Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate

by E E Valenciana

  “I have called the airline over and over again. I get no response to my inquiries.” My mind flashed to the image of my own mother, one of the very few who experienced joy after the crash. Her child came back home in one piece. “I live with a heart that is broken. I will never find peace without the answers I need.” I felt the anger and a need for vengeance swelling in me. I saw no difference between this poor woman and my mother. In that moment, I hated the company.

  Recognizing the complexities involved in this horrible debacle I could foresee the possibility of the families coming to me for answers. They had to find some solace to carry on. Their faces at the multiple funerals I attended testified to the need for the truth if there was to be a livable future. After Reina's service I made a promise to myself to avoid the families. I never wanted to commit the vile sin of having to lie to them. Now the one woman who I respected and felt so much compassion for was asking me for aid.

  “We believe the airline paid you to remain silent.” My heart sunk. This blow to my spirits was as devastating as being accused of negligence in my flight duties. I wasn't sure I could now convince this good mother that such a thing was not true. I, as much as anyone, hated the entities that wanted the truth/facts of this mess swept neatly away, forgotten for all time. Now those loved ones, whom I had nothing but the greatest respect and concern for, believed me to be a sell out. “Mi hija y yo queremos encontrarnos con ud.” I was not about to deny this request. A time and place to meet was arranged. I cursed the airline I loved so much. Once again my focus and responsibilities to my wife, child and job were derailed by the folly that controlled me so totally.

  How could I convince Senora Tovar that my sympathies were aligned with her and the other families? What would it take for her to see that I had been left on the wayside regarding any financial payout? What in the world can I tell her that would be of any significance in her efforts to attain justice for her lost daughter? These were the questions that occupied my every waking moment up until the day of our meeting.

  “Hello, Mom?”

  “Hi, mijo.”

  “Mom, I need your help.” My dear mother Alicia Sr., was an honest person who never lied. “Mom, would you come with me to meet Mrs. Torres?” She was fluent in Spanish, I needed her to translate. I'd tried to keep my family out of the loop of the complexities of this nasty affair, yet I needed her word on my behalf.

  Mrs. Torres and her daughter seemed surprised as I approached with my mother.

  “Alicia Valenciana a sus ordenes,” my mother stated extending her hand to an emotionally brittle woman.

  “Eduardo, we need your help, the company refuses to give us any facts regarding the details of the plane crash.”

  “Senora, whatever information I could provide for you, be it the truth, will not bring you any happiness.” This statement seemed to cause hesitation in Senora Torres. Regina's elder sister Theresa sensed the reluctance and stepped right in.

  “Was it truly pilot error?” I took a deep long breath and realized that my words would come as news to my mother.

  “The Mexican Government who conducted the official investigation has stated that it was, and this conclusion, flawed that it may be, has been accepted by the United States Government and the airline. No matter what you or I say, that determination will not change.” The words did not satisfy Reina's sister. She confronted me squarely.

  “Did the airline pay you to keep silent?” My mother was taken aback and looked at me in confusion. Before I could respond Alicia Sr. took charge.

  “No, he has not received any payout. My son would not lie to you.” Her defense of my integrity was heartfelt. Senora Torres took in her words. In all my confusion and deplorable behavior, remaining true to the interest of my crew-mates and their families was a tiny bit of decency that remained in my rotting soul.

  “Has the company been lying to us?” The senora persisted.

  “If you have been dealing with their attorneys, then I believe they have.” The two woman gave a hard glance at each other.

  “Will you help us?”

  “Ladies, I am still an employee of the company. I am married now with a young son. I have a responsibility to them so I cannot directly confront my employer. But I promise that I will not lie to you about anything you may ask regarding my recollection of the facts.” Theresa quickly interceded.

  “Will you speak to our lawyer?”

  “No.” I could see that my response deflated the two women. There was a long pause and I decided that I was not going to leave these ladies just hanging without hope.

  “Listen, there is one man with influence at the airline, an honest man who has helped me in these awful matters. His name is Barry Lane. He is the Vice President of In Flight Services, so he was Reina's boss. Go see him, he will not lie to you.”

  I looked at my dear mother's face on the drive home.

  “Thanks for coming, Mom.”

  “Of course, mijo.”

  “I feel a little guilty.”

  “Why, son? You told her the truth.” I fell silent. I should not have dumped this delicate issue on Mr. Lane but then it should have never fallen to me to be the one the families sought the truth from. It was obvious that the airline and U.S. government were strong-armed into being in bed with Mexico in this matter. These facts needed to be voiced by the airline, not by me. Once again I glanced at my mother. Her face registered that she had discovered more about this affair than she wanted to know.

  Sometime later I learned that Barry Lane had indeed met with the Torres'. His quality as a good man shone through again. Unfortunately, Barry was crippled by the real world, for an attorney was a required third person in on their conversations. It was clear that the Torres Family was on a wild ride that dispensed nothing but heartbreak and disappointment. Muerto's signature was visible. He toyed with them as expertly as he manipulated me. I could only wish the best for them.

  The road for the Torres' would eventually lead to more frustrating legal battles. When it came to compensation, the young flight attendant crews and their families were getting the short end of the stick. Their hands tied by regulations, the Torres' united with the Suratan-Bailys and the family of Becky Devita. Perhaps their grief had turned to anger which gave them strength and resolve, For this brave lot their need for closure would be ignored away once again.

  The answer would come in a ruling from the United States Court of Appeals. Justice was blind to the burned and dismembered bodies. I was destined to imagine the smell of jet fuel for years to come, if I made it that far. My minor experience in the courtroom was a sliver compared to the massive burden to fall upon those families.

  The claim of Devita's family had more substance. Becky was deadheading the flight, traveling as a passenger to be available to work the next segment. The argument was that Becky was legally a passenger not sanctioned under the codes for employees. The counter which I imagine came from a team that may have included Andrew Jawkins and Dennis McDonald was that Becky was working and assigned to be a passenger for that particular leg. The courts conclusion?

  “The plaintiffs were limited to the exclusive remedies provided by the California worker's compensation statute Cal Labor Sec. 3201-3213.”

  The maximum anybody was going to receive for each deceased child would be around 75 thousand dollars. I could see my own parents in a similar setting in haunting dreams at night. The mad ride just continued on.

  This legal fiasco created more wounds, leaving permanent scars that all the free trips in the world could not remove. With the company’s continued silence on an affair all parties now considered closed, the persona I named Antimundo nurtured a need for vengeance.

  Returning to my duties on the flight-line each day as Edmundo, the pantomime became intolerable. I was competent at wearing this mask well, then disposing of it in a pool of vomit in the parking lot at trip's end.

  My wife Sofia became irritated concerning my walking a fine line between sanity and emotional breakdow
n.

  “You need help, Eddy.” I so yearned for the majestic slopes of the Garden Island. The company had three flights a day to HNL. It would be so convenient to push aside all the responsibility, evade the unceasing torment and just go. I held back, just barely.

  “Comorbidity” had been a term Doctor Joe used concerning the never-ending confusion that gripped my consciousness. The abuse in my mind contributed to the self abuse of my body. This combination made it difficult to figure out what was right and what was wrong. I came to the conclusion that I could not take on the airline and Sofia’s displeasure at the same time. Then, without warning, an unsuspected disorder made its presence known.

  “Dear God, help! Javier is screaming. He's dying!” I scrambled out of bed.

  “Eddy! Eddy! No! No! It's Cristiano who is crying. Wake up!” Sofia pleaded. With her eyes wide with fear she sat on the bed shaking. I shook my head and looked a my dear son crying, his face replacing that of the helpless Javier. This alteration in my psyche was maddening and my poor young wife was at her rope's end. Things were unwinding quickly.

  “I have a flight for you, Ed.” Marlene from Scheduling happened to call with an assignment that would open Muerto's door to the next level of chaos. Checking the sequence, the letters jumped out at me, LAX-JFK-LAX. The layover was twenty-eight hours. Now was the time. I was being offered a new jungle, one made of concrete and iron. The news was a delight to my dysfunction.

  That evening I took great care ironing two uniforms, one issued by the airline and an extra one that would serve Antimundo. He wanted vengeance and this uniform would serve his persona in the dark spaces of the city. Along with the essentials for my regulation suitcase I added extra items for this particular trip. Appropriate footwear for prowling the streets, fatigues, the body-paint and an indispensable bandanna to highlight the morbid ceremony. Now it was time for others to feel the abuse. Now it was time to put an end to the leeches that sucked the blood of the innocent.

  During the flight to the concrete jungle, my anxiety rose. While the passengers watched the featured film, I hid away in the downstairs galley for a time with my suitcase, blocking the elevators from operating so I would not be disturbed. I opened my bag and gently removed the steel knife from its leather sheath which was now tinted in crimson from the red dirt of Kauai. I held it high to gaze upon the glistening light as it was reflected from the smooth metal. The handle fit perfectly into my sweat-filled hand. The arched alloy of the weapon's brass knuckles covered my grip well,

  “The perfect tool for a desperate man.” Antimundo whispered. Within minutes of returning to the upper cabin, the hands intent on ferocity were now utilized in the company's elegant first class service.

  “Would you care for white or red wine?” My passengers relished the attention. “Thank you for traveling with us, have a good day.”

  Once on the ground I wore my poker face well. Some in my crew spoke of taking in a Broadway show. With twenty-eight hours of free time my excited mates knew there would be lots to do and lots to see. While their intent was based on fun and excitement, I in turn had torrid thoughts, seeking thrills of a different sort.

  That evening I sat for some time with Antimundo, boxed in a room at a Marriott Hotel. We wanted to allow my fellow F/As time to leave the premises or settle in for the remainder of the night. Like a surgeon carefully preparing his tools, I slowly opened the case, gently removed the contents, and aligned them carefully upon the bed. I took great care to bathe slowly and thoroughly, desiring no filth to be upon me. I wished my forthcoming actions to be unadulterated. Like a priest in the fulfillment of a sacrament I religiously applied the crimson and white paint, the airline’s colors, upon my face. It was fitting in my mind that I remained the company man to the very end.

  I lost myself in thought over Reina's premonitions. What was lacking in her predictions was the injustice that would engulf those she loved. I would be the one motivated to extract retribution, an eye for an eye from those blood suckers on the outside. I headed out the hallway, down the back stairs. An intense jolt of exhilaration filled my being. Only in New York could an oddity such as myself venture into the darkness of the night dressed as I was and still not be far off from the norm.

  With the large blade strapped to my back under my regulation raincoat, I descended into the underground and headed for the city. My destination was Spanish Harlem, an area few outsiders could comfortably blend into. I emerged from the subway catacombs to the excitement of the cool night's breeze, taking in the whole scene: the constant motion, the flashing lights and the prevailing noise, a world far away from flight crews and fancy hotels. There were young men huddled on the street corners, some pestering the ladies. Within this urban jungle nestled every type of vice imaginable, available all around me, and it was exhilarating. Overwhelmed by the level and dynamics of the constant motion, I took a curbside seat and made myself as comfortable as if I were in a lush movie theater anticipating a heralded film. All that seemed to be missing was the bag of popcorn.

  From the corner of my eye I spotted a lean young black boy struggling with a mid-size suitcase, dragging it across the street. It amused me to watch his efforts. With much exertion the young lad finally worked his way to my side of the street. Exhausted, the child took a seat on the same curb some yards down from me. I sat mesmerized. He could be no more than eight or nine, not that much older than Javier and his brother.

  “What you be starin' at?” The defiant child shot me a menacing glare without an ounce of fear. For an instant I was actually intimidated. I shook my head, rose up and walked to a nearby liquor store. I returned with a six-pack in hand and began to laugh as I opened the first can of many that night. “What be so funny?” The little man was not amused. I hesitated for a second then turned and looked the boy straight in the eyes and tried to express a moment of seriousness.

  “I have some white friends that would simply freak out if they found themselves here.” The child let my words stir his imagination and revealed a wide grin.

  “What’s your name?” The boy demanded.

  “My name?” I responded with great zeal. “You wish to know who I am?” My new little friend smiled, chuckling at my antics. “Well, my dear friend, you happen to be in the presence of Antimundo.”

  “You P.R.?” I nearly choked as I tried to quickly down the second container of suds.

  “P.R.?” I was confused by his inquiry.

  “Yeah, a Puerto Rican, a laughing P.R.” The boy stated.

  “No, no my good fellow, I happen to be of Mexican descent.” The brew began affecting my perception. The curious boy shook his head.

  “Okay, you be Messican if you wanna be but I wouldn’t want to be no beaner.” Aghast at his words I spit up what liquid was in my mouth

  “Excuse me young man, I do take issue with your statement.” The streetwise boy just sighed. The child seemed like a prudent elder about to explain the true facts of life to a silly, painted up beaner. Captivated by my new friend, I listened intently.

  “The first time I be called n#####, I ask around.” The pint size wise man continued to enlighten me. “I find out what that be and the next thing I be doin', I be asken what everybody else be called.” I would find that in his dysfunctional world there was some sense of logic. “You know it be just like learnin' one of them different tongues. You know how it be, the way people be learnin' all the dirty words first. I’m a n#####, you Messicans be beaners, Ricans be spics, docs be quacks, lawyers be shysters, cops be pigs, women be sluts and teenagers be punks.” Suddenly my moment of revelation was over as the boy abruptly ended his lesson. He seemed a bit impatient as if he were looking for someone. I had empathy for the lad and realized that Death was playing with his head as well. I paused then asked him a question.

  “What about children? What do you call children?” The little man froze and I knew that my words were registering in his mind. Slowly he turned and his tight little face wrinkled in an inquisitive manner.

>   “Man, why you gotta be askin' such a hard question?” The inquiry had hit a chord with the little warrior. I was sure he had to fight his battles daily. I actually had great respect for the kid as I turned away and continued to guzzled the beer. There we sat as the world rushed by in an array of sounds, colors and motion. Who are they? Where are they going? And for what reason? My juvenile friend could not care less, for survival demanded much more of him, complete attention to the perils in such surroundings.

  “What you all painted up for anyway, like some fool on Halloween?”

  “I am the image of Halloween past,” I once again spoke to the child in him.

  “Hey little man, you want a soda?” I respectfully offered.

  “Soda?” The boy was insulted.

  “What's your name?” I inquired.

  “Jerome.” Soon I found myself relaxing my defenses. The kid and I engaged in conversation, exchanging insights on survival. He was competent at trading playful insults but all joy would be eliminated by details of his short life.

  It would not be a pleasant tale of how his mother, who I assumed by his words was a prostitute and drug addict, the latter being a favorite of Muerto. He never knew his father. He had a handful of siblings but he really never knew half of them. Yet somehow the little man seemed to deal with it in stride. Through our conversation I came to realize that this child was a courier for a drug merchant. The clever dealers would use the young and innocent to transport their South American resources from place to place in the concrete jungle. The children could be busted thirty-seven times but because of their age, there would be little consequence from law enforcement. Jerome bragged how the money was good.

  I lowered my head into my F/A issued raincoat. My mind went back to training, regulation 1.2.10., Flight Attendant Conduct while in uniform: “Flight Attendants will present a professional, businesslike appearance /manner.” I thought about the world of aviation and the survivor tag that had been placed upon me. Here, sitting alongside me was a true survivor whose childhood was being robbed. Then all at once a chill came over me. I realized the boy's odds of surviving this hazardous environment were not very good. The painted flight attendant rose and bid farewell to the little man. From a distance I watched Jerome continue on to his appointed time and contact. I liked the little guy; even more, I respected him.