was the simple people who seemed to really understand. His words were worth gold. I would continue to be the recipient of such gifts: a baggage man, a caterer worker, a janitor. Others in the airline were more difficult to deal with. I wished for it to get stale quickly as I was growing weary of the magnificent Edmundo. I certainly had many more acquaintances at work now. Most I was grateful for, some I could have done without. No matter, my emotions would peak after an assignment. I became violently nauseous and was hit with convulsions at the employee parking complex. The wonderful first class meal I consumed on the flight was solemnly left upon the concrete of the third floor. I drove home accompanied by The Fallen Angels, as I took to calling the voices in my head.
“You Pu##y,” was the last remark I heard before falling into bed.
There were a few moments when being the company’s little hero had some benefits. I was able to smooth out the wrinkles with Ackley although the concern could always be heard in her voice. Certainly some of my recent actions and decisions could have been grounds for termination or at least suspension for any other flight employee. I realized they were stretching the rules for me yet there was a big part of me that didn't care. I wanted to be defiant, to cause a problem for their actions or lack thereof. They might as well have suspended me. I wasn't getting much of a paycheck, anyway. I was drifting with my emotions. I punished myself for surviving. Prompted by my financial situations, I ate tuna packed in water. Heck, at times it became a feast. A peach or pear was a delicate dessert and if I needed to eat snails for the protein I did it. It was the right thing to do, to suffer in silence.
“You deserve to be miserable.” I listened to fiendish angels. Their reprimands continued the morning I drove inland, to the city center. I had an appointment with Timothy Cardinal Manning and I hoped he could help lessen the burdens.
I climbed the stairs of the Spanish-architecture building with its colorful tile floors and Moorish pillars. I was prepared to possibly hear a lecture warning me that Satan is never idle. Maybe a reminder to stay the road to salvation, follow the path of the straight and narrow through sacrifice and denial, the regular religious dogma. I was to be proven so wrong.
The prince of the church appeared and offered sincere compassion and understanding. There would be no falling to one knee or the continuous action of kissing the ring. Timothy Manning, the man and the pastor was who I was blessed to meet. This highly learned priest who regularly conversed with enlightened scholars and political leaders admitted that he was truly at a loss in trying to explain God's greater plan in this affair.
“The only thing I do know, Eddy, is that God's love is total and eternal.” These words dared me to hope. The Cardinal became a mentor, and adviser. The time came for my confession. I knelt to one knee and blessed myself.
“Bless me father for I have sinned. I lived.”
When our time was coming to a conclusion we were joined by a young clergyman. He introduced himself as Father Riley, a man about my age and, by the expression on the Cardinal's face, was well regarded by His Eminence.
“I thought about how best to console you and encourage you to continue to believe, and I think Father Riley would be someone you might want to speak to from time to time.” The young priest could easily have been the poster child for the church's efforts in recruiting young men to a religious vocation. The Archbishop excused himself and left the two of us, as my faith in my church gained a boost. I was not sure which Pope had christened Timothy Manning a Cardinal but that was one decision that benefited the church and her congregation.
I spent the afternoon with Father Riley in the lush gardens of the Episcopate center.
“I don't know how Father, but Reina knew.” I poured my heart out. I continued the confession I had begun with His Eminence
“It seems it all has come down to money, Father.” I expressed my displeasure with the powers that be.
“I wish I had done more before it was all swept under the carpet. Then there are the nightmares.” The priest became concerned.
“Have you considered getting professional help?” Father Riley's words threw me for a loop. This was a priest of the Catholic church, the first and only authority for consultation regarding a tortured mind and soul, at least in my mother's mind. Where would I even start such a search for the right physician? As if on cue, Father Riley provided the answer.
“There is a wonderful man who heads up the psychiatric wing at the U.C.L.A. Veterans Hospital named Joseph Ramljak. He does a lot of work with the Vietnam vets who have returned and are finding it hard to fit back into society. I have recommended others I know to him.” What would my dear mother have thought about the advice I was receiving from a counselor of the church?
Suddenly it was time to leave. As I was about to exit through the iron gate at the top of the stairs Father Riley began to bless me, and under the authority of God, forgave me my sins. I left the meeting in good spirits. I was especially happy that neither clergyman stated that God had some great plan for me. As I drove through the fibrous freeway system back towards the South Bay I was grateful that my new friend, the young reverend, had given me absolution. I would have been even more pleased had he done something about the hideous whispers and dreams that constantly filled my head.
I vowed to have a new resolve as I was placed back on the reserve list. I wished to exhibit greater fortitude in embracing my duties. There was also the fact that I was broke and half starving, trying to keep my head above water and not lose my home.
“Sequence 140,” the scheduler announced. Upon checking my F/A bid sheet I spotted the assignment. LAX-ACA-LAX. Yes, Acapulco. I was going back to Mexico but I was relieved it was not Mexico City or a DC-10. I would be working the smaller Boeing 727. The turn-around flight would have me back home in the evening.
I was more upbeat, smiling and sharing in conversations with various fellow associates in the flight lounge, both cabin and cockpit. Checking my mailbox, I was extremely surprised to find a written communication from Barry Lane, the company's Vice President of In-Flight Services. Along with his gracious best wishes, Mr. Lane understood that I was an admirer of some of the old big band music from the forties. Music of that era, the favorite of my parents, was played often in the family home while I was growing up. Inscribed in the Vice President's handwriting were the first four lines of an old Johnny Mercer tune.
“You've got to accentuate the positive,
Eliminate the negative
And latch on to the affirmative,
Don't mess with Mister In Between.” Included in the letter was a cassette recording of the old tune by Johnny Mercer and the Pied Pipers, circa 1945.
Barry Lane showed real class in reaching out to me in this manner. Sure, I may have wanted to be a big pain in the butt to Ackley and Shana but I had no desire to be twisted with Mr. Lane. His message had tremendous logic behind it and his personal touch made it more enduring. It told me that this was a man I could come to, a voice of authority who I felt would be fair and honest. Barry Lane became that tinge of hope.
The take-off into the skies over the Pacific shores was more thrilling than usual these days. We hit a bit of turbulence on our way to Acapulco as the sleek bird fought to stabilize herself. I neither cringed nor felt fear, it was completely the opposite; as deep down I regained the thrill. My crew-mates for this excursion were fabulous. The service went like clockwork as we streaked down the coast into Mexican air space. We were greeted by the rugged desert of Baja California, heading to cross the Bay of Cortez. Most of the passengers were Americans looking forward to a sunny holiday on the beaches of the resort city, and there were also natives returning home.
Working the aft cabin, I noticed a Hispanic family of two men plus a woman. The elderly man on the aisle seemed dead asleep. I assumed him to be the father of either the man or woman. He bore the withering and aging of a life of struggle and hard work. I saw his slumbering face, a road map of sorts, lines and facial crevasses that revealed a story. I elected to serve the others around him without disturbing his serenity. It was not until the collection of the trays did I bother to speak to them.
“Would the older gentleman like something to eat?”
“I think he will be fine,” the younger man stated.
“Going to visit family?” I inquired.
“Yes, my wife's family lives in Acapulco.” His head leaned toward the quiet woman who smiled and nodded.
“And the sleeping gentleman?”
“He is her father.”
“Oh, going back to join the family, should be very special for him.” I looked at the dormant figure. “Heck, hasn't moved a bit.” He retained that same smile for a long time. “Is he okay?” I asked.
“I think he is dead.” The Mexican traveler responded and my jaw fell down to the floor.
“This must be another cruel joke being played on me by Muerto,” I thought. I looked around to find him. My eyes searched up and down the aisle assuming he was disguised. I began to attract attention but I still scanned the cabin and quickly studied each face. Finally I checked for a pulse on the elderly gentleman.
“Has he been ill?”
“Cancer.” One word told the story.
“Do you want me to see if I can bring him back?” I sensed the urgency. The man turned to his wife and asked her permission.
“Certainly.” She indicated. “If something can possibly be done then go ahead and try.” I released the seat belt of the elder gent. It took significant effort to move his body to the galley floor where CPR could be performed. I alerted the rest of the flight attendants and they, in turn, informed the cockpit who passed the message on to Mexican Air Traffic Control and the tower at ACA. Just like October 31, the training kicked in as one of the young ladies working the flight assisted in CPR. I performed the compressions and lung inflation with vigor. I would like to tell you that my efforts were fruitful and the good gentleman lived another day to be reunited with his family. That did not happen. Instead, as soon as we landed and the door was cracked, the paramedics boarded the craft. They found me performing CPR for over an hour on a dead man.
“You f###ked up again didn't you?” Shame had a voice and it was ruthless. “Why do people around you end up dead?” Muerto now had another angle.
As soon I entered the flight lounge at LAX upon our return I discovered word had already spread of what had occurred during our flight. Edmundo was hailed and congratulated for his actions and decisions. Ackley related that I needed to write an account of what happened. Usually I would have been annoyed by the request but that Mexican family lost their parent. I imagined some sly attorney presenting the promise of big cash if they simply twisted the facts a bit and sued the airline. Perhaps that crash survivor was to blame. Had he really tried to save the man? I was sure some people might try such a stunt but that noble fam
ily was not one of them. They had even thanked me for my physical effort. I signed the “incident report” and walked away trying to feel good about performing my job.
I tried hard not to derail the good rhythm I had started. I was arriving on time to my assigned flights, making a serious effort to fulfill all my responsibilities. I seemed in total control while in uniform and on duty. In past times, after a day of performing the pantomime, I could be found on the concrete platforms of the employees parking structure. I would be on my knees overwhelmed by contempt and self ridicule, the day's meal unceremoniously purged.
“You'll never be good enough.”
Fearing a recurrence of such a vulgar act because of the elderly man's demise, I decided to break my regular routine. I exited the employees bus early to stop at the company cafeteria. A ginger-ale might settle my anxious stomach. I carried my regulation suitcase as I walked across the large hangar floor, lost in thought of the peaceful old man then reality demanded my attention.
“Edmundo…...Edmundo,” I turned to see figures across the massive space dressed in the Brooks Brothers suits. One tall individual was waving in a way to get my attention. I stopped cold and turned quickly. I squinted to see the CEO Mario Reddick in the distance. He was mouthing some message and so I walked a bit forward to try and hear his words.
“I had a good workout this morning Edmundo.” He then flashed a thumbs up as his subordinates stood silently. The group was headed back to the executive offices. I waved and smiled, the perfect image of who Edmundo was perceived to be.
I imagined Mario Reddick pumping iron, maybe appearing in his Speedos, all oiled up, flashing his poses as the latest company jingle played in the background. I had to give him his due. He was in decent shape for his age and wore that expensive business suit well. He was no demon and I knew it. I was sure he'd had a few of his own nightmares over this crash, yet bitterness allowed me to wish he would have been witness to some of the people burning, listening to their death cries. Maybe a lot of people connected with this mess, cover-up and the grab for money should all be stuck with the memory of such horror.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 39