“Come on, Ed. Don't let these little pimple face brats show you up.” The pace, routine and repetitive actions in guiding the boat was what I needed. After learning the basics, swiftly gliding along the ocean waters on the lean, sleekcraft was thrilling. Across the marina lay a strip of well-known restaurants and bars. The chatter and laughter could be heard across the canal where we practiced.
“Another Bohemia,” I envisioned my request to a bartender. I wondered if there might be any flight crew I would know over there, enjoying a relaxing afternoon after a three-day trip. Instead, my circumstances had offered me another path where my physical strength might keep me competing when my mental endurance had failed. I felt rather accomplished when I learned that I had made the team, although there was a hint of a possible motive in their acceptance of me.
“He's old enough to buy beer for our parties,” one young optimist observed. I smiled, happy to go to the marina each day after class for crew. It calmed my demons.
I relished the opportunities provided to me in the classroom and although it had been more than a decade since I had been a student, I held my own. I was not twenty-one years of age nor did I want to be. I would return home and spent my evenings studying. It soon turned into a lonely existence.
In another generous gesture from Mr. Lane, my flight benefits for Cristiano, myself and my parents would now include extra “companion passes.” I was being given the opportunity to bring along a friend or a date, if the load factor of any given flight allowed it. With several weeks off at a time from classes I once again could be found wandering the world. But soon, reality put a wrinkle in this fanciful lifestyle. In these ventures I was fortunate to meet a host of new and interesting people. They had a job, a schedule to keep and, friends. What I offered was different.
“Well, you see, I work for this airline, but I really don’t have to go to work, I mean.” The whole attempt at trying to explain my situation sounded suspicious. “I was involved in this airline disaster.” Eyes would widen and jaws would drop in disbelief. What normal individual would offer to take a single female to Hawaii on a first date? But that is exactly what I suggested to someone I felt I had something in common with.
There were individuals who accompanied me on some wild and fun excursions, enjoying the first class service. It was all an illusion. I abandoned high-flying dates for time with my son. Loneliness was becoming a menacing partner with the guilt and resentment harbored deep inside me. It was exceedingly difficult on the nights without Cris. All too often I would simply lock myself away, fearing to venture outside where people mingled, communicated and developed relationships. El Gato had no workplace to be responsible to, so the wrath inside my heart stirred. I had traveled the world and was still no closer to answering the troublesome question.
A greater issue was now spoiling the compassionate plan Barry Lane had initiated for my benefit.
“Oh, so the company bought you off.” The statements differed slightly in their presentation but their interpretation added up to one thing in my troubled mind; my hands were stained with blood money. No matter how hard I tried to explain or justify the significance of the aid I was receiving, the conclusion by others led in one direction.
“Where do I sign up for such a deal?” A foolish acquaintance joked. Astounded, I froze for a split second then a silent, slow eruption of contempt developed within. I sneered intently at the impudent ass.
With few people of my age to communicate with at the university, I fell deeper into isolation. I resisted leaving my home except for school. My saving grace was my court appointed time with Cris. I perfected the procedure of travel as a single parent. Along with my regulation F/A suitcase, there was the backpack packed with the necessities of a young child. Included were the various toys to occupy his attention while we waited, finely dressed for our names to be called at gate 56 for an overbooked flight to HNL.
Fortunately, Cris and I were assigned the last two available seats in first class.
“Welcome aboard, Eddy.” The friendly F/A showed us to our seats. I quickly tried to store away our carry-on luggage where ever possible. Cristiano displayed great glee in what was now becoming a fanciful mode of transportation for the young boy. I adjusted his seat-belt and rose to remove my sport coat as the huge aircraft jerked away from the gate.
“Hey, did they charge you full price for the boy?” The bizarre inquiry caught me off guard as I handed my coat to one of the crew-members and quickly sat in my seat while the DC-10 began to taxi for take-off. I looked over across the aisle at a finely groomed blond haired gentleman who had asked the question, eyes wide with wonder, waiting for a response. It is made very clear to a new associate in training that while traveling on a company issued pass, one is to be appropriately dressed and never divulge the source of our ability to travel, especially while seated in first class. I remained silent. “Did they charge you full fare for the boy because these seats cost a pretty penny?” The polished looking man, who seemed to be traveling with a spouse or girlfriend, would not quit. He wanted an answer. I simply smiled and focused on the flight attendants' safety demo.
Once again the powerful General Electric engines roared, building up power and the cabin slightly shuddered as our aircraft rolled down the pathway.
“Hurray!” yelled a jubilant Cris who was the only child in the first class cabin. The massive jet rose up into the clear blue skies, heading over the Pacific. We were eagerly looking forward to a leisurely time in paradise.
The great craft leveled out at cruising altitude and the pleasure of being in-flight filled me once more. The fuselage had become a soothing cocoon, far more familiar and enjoyable than being on the ground. There were no demons or depraved voices to accompany me while in this dream world with my son.
“Up here there can be no disagreements with his mother.” I whispered to myself. The boy and I could simply board a company jet and be whisked away, feeling no guilt or the sickness of blood money on my hands. I was once again Eddy Valenciana, employee #21196-1. I came to realize that the cabin of a DC-10 felt more like a home than the earth below. At 35,000' I was grateful and content.
“What did they charge you for the boy?” The man was relentless and contempt quickly sabotaged my joy. I simply smiled and shook my head politely.
Once the meal was completed a kind F/A, Jackie, took Cris on a walk to explore the aircraft. I walked forward for some personal time in the F/C galley at 1R. I stopped and my eyes focused in on the F/A station.
“This is where Karen was.” I began to feel a great sense of peace. I wished I could be with them. There was so much I wanted to tell them, so much they could teach me. I looked around the galley. I longed to spend all my time aboard the DC-10 adrift amongst the clouds, never landing.
“Karen and the rest are just fine,” I said. “They reached their destination.” This put a smile on my face.
“Did they charge you full price for the boy? What do you do?” The words startled me as I snapped out of my pleasant dream and was face to face with the confident, well-tanned inquisitor.
“I travel a lot,” I fumbled as he caught me off guard. The fellow passenger wore a light colored polo shirt of a highly-regarded golf location. He sported a pale blue pinstriped coat and white patent leather loafers.
“Yeah, we have a condo on the islands,” the talkative stranger carried on. I was blocked with my back against the fuselage and unable to make an escape. I fidgeted and squirmed but still he would not set his captive free.
“Yeah, we usually spend all our time on Maui.” He would not shut up. I adjusted my tie and found myself sweating and getting agitated, feeling penned in.
I began to recall being trapped, surrounded by fire in Mexico, and once again smelled the foul odor of jet fuel. I could see the traveler's lips moving but I was now deaf to the outside world.
“Mi mama', por favor.” The memory echoed off the curved sides of the cabin wall.
“Help me! Help me!” The chorus of
screams began, the wailing was faint and it commanded my attention. Just as quickly it faded.
“Played golf at Poipu Bay, great course. So what do you do?” My inquisitor once again controlled the galley space.
“Huh?”
“Your line of work?” His eyes widened and eyebrows rose high atop his head. I waited for a moment and thought.
“I am in import/export,” I stated nonchalantly. My words caught the bronzed man's attention.
“Yeah, what kind, high end automobiles?” I could see I had piqued his interest so I milked the moment for all it was worth.
“Ah, no, I deal strictly with Colombia.” His square chin fell like an elevator whose cables had been severed; all the way to the ground. He fumbled badly in an effort to continue our conversation.
“Well, I better get back to the little lady.” And he was gone.
Cris and I were in our element on the beaches and streets of Waikiki. Cristiano also formed a good bond with Uncle Lonnie, my friend on the windward side of Oahu. If a fundamental sense of family stability was beyond me, then I would bestow the gift of travel to the boy. This provided an arena that was most consistent in our unique situation. It certainly would not have been my first choice in the development of a son but the adventures provided a classroom to establishing a strong character, confidence and knowledge. This was blended with a massive portion of unconditional love as the pages of his flight Yoda log book began to fill quickly. Each trip provided messages and signatures of fine aviators of many airlines. Once the boy went back to Sofia I dipped back into loathsome despair.
Certainly my behavior had become erratic and deplorable. I had taken chances seeking dangerous situations. The fact of the matter was, I no longer seemed to care. I did not deserve this new life and I knew it. I wanted to be with my crew. I wanted eternal peace.
There had been many cities where I sought to frolic on Death's playground. Although similar in raunchiness and aura of despair, the differences were in the distinct characteristics of the damned who lingered there. One man, in the southern portion of the country, had a large nose and heavy eyes that sank low upon his cheeks. He was destroyed mentally and physically. In another town, I spotted his identical twin in some dive filled with filth and the stink of stale cigarettes. They were related by the cursed anchor of desperation. And no matter the city, there was always a bully present, though his name and looks changed from town to town. There he would stand, defiantly, in the midst of the grunge gazing down like a bird of prey at the defenseless. He would be selective in his decision to punish the crippled for no reason but self gratification and dominance. If he could snatch away their drink, food, money, drugs and eventually their soul, he would. Antimundo was not very fond of their kind and made a diplomatic effort to persuade them to change their wicked ways.
“You're going to sign the f###### paper!”
But why restrict my misadventures to the domain of my airline? Why not find more fertile and exotic ground for bedlam? The back streets of any major city worldwide became open for exploration. Muerto raised the stakes and I must admit Antimundo was fascinated. I formulated a twisted routine. I had the means to prepare myself physically and mentally for a game of Chess with Muerto so why not expand the playing field. During the week I worked hard, attended classes, trained on campus, rested and prepared myself. I studied the school calendar, planned my itineraries for my dysfunctional journeys. During the seasonal breaks from classes I was whisked away, foolishly, fearless of the possible consequences; but that was what was so enticing. The plague itself was a bully and accompanied me one such venture. I hurried to catch a flight to NYC. The next leg would take me to London, then onward, with a grueling flight to Bombay, India.
“Your perception has been distorted by the events of this trauma so you need to be aware that your subconscious directs you into peril.” I not only had ignored Dr. Joe's advice, I developed a fancy for the perilous. Walking out of the wreckage of a broken fuselage engulfed in flames changes one's concept of mortality. It was now me against Muerto. Escaping his grip fed my adrenaline and a need for even more extreme insidious challenges. Doctor Ramljak was becoming concerned.
Fortunately my finances were in order despite my behavior. I purchased a new convertible coupe, maroon with a white interior and top; an extravagant toy for “the boys.” Cristiano laughed in delight driving down Pacific Coast Highway with the top down. To vent pent-up anxiety I would park the convertible at LAX on Aviation Drive near The Proud Bird Restaurant and Bar, sitting directly under the “flight-line of approach.” Cris and I, wrapped in warm coats and light gloves, would spy the lights of aircraft a great distance away to the east.
“What type of plane is it, Cris?”
“7-2-7,” the small boy called out. He began to learn the shapes of the various planes quickly.
“I say DC-8.” Chris and I stretched our necks and squinted our eyes, trying to determine if our guess would be proven right. The glare of the landing lights and the sound of wailing jet engines grew with each second.
“Time to put the plugs on,” as we both cupped our ears with our hands. Suddenly the massive metallic cylinder would roared with all its great power, just meters over our heads.
“YYYEEEAAAAHHHH!!!” We'd scream, then turn to watch the great ship land on the tarmac. Rubber and concrete kissed with friction, creating a wisps of smoke.
“Look! Here comes another one.” The young boy stood and pointed. The whole amusement ride was beginning once more. We reacted with greater frenzy when it was a jumbo like the DC-10, L1011 or 747 and I screamed at the top of my lungs.
“Screw you Muerto! Here I am, come and get me!” This favorite source of father-son entertainment did not cost a dime.
The school year was concluding, participation in Crew had ceased and students on the picturesque campus at LMU packed their belongings and left for the summer. The dormitories soon empty and the large walkways across the school grounds became barren. I prepared to travel to Europe for the wedding of my Pan Am friend, J.P. Donici. If I remained at home locked away, I would slowly self-destruct.
On a bright, beautiful July day in the city basin, I boarded a KLM 747 for Amsterdam. My airline badge encouraged the agent to graciously upgrade me to business class.
“Am I a student, a flight attendant, a member of management, of just lost in limbo?” Being in limbo made the most sense. After two adventurous days in the capital of the Netherlands I boarded a flight to Madrid where, in a week, I would meet up with Tommy and his family. From there we would head to France together. Ah, but the voices of the Fallen Angels tasked me.
“I know where you can find Muerto,” they teased.
Arriving at Barajas Airport, Madrid I had one thing on my mind, a taxi ride to the Plaza Mayor for a meal and vino. Content, I next was transported to the Atocha train station to catch the express going north. I bought a first class ticket to Pamplona, Basque country in the Province of Navarra. I was heading for La Fiesta de San Fermin, eager to test my mortality in my personal squabble with Death: I would run with the bulls.
The festivities began on the train and an all- night party allowed no one any sleep so I joined in on the tomfoolery. I would choose to discard common sense onto the cobblestone wayside, the very path where I would embrace confrontation in the morning during the first run leading up to the Plaza de Torros. This was no relaxed holiday. This venture was filled with total irresponsibility. I had attended the festival in the past and knew the old town's streets and back alleys. I also knew the confusion and chaos that dominates the stone pathway when the large bulls are released. Total bedlam erupts, kind of like an airline crash.
In the morning, with little sleep and reeling from the effects of intoxication, I positioned myself into the thick mass of bodies. The street was filled with other drunken individuals with the same craving, a testosterone driven instinct for bravado. The music blared as I squeezed a rolled up newspaper, my only protection. If cornered by a fierce bull,
a hard rap upon his delicate nose was the only hope for escape. Such a beast had lethal horns which could tear away the flesh and crush the bones of anyone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. This is exactly what I desired.
The Medieval clock high above the historic city hall revealed that just minutes remained before the first fireworks would explode, signaling the gatekeepers to release the impatient bulls. The crowds gathered tightly behind the barriers along the pathway. With great anticipation, they hung out the windows and off balconies of the old buildings that lined the route: a spectacle of vivid colors swaying with excitement high above. The red scarf of a maiden caught my eye.
“You're cleared on the right, you're cleared on the right.” The Mexican Tower Operator whispered with concern in my head. Large, colorfully crafted paper mache, crafted heads of medieval times with their performer hidden inside, whirled in a dance of exhilaration. I glanced around at the participants, many dressed in the traditional white pants and shirts with red beret and sash, still drinking heavily. Long streams of crimson nectar flowed from their “bota” bags filled to the brim with red wine. The bags, made from hide, were also used as a weapon to spray the unsuspected: those who were determined to be too well dressed or too clean by festival standards. The air above filled with the echo of blaring trumpets, striking drums and the nervous chatter of languages from all over the world. There was French, German, an eastern European dialect and of course, Spanish. I became dizzy as I briskly made my way through the swirling thicket of people.
“Who looks overweight or slow?” I asked myself. “Who looks like they might fall on the route and thus be a liability?” There had to be a game plan. “Where are the emergency exits?” One had to be quick and nimble to slip and slide through the masses to stay alive.
Jumpseat- A Tale of Twisted Fate Page 56