Carmen was on the last leg of her last flight, completing a three-day shift, finally returning home to Miami.
Her night in Vegas was ordinary and uncomplicated; how she liked it. After using the hotel gym, she had a yogurt berry parfait from room service before inserting her earplugs and falling deep asleep.
When in Miami, she liked to kick box at the gym around the corner from her South Beach apartment. Returning home to relax with her white longhaired Persian cat, Feliz, his soft vibrating purr would fill Carmen’s lap and heart with happiness. She was fine to crunch carrot sticks and sip cheap chardonnay in the full blast of the air-conditioner, with only the cat for company, be it swinging his white tail in her warm bath water or getting frisky chasing the catnip filled toy mice around the apartment. She needed him like the cat kneaded Carmen’s smooth tan legs with its sharp claws, flicking its tail gently under her nose to leave microscopic hairs for her to sneeze out.
It would seem Carmen’s beauty was a first-class golden ticket to an easier life. She would always get the job and the guy. After being pulled over more than a dozen times she had never received a speeding ticket. However, showing its ugly face to her outward grace, was that she trusted only a few people to see past this gifted attractiveness—to see her—and that was her family.
This morning’s phone call to her family was about Papi’s upcoming retirement party. He was leaving the Miami boat marina he had been an outboard engine mechanic at for over thirty years. Her mother, Luz, would continue volunteering at the multi-cultural center, with her focus being full time abuela to Carmen’s three brother’s growing families.
On the weekends they would get together for large family dinners. Carmen and Papi would dance around the house, taking turns playing the accordion. Her brothers had shown zero interest in learning their father’s musical passion. Papi and Carmen made quite a team, even performing for neighborhood fiestas, shaking their hips and dancing with the full band; a mother-of-pearl accordion strapped to each of their chests.
Carmen now appeared in stark contrast to her former brace-faced child self, who had flaunted a bowl-shaped haircut, her mother’s attempt at saving money by making the kitchen into a makeshift beauty salon.
She had learned to keep up with the two older brothers, while her younger brother birddogged after her. The four kids would spend their summers at the boat marina. Boats lined the marina’s walls from floor to ceiling. They were told to keep out of the way, so they took to hiding behind the mangroves by the old lobster trap piles—passing time building forts, playing cards, wrestling for bets, and slinging rocks at targets. To make her feel special, being the only girl, her Papi would throw down a large piece of cardboard over the oil-slicked floor of his shop, providing her a place to play with her Barbie dolls. Sometimes he would flip over a bucket, so she could color or work on her school studies.
“Carmen, your nose is running,” he used to lovingly take the front of his greasy work shirt and hold it to her face. “Blow hard.”
Her Papi would give the siblings equal turns taking test rides on the new twenty-four-foot center console fishing boats, with dual outboard engines. The Aqua Sports and Sea Crafts were cleverly named, with flashy stencil writing on the sides or backends: Liquor Snapper, Playin Hookie, or Chasin Tail.
When she went with her dad on these test drives, he would max out the speed, her brown hair whipping in wind, becoming caught in her braced smile. She learned to use her sea legs, rebounding with each bump on her scrawny limbs, as the boat banged against the cresting waves.
He would type in the location coordinates on the GPS to his favorite fishing holes. The cell phone-sized machine beeping, as the sonar bounced back from the coral reef sea bottom, forming fluorescent green jagged lines on the screen. When they would arrive at the fishing hole, Papi would pull off his oil stained blue work shirt, with his name, Luis Fuentes, embroidered on the chest. The shirt off revealed his darkly tanned arms, face, and neck, nearly black from the sun, contrasted against his white chest, several small dark hairs popping out above his heart. He would dip his mask and snorkel in the ocean water, spitting and rubbing the saliva over the glass with his thin fingers to keep the mask from fogging. Slipping his feet into the flippers, he would place the mask over his head, chewing down on the snorkel bite. As he sat on the edge of the boat, he would hold his spear gun high above his head, flipping backwards into the ocean water. But, not before yelling into his snorkel a muffled, “Bombs away!”
Papi emerged within a minute or two for a breath of air, or to hold up a freshly speared Brown Spotted Grouper or a Red Snapper. Sometimes he carried the tickle stick for tickling the lobster antennae; teasing the crustacean to back into the waiting mesh bag he held behind its tail. Then he would clip the bounty to his work shorts and swim to the surface for a breath of air. Her mother Luz would make the whole fish, frying it Cuban style; served with black beans, yellow rice and fried plantains.
It might have been her Cuban DNA that caused her to be so fiercely independent. Her parents frowned on Cuban politics and disagreed with Cuba giving women equal constitutional rights as men.
“You guys prefer America’s system of giving women seventy percent pay and scant political representation,” she complained to her brothers around the backyard patio table after Sunday dinner.
They smiled dismissively at her feminist remarks.
Cuban women average three divorces—Carmen never married. Women are often highly educated doctors and lawyers, climbing to success, thanks to Cuba’s family planning program offering free birth control. Carmen was climbing to success using her own means for birth control—simply declining men—like Cuba’s declining birth rate.
Carmen had all but given up on a lover. No man could live up to her own high standards. She held this impossible male archetype well into her early thirties. After several therapy sessions she came to realize her benchmark was impossible to meet, because her Papi, Luis Fuentes was perfect. He was kind, humorous, devoted and present. Nobody could compare.
She wheeled the hard-shelled carry-on luggage behind her as she stiffly approached the gate for Flight 982. Her hair was blown out in thick dark waves over her buttoned navy jacket. It was time to put the reclusive introverted face away. It was time to perform for an audience of passengers. Her glossed lips beamed radiantly as she approached the airline staff gathered near the entrance to the airplane corridor. She was thrilled to see her co-worker and devilishly handsome friend, Nicco, standing with the group. His fresh face smiled back at her. He was looking spiffy in his tidy navy uniform. She hadn’t realized he would be working the flight to Miami with her.
With her attention focused on Nicco, she clumsily stumbled over a massive silver dog. The wheels of the suitcase brushed over the tops of his white-tipped paws.
Carmen’s brilliant smile dropped with concern for the poor pup. The dog had barely flinched and instead lifting its chunky lips into a monstrous grin.
“I’m sorry buddy,” she said smiling apologetically to its owner.
The dog raised its eyebrows twitching them back and forth as he looked at Carmen and then back to his owner.
“His name is Buster,” the dog’s person, a frizzy haired old woman creaked. “Don’t worry...he’s the friendliest dog in the world.”
5 Betsy Love
The boarding call for passengers traveling with young children resonated through the airport for Freedom Airlines Flight 982, Las Vegas to Miami, bringing Betsy temporarily out of the baby coma she had been living in for the last three years from sleep deprivation. The baby must be sucking the brain cells out of her; cutest vampire she ever saw. It was a difficult trip for a single mother, a three-year-old, and a newborn baby.
She sat cross-legged on the hard, dark-gray Berber style carpet, under the floor-to-ceiling windows facing the runway. She chose the location, because it was out of the way from the human bustle of the concourse. A spot less trafficked; a space that would keep Blake entertained watching
the airplanes take off and land. He had six matchbox-sized planes lined up in a row. Reaching out for one with his small chubby hand, dimples dotted above each finger, he squeezed the plane and shot it forward into the air.
“Vroom…swish,” he made take off sounds, the spittle flying out his little mouth from between his gapped teeth. He looked like Betsy. They both had straight brown hair; hers was long in a braid to the side, and his was buzzed short in a military cut. Both their faces were sprinkled with freckles, huge blue eyes, and thick black eyelashes.
“Blake it’s time you help mama and sister board the new plane,” Betsy explained wearily to her son. They were halfway through their cross-country journey from Anchorage, Alaska to Miami, Florida.
“The two US cities couldn’t be further apart,” she had told her mother after booking the flight. “We’re leaving the darkest state to fly to the sunniest state.”
When they landed in Las Vegas after the six-hour red-eye flight from Anchorage, she tried to wake Blake who was dead asleep in his seat, but the more she coddled him the more he refused to open his thick lashed eyes, hunkering deeper into his comfortable window seat. She recognized her predicament while holding the huge diaper bag full of coloring books, toys, electronics, diapers, wipes, several changes of clothes, fresh baked oatmeal cookies, raisins and Goldfish snacks. In addition, she carried an oversized purse with the travel itinerary, computer, a clean shirt, toothbrush and her iPhone.
Her face must have registered the panic she felt.
“Can I help you carry the boy off the plane,” a kind stranger asked.
She reluctantly agreed. The man followed behind her ferrying Blake in his arms, down the concourse to Gate 14, placing the semi-awake toddler on a chair in the same space that the little family continued to hold hostage for the duration of three-hour layover. Blake set up his command center near the window, with an expansive view of the air traffic control tower. He leaned his head back to look up at her with the toy plane in mid-air take off.
“We go up, mama!”
“Yes baby, we are going up, this will be our last flight before grandma and grandpa pick us up at the airport in Miami. I bet you can’t wait to see your grandparents…right honey?” She spoke to him with sweet exhaustion. “Please clean up your planes and put them into your new big boy backpack.”
His chubby fingers started collecting the planes, and one by one he zoomed them into the pack. He uncurled his crossed legs and stood a couple feet tall. Betsy checked Clarabelle’s diaper; thankfully it was dry and clean. She placed the baby gently into the Maya wrap, wrapping her close to her own body. The indigenous wrap provided privacy for breastfeeding and freed her hands in case she needed to chase Blake. Betsy gathered the remaining belongings, holding the boarding tickets in her hand.
“Ready Freddie?” She asked her sweet boy, as he stomped in quick circles watching his red Converse shoes gain speed.
He stumbled with the backpack breaking his fall.
“Mama, who wis Freddie?”
He pointed to a plane outside the window that was taxiing onto the runway.
“Is that our pwane?”
“No honey, that plane already has its people on it, and is getting ready to take off, we are going on that one right there,” she pointed to the correct plane.
Life seemed heavy at the moment. The weight of her own body weighed down by travel bags, the twelve-pound baby in her arms, and a heavy heart from knowing her husband cheated on her with the waitress at the Clam Shell Lodge. It seemed like too much to bear. With no choice she carried the load like she carried her post baby weight. She was wearing mom jeans and a baggy maroon breastfeeding shirt, with hidden flaps; making her engorged breasts easily accessible to feed the baby. It was also loose around the midsection to help hide her extended tummy.
Betsy had eaten half a pot brownie after landing in Las Vegas and was feeling more relaxed and less anxious traveling with the children. She looked adoringly at Clarabelle’s baby doll face sleeping soundly, the delicate porcelain perfection wrapped snugly against her warm body. The baby’s cheeks painted rosy and pink; the little girl was not the least bit bothered by the jarring movements Betsy made collecting their belongings.
People in first class had already lined up to board the flight. Her family of three had been invited to skip to the front of the regular economy line to pre-board. The attendant had called for those traveling with small children, she thought defensively, feeling the stares from other passengers, probably hoping her little family wasn’t sitting next to them.
Blake spotted a massive Pitbull garbed in a red vest and began to approach the animal. The dog intently stared back at her small boy.
“No, Blake. Don’t touch that dog,” she called to him.
He turned back to her with his brows furrowed, questioning her reasoning.
Betsy put her hand on her son’s shoulder and turned his body to face the ticket agent, giving him a directive shove.
She took a long look at the giant dog calmly waiting its turn to board. Then she looked at Blake who had just stopped, dropped, and rolled in the middle of the boarding line for no apparent reason. People would rather sit next to a well-behaved dog than a kid any day.
Betsy’s dog should have been on the flight. She had booked him a ticket for one-hundred-dollars to ride locked in a crate with the luggage in the airplane’s cargo hold. He was the friendliest dog ever and she had thought about getting him an emotional support dog certificate, so he could ride in the cabin with her instead of the dark rumbling guts of the airplane.
“That dog is a service animal, Blake. We aren’t supposed to pet the working dogs,” She explained as she struggled to assist the child to stand and continue walking to the gate agent.
The frowning uniformed attendant, with a thickly hair sprayed blond bouffant, addressed her son, “What is your name?”
“Bwake Wuv,” he confidently responded, as he put his hands behind the straps of his new blue Super Wing’s backpack, leaning back on his heels.
The agent handed back the paper tickets with the seat assignment printed on them.
“Have a nice flight,” she said in a monotone, before looking up to the muscular redheaded passenger next in line.
Blake ran ahead. Betsy carried Clarabelle and the bags, trudging after him down the long gray-carpeted corridor bay. The flight crew greeted them at the entrance to the airplane. Then the young family crept down the aisle, waiting for the first-class passengers to finish putting away their luggage in the overhead compartments and to position themselves comfortably into their oversized chairs. One handsome, well-dressed man appeared to have already been served a cocktail. He took a sip and leaned the seat back. He was built strong like her husband Jared, with his same dark eyes and hair, but the crisp new Patagonia clothing the man had on wasn’t anything like the oil stained Carhartts and holey Helly Hansen sweatshirt Jered favored. The family proceeded past first-class, through the separation wall, to view the empty rows of economy class stretched in front of them.
“Keep going Blake, look for row 10E and F,” she said this knowing he would have no idea where that was.
“Dis pwane is smaw!” Blake walking ahead shouted back at her in a shrill voice.
This was the smaller body Boeing 737; he was comparing it to the wide body, two-aisle wide Airbus they flew down from Anchorage.
“Stop, Blake,” she commanded the boy, “That’s our row.”
Taking the load off her tender shoulders, she dropped the bags onto the aisle seat, and then proceeded to remove Clarabelle from the wrap.
“Only one more leg of the trip to go,” she sighed. “The worst is over.”
Betsy started her home bakery business several years before having Blake. She had planned on purchasing a brick-and-mortar store with the profits, but babies change plans. All the meticulously designed, sweet, sugary, edible art was done under a swinging full-spectrum light bulb hanging above her kitchen island. Feeding her freckled, transluc
ent skin the vitamin D she lacked from the northern winter exposure.
She didn’t allow the long Alaskan winters to bring her down into the darkness of depression like it did so many others. For optimal sunshine exposure, she was sure to spend the afternoons outside when the sun was at its highest point in the sky, hovering on the horizon. The sky would turn purple, pink and orange, reflecting off the frozen hoarfrost that covered the earth to create a picture beyond her imagination: a shimmering tree-lined, crystalized winter wonderland.
She had rigged a child’s plastic sled to a harness strapped around her waist, so the kids could join her on snow-filled adventures. She would click into her cross-country skis, pulling Blake in the long red sled, as she carried Clarabelle strapped snug against her chest. Betsy would follow the snow machine and dog musher tracks. Going for miles along the tree-lined, snow-packed trails, before either kid would become antsy. Her rule was to never go skiing when the temperatures dipped below eight degrees.
The Service Dog they had just passed as they entered the corridor to the plane compelled Betsy to think about her Australian Shepherd mix, Salty Dog, and how he flaunted a frosty beard made of icicle whiskers on the winter rides. Bounding ahead, his gray and white fur coat disappearing completely under the deep snow, with an explosion of white when he would break free from the frozen snow crust. The vast loneliness of the land came to life with the dog’s snowy gait. He had a cheerful disposition and complete relish for life. He was thrilled every time she pulled out her ski boots from the mudroom. For that matter, he would show spirited zeal each time she stood from her creaky worn recliner after feeding Clarabelle or went outside to chop wood for the stove. A full dish of food would reveal his appetite for life, as would a new thrift store plush toy, or discovering an abandoned carcass half eaten by the wolves and scavenger eagles—a fresh juicy knuckle—bone harmony.
Beware of Flight Attendant Page 4
