by Donald Bain
The young man grabbed Sally Lu and held her in a long and lingering embrace. They parted with great difficulty and he ran to the car to drag out her suitcase. He handed it to the doorman and she started to cry.
“I’ll pick you up at six tomorra night, Sally Lu.”
“Don’t you come back here any night at six,” the doorman warned. “Not for a week, anyhow.” His final words were cut off in a cloud of swirling rubber and dust.
“Where do I go?” Sally Lu asked the doorman.
Rachel leaped in with the answer. “Hi. I’m Rachel Jones. And we’ve got to run. What room are you in?”
“I think it’s sixteen.”
She joined us and we ran full speed upstairs stopping only once for Sally Lu to wipe her tears with a soiled Kleenex.
We’d just reached our room when suddenly the entire building went black. Then, just as suddenly, three giant searchlights popped on and began scanning the front and sides of the dorm. We were met at the door by our guide of that afternoon. Her stewardess smile was gone. In its place was a thin, grim lip-line, and her arms were crossed over her breast.
“This is no way to start six weeks of training. Do it again and you’ll never know the joy of being a stewardess.”
We tried to explain about Sally Lu but our guide simply pointed to the stairs. We climbed them and entered Room 16.
Cynthia was asleep on her bed, the covers pulled tightly under her chin. She had dragged a dresser from the wall and placed it in front of her bed, a mahogany fortress never to be scaled.
“That’s Cynthia,” we told Sally Lu.
She cried.
“That’s your bed over there.”
She cried harder now, her sobs out of control. The noise of her crying brought Cynthia to a fast rise, the covers still clutched tightly under her chin.
“What is this all about?” she demanded.
“Sally Lu is our other roommate,” we explained.
“Well, can you manage to control your emotions, Miss Sally Blue, or whatever your name is?” Cynthia was haughty at that moment, but also looked afraid we’d launch a full-scale attack on her fortress.
To add to Cynthia’s woes, the door flew open and an old Mexican came in with Sally Lu’s bag.
“Get out of here, you . . . you . . . you horrible thing,” Cynthia screamed at him. He froze in his tracks and then noticed Betty O’Riley who was reaching behind for the hook on her bra. As she popped it open, the Mexican wheeled and fled the room, never bothering to close the door.
“Shut that door,” Cynthia yelled at me. I was up to here at this point with Cynthia Monroe.
Betty, minus bra, walked over and closed it. She seemed to gush all over the room, and the sight of her hardened Cynthia’s face into shock. She quickly turned to the wall.
The only light in the room was cast by the searchlights as they moved back and forth across the front of the dorm. We managed to get undressed, find our respective beds, and fall into them. It seemed pointless even trying to locate the bathrooms. We all fell asleep to the quiet sobbing of Sally Lu. Cynthia snored.
The bathroom was a madhouse the following morning. There were girls everywhere trying to get ready for the big meeting at nine. Cynthia must have gotten up at six because she wasn’t to be found in the room or the bathroom.
Breakfast was delicious. We stuffed ourselves and then went outside to allow the staff to clean up the cafeteria and convert it to an auditorium.
At precisely nine, we were all seated at the tables again, a pile of books, papers, charts, and a large box of cosmetics in front of each chair. We were looking through the material when the speaker of the night before again stepped onto the raised platform and adjusted the microphone.
“Good morning, girls.” Feedback again, only louder. The old man ran to fix it.
The problem corrected, she continued. “Whenever I hear that dreadful noise, it reminds me how quiet our new jet aircraft really are.” She added a big laugh at the end.
The eleven girls seated at a long table near the platform all laughed with careful, studied laughs. We watched them for the rest of the meeting and noticed they did everything in syncopation—smile, frown, shake head up and down, etc. We played the game and laughed right along with everyone.
“Well, let me see. I saw some of you last night during the dinner hour. My name is Miss Gruel and I’m the director of the stewardess school.”
“That’s Big Momma, like the doorman said last night,” Rachel whispered.
Gruel went on, “I welcome you on behalf of the airline, its management, and board of directors. And, of course, your sisters of the skies, your fellow stewardesses.
“You’re about to begin a glorious and glamorous career as hostesses of the air. Each of you has indicated to us during preliminary interviews high aptitude for this most demanding and rewarding of careers. We begin this six-week course of instruction with the highest hope that each of you will make a definite contribution to our airline’s already promising future. It will not be easy. These six weeks have been carefully prepared to demand the most of each individual. But with fortitude, desire, and hard work, you’ll all be greeting friends and parents on that very special occasion—graduation! In the welcoming booklet you find on the tables, you’ll see a very specific and detailed list of rules and regulations that will govern you during your stay here. I don’t feel I have to say more than to state even the slightest infraction of any rule will result in your immediate dismissal from school. Work hard, girls, and the future of aviation and service will be yours to enjoy.”
She obviously appreciated the thunderous ovation we gave her, much as Mrs. Coolie did back in Amarillo. She tried to appear humble as she strode off the platform, but it was no use.
Each of the eleven girls at the long table now came forward and told us about her areas of instruction. They had all been stewardesses at one time or another and hadn’t lost their smiles. After an hour and a half of speeches, we were allowed to break for coffee, orange juice, and Danish pastry. I was biting into a butternut Danish when Betty O’Riley, wearing a very tight sweater and skirt, asked me, “What does infraction mean?”
“It means breaking the rules,” I informed her.
“Wow. Y’all mean all those rules in the book?”
“Guess so.”
“We’ll be climbing the walls before six weeks are up.”
“Just don’t climb the electric fence,” Rachel threw in.
“They must use something, huh?” Betty continued with her questions.
“What do you mean, ‘use something’?”
“Y’all know,” Betty explained, “some sort of chemical that makes you forget about sex . . . Y’all know what I mean . . . Something to take away that tingle when you think about boys. That kind of thing.”
“Saltpeter?” Rachel asked.
“No, silly, that’s for boys, Ah think. Anyway, all these places use somethin’. Frankly, ah hope they do. Ah never stop tingling.”
We didn’t doubt her for a minute.
Sally Lu hadn’t said a word since we met her at the gate last night. She seemed to take a liking to Rachel and said to her, as we were returning to our seats for part two of the meeting, “It says in the book that we can’t leave the grounds for a whole week. That’s awful. Warren, my boyfriend, will break the door down. It’s awful.”
Rachel was afraid she’d cry again.
“Don’t worry about it, Sally Lu. Maybe you can throw kisses from the window.”
“I hope so,” Sally Lu sighed, seemingly relieved by this piece of encouragement.
After lunch, another feast topped off with chocolate ice cream, whipped cream, and pecans, we had our first meeting on makeup, hairstyling, and general grooming.
The class was conducted by a faggy-looking man with long, wavy hair and a twitch in his left eye. He sketched facial outlines on the blackboard while a sharp looking girl in a stewardess uniform welcomed us to the classroom.
“Welc
ome to your first class in how to look more beautiful, radiant, and charming. I’m Miss Lucas and with me is Mister André, a well-known hairstylist and makeup expert. When Mister André is through with you, your own family won’t know you’re the same girl they knew when you left to become a stewardess.”
Mister André picked on Cynthia first, much to her delight. He pointed out how nicely her hairstyle complemented her facial structure to which she replied, “It should. My stylist is very highly paid.” We all felt a little waifish by comparison.
The next girl he called to the front of the room was Betty. Gay or not, he couldn’t keep his eyes off her forty-inch chest. It was at this precise moment that Betty got her nickname. Rachel leaned over to me and whispered, “She’s got to have the biggest set of boobs I’ve ever seen. And we know they’re all for real.” Cynthia read a book while Betty was up front.
Mister André told me my face was oblong, and Rachel was handed the sad news she was moonfaced. Cynthia was termed classic, and Sally Lu was actually called ordinary, sort of Middle American. We decided that Mister André’s face was definitely early-fag. And his long, lacqured fingernails didn’t clash with this diagnosis.
They really worked us in stewardess school. The training was no joke. To graduate you have to pass the FAA test—that’s the Federal Aviation Agency—and the test is a long written affair that requires you to know everything there is to know about all the planes the company flies. First we went over those planes inch by inch in classrooms, using textbooks and charts. We had to know where the emergency exits are, how to use them, how much fuel the plane carries, how the galley works, what equipment to use in emergencies, and where it is. We had to know all of this and much more for four different types of planes.
Training started every day at 8:00 in the morning. We were up at 6:30. The commotion in the bathroom was unbelievable as we all rushed to shower and fix our hair. We had to be dressed fit to kill every morning, our fingernails absolutely perfect, our faces made up. After a week of classroom work, they took us aboard the jets out back. A dozen times a day we climbed aboard and worked in one area and then another—the cockpit, the galley, the lavatories.
We had special over-water practice so that we would know all about the life vests, the rafts, and the emergency equipment. One day they took us all to a nearby lake and put us in life rafts—those big, yellow inflated rafts that bob around on the surface. There were about six of us and a supervisor on each raft and six rafts drifting around on the water. At first we paid strict attention because we knew this was important. It might someday be a matter of life and death. Naturally Rachel and I had managed to get on the same raft. By this time all the girls knew, look out for Rachel and Trudy—anything can happen. Well, we floated pretty close to the next raft and right there at arm’s length I saw the little cork that you pull to let the air out of the raft. Rachel read my mind, “No!” she said. But I knew she really wanted me to do it.
I looked over at the other raft and waited for the supervisor to turn her head. Rachel, bless her, put out her hand and paddled us a little closer, all the time saying “No, no!” I reached over, pulled the cork and SWWSSHHH that raft went flat, all the girls fell into the water, spluttering and coughing, and that supervisor with her wet hair in her face shouted, “Which one of you did it—Trudy or Rachel? It had to be one of you.”
Later on they took us out on actual flights and pulled all kinds of stunts on us. They cut the engines to see if we’d panic. The first time they did that to me, the captain came on the PA and said, “The right engine has cut out and so has the left one. You’ll notice we’re over water.” Then he handed me the mike. I guess I was supposed to say something cheerful to the passengers so in my heartiest voice I said, “OK, folks, we’re going to swim.”
I think they had a conference that night to decide whether to expel me or not. I hung on. But many of the girls didn’t make it. During the six weeks they dropped twenty-three out of the forty-five who started with our class and that is about normal. Sometimes they throw you out for breaking the rules or not studying, but mostly because you don’t prove to have a stewardess personality—you don’t really like people. That’s the key to it. You have to like people and be willing to serve them day and night and take care of their needs and demands. When we made our trial flights, they filled the planes with the worst SOBs they could find. They were there to test us. A man on an aisle seat would say, through clenched teeth, “I did not order this damned steak rare. I want it well done.” You bring it back to him well done and he says, “This is the worst airline I’ve ever seen. I order a cup of coffee and I get a glass of milk. Where do they find such stupid girls?”
Not only are you forbidden to blow up, but they watch even for a vexed expression on your face. They want to be real sure that you can take the worst a passenger can dish out and that you’ll stay friendly and even kid him and say, “You’re right—I’m with you.”
About the third week the grind let up a little. We could go out at night and they raised the curfew to 11 P.M. On weekends there was a continual party around the pool. Fellows came over from an air force base nearby, and captains and officers working for the airline stopped by to look over the newest crop of stews. We made friends quickly and easily.
Of course, Sally Lu, being from the town, spent every night with Warren, her hot-rodding beau. She confided one night to Rachel that Warren had gotten her pregnant three times, but each time he took her to a friend who was going through medical school who, in turn, took care of Sally Lu. We all agreed upon hearing the story that Sally Lu could not be thought of as an exceptionally bright girl.
They would race back to the school every night just before ten, and she’d throw him kisses through the fence while he cursed at the gatekeeper. One night, as he was yelling at the old man, his arm accidentally touched the electric fence. It knocked him down but he got up again.
“Maybe it made him sterile,” Rachel said hopefully as Sally Lu told the story to us that night. Sally Lu cried half the night.
“How stupid can you be?” Rachel exploded at her one night in the room. “Why don’t you stay away from him until you’re married, or take the pill?”
“Well, I always ask Warren to stop a little sooner but he never does. Poor Warren. I guess it’s pretty hard when you’re a fella.” Then she cried.
On Thursday, just four days before graduation, Sally Lu burst into the room and announced, “Warren wants to treat all of you to a Coke for bein’ so nice to his girl. Isn’t that just so sweet of him?” Betty, Trudy, and I decided to go with them. Cynthia declined and remained slumped at her desk browsing through a copy of Women’s Wear Daily that her mother sent her.
We piled into Warren’s car for the drive to a local drive-in, where girls sit in their fathers’ cars while boys cruise around the parking lot in their fathers’ cars. Usually they never hook up. But the parade is always fun to watch. The place was called Ma’s Root Beer Stand, a fifteen-minute drive from the school but accomplished in ten by Warren. We sat sipping our drinks while Sally Lu shared a big orangeade in the front seat with Warren, their two straws sucking up the syrupy soda in between kisses on the ear and light touches of the thigh.
“Why don’t you two get married?” Rachel asked, the root beer going to her head.
“Soon’s I git my own gas station,” Warren proudly answered as he gunned the running motor for emphasis.
“That’s why I decided to be a stewardess,” Sally Lu said giddily as she played with the hair coming through Warren’s shirt front. “Soon as he has his own station, I’ll stop flyin’ and we’ll get married. Right, hon?”
“You betcha,” he grunted. “Unless she goes and meets some fancy dude on one a’ them airplanes.” He laughed off the comment but his look indicated he would slit her throat if she did.
Sally Lu nudged him and kissed his ear.
We left Ma’s at 10:15, in plenty of time to get back before curfew, especially with Warren driving. He
shot away from the parking lot and headed along a dirt road that was a new shortcut he’d found. Totally desolate, it wound around the perimeter of the school grounds. We were directly behind the campus when Warren’s drive shaft popped or broke or snapped or did something that brought us to a rattling halt.
After much swearing by Warren, we decided to try to walk back in hope of beating the curfew. We were sure losers because it looked as though a car hadn’t been over that road for a year, but anything was better than sitting there all night.
“Come on,” we prodded as Warren held Sally Lu tight against the front fender and smothered her with kisses.
They broke and we took off at a slight trot. We soon slowed to a walk and had progressed about fifteen minutes when we spotted a car ahead, parked under an oak tree. The sight of it gave us a momentary feeling of glee. But that feeling lasted only six seconds. Then, the car took on a menacing shape. Maybe a madman was there waiting for the girls he saw walking down the road. Maybe there was a dead body.
“I wish Warren was with us,” Sally Lu moaned as we gathered behind a tree perhaps seventy feet from the car.
“Look, maybe it’s just somebody necking, or admiring the moon, or something.” Good old Rachel, steady as a rock in all situations.
Silence reigned until Rachel again spoke up. “Look, we’re late already. And we have to pass that car to get back to the gate. I’ll slip up quietly and see what’s up. If everything is OK, we’ll pass. If it looks like a nut or something, you can all weep over the great sacrifice I made for you.”
“If he’s good lookin’, yell.” That was Betty.
Rachel stalked the car like someone out of a James Bond movie. She stooped low as she came up behind the vehicle and then raised her head to look in the rear window. She stayed there looking for over a minute. Then, she turned and came back in a low run.
“You’ll never believe it,” she panted. “Never!”
“What’s up?”
“You’ll never believe it,” she repeated. “It’s Big Momma. Gruel. With a man.”
