by Donald Bain
Once the visions of Marie’s menagerie in flight passed, thoughts came back to the original problem: Who took Jane’s bottle? Did someone take Jane’s bottle? Did Sally say we took her bottle?
“Where’s Sally?”
“Sleeping.”
“How can she sleep when an alligator can’t sleep?”
“She’s always been a sound sleeper.”
Jane had tolerated this aimless chitchat for as long as she could. She went to Rachel’s dresser and began digging through lingerie for the elusive bottle.
Marie left the room and reappeared with a sleepy Sally.
“What’s the matter?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and stretching.
“They woke up Nelson,” Marie told her.
“Oh.” (Yawn)
“Nelson is not the problem,” Joan said sternly.
“The birds, too?” Sally asked. (Yawn)
“Everybody, except you, Sally.”
“Oh.” (Yawn)
“Did you tell Jane that Rachel and Trudy stole her bottle. Did you, Sally?” Joan could be a hard quizmaster.
Sally performed two quick yawns and scratched her stomach.
“No, I didn’t say that.”
That set Jane off. “You did, you did, you did,” she yelled at Sally.
“No I didn’t. I just said maybe they did. Jane said her bottle was missing and I said maybe Rachel and Trudy took it.” (Yawn)
Rachel and I smiled smugly. “See?” we said. “It’s simply a case of mistaken identity.”
“Do you know anything about this, Sarah?” Joan asked her. Sarah was sitting on the floor in the corner. She jumped up when Joan spoke.
“Not me. Not me. No, sir. Not me.”
“Well, somebody took my bottle, that’s for sure,” Jane lamented.
“Sarah?” I said with a strong upward inflection. Sarah avoided our eyes. She did one of those little toe-in-the-sand movements and cleared her throat.
“Sarah?”
“Why would I take someone’s Scotch?”
I stood there feeling like Sherlock Holmes in the last reel of The Late Show.
“Ah hah,” I said pouncing. “No one ever said it was Scotch that was stolen.”
“Oh,” was Sarah’s reply.
“Is that all you can say, Sarah? Oh? After we’ve caught you with a slip of the tongue that proves you took Jane’s bottle? You’re always borrowing things. You must have borrowed Jane’s bottle.” I was pressing my discovery to the hilt.
Sarah stifled a yawn and said calmly, “Well, Jane always drinks Scotch. That’s how I knew.”
Jane tottered unsteadily in the corner while all the cross-examining was going on. “That’s not at all true,” she said with a strange annoyed tone to her voice. “I’m especially fond of bourbon.”
“What did you do with the bottle?” Joan asked Sarah.
Sarah stood firm. “I didn’t take any bottle.”
Everyone seemed to accept Sarah’s finality. They turned to us again.
I started to giggle. Rachel joined me. Joan got mad.
“This is a very serious matter,” she intoned with all the piety of a lay reader on Christmas. Joan could do this quite nicely. She seemed forever preaching about something, her actions seldom matching her words.
“We know it is.” But we couldn’t stop laughing.
The night ended with nothing solved and everyone mad at everyone else. Rachel and I chuckled ourselves to sleep.
We were about to leave the penthouse the next morning for our flight when Marie came flying out of her bedroom, tears running down her cheeks. In her hand was the lifeless form of Nelson, the alligator. It’s hard to tell when an alligator is dead, especially from a distance. But Marie confirmed it.
“He’s dead,” she shouted.
“How?”
“I don’t know.” She was heartbroken. The little reptile didn’t move in her hands.
We went into Marie’s room. Sally sat sleepily on her bed. The birds were all chirping happily, a thing birds probably always do when an alligator dies.
We went over to the fish tank where Nelson drew his last breath and looked into the water. The water was never especially clean, but that morning it had a definite bronze tone to it.
“What’s in the water?” Rachel asked Marie, now calmed down just a little.
“I don’t know. Is anything in the water?”
“Sure.” Rachel dipped her finger into the tank and sniffed it.
“Smells like Scotch.”
“Scotch?” Marie said with horror.
“Yeh, Scotch. Take a sniff.”
Marie did.
Then she dipped her own finger into the tank and licked the water on its tip. “It is Scotch,” she moaned.
“Maybe he died of cirrhosis,” Sally said from the bed.
“Who did this?” Marie shrieked at the top of her voice.
That scream did it. Everyone came running into the room.
Everyone chattered away at once.
“A little respect for the deceased, please.” Rachel suggested.
The chattering was still going on when we left for our flight. We returned that night to a grim penthouse. Jane was drunk, bless her heart.
“Well, who did Nelson in?” I asked Joan, who sat quietly reading a book.
“Sally said maybe you two did.”
“Here we go again.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. Jane and I have solved the problem, though.” (The rules committee, remember?)
“How did you do that?”
“Marie will be leaving in the morning.”
“Marie? Did she poison Nelson, her own alligator?”
“No, of course not. But those animals all over the place were just too much for anyone to bear. She’s leaving with her zoo.” Joan went back to reading.
Marie did leave the penthouse. The mysteries of the missing bottle and the dead alligator were never solved, although Rachel and I came up with a solution we felt was plausible. We figured Sarah borrowed the bottle and Sally knew it. She accused us to protect Sarah. Then, Sarah got scared and dumped the bottle in Nelson’s tank to get rid of the evidence. We gave up trying to figure out what she did with the actual bottle. You can’t solve everything.
So Marie moved out and Libby moved in. Libby was a friend of Helen’s, their particular closeness bonded by a mutual need to diet constantly. Libby was a discothèque dancer in Greenwich Village. Sally moved in with Sarah, and Helen roomed with Libby. Together, they cornered the market on yogurt. They also turned the penthouse into a gymnasium for their numerous exercises for figure improvement. Things went along for a month until Libby, or Helen, we’re not sure which, accused somebody of eating her yogurt.
Sarah admitted borrowing “a little teeny bit,” but Sally said she thought Sarah had borrowed a lot. The only one in the clear was Jane who often said yogurt and whiskey just didn’t mix.
And so it went. Our chic, glamorous penthouse soon fell into a long shadow of bickering, a human inevitability where girls are concerned, especially eight of them. Rachel and I departed for an apartment in Greenwich Village where we stayed in relative bliss.
It’s true that our experience in New York is probably not at all typical of most stewardesses. Those who remain seem to find some sort of fun out of living there. Certainly the penthouse hadn’t contributed a great fondness for fun city. But it’s also true that New York is a tough place to live for any stewardess.
For instance: The telephone company, that great symbol of everything bad about a monopoly, is very reluctant to give a telephone to a stewardess. We understand they’re reluctant to give a telephone to anyone, but the fact that a stewardess works for an airline, and, by virtue of that simple employment circumstances, has easy access to airplanes, thrusts a dagger of deep mistrust into the hearts of the telephone company’s employees.
It’s the same with department stores. These moneymaking giants
of commerce seem certain we’ll spend a day in their store with our new charge card, buy at least fifty thousand dollars worth of goods, and immediately wing off to Saudi Arabia to avoid payment of the bill. What amazes you is when you receive one of those form letters stating you are a preferred customer and a credit card is waiting for you at the Preferred Customer, Gold Plated, A-1 First Class, Chosen-by-God credit desk. Just try and get it.
We’ve since found these problems to be common to other cities besides New York. But it just doesn’t seem as bad. Everything is magnified in New York.
If you, stymied in becoming the world’s greatest Wall Street broker, concert pianist, or most famous actor on Broadway, should decide to pursue the career of a stew-bum, knowing where we live in the cities of this nation will be helpful. The following listing is published for your use.
New York
The East Sixties and Seventies of Manhattan
Forest Hills
Jackson Heights
Kew Gardens
Chicago
Aurora
Near North Side
Apartments near airport
Miami
Coral Gables
Villa Springs
Miami Springs
Coconut Grove
San Francisco
San Mateo
Belmont
Redwood City
Sausalito
Downtown
Los Angeles
Westchester
Inglewood
Gardena
Long Beach
Manhattan Beach
Van Nuys
Denver
Aurora
Downtown
Houston
Downtown
Dallas
Apartments near airport
Downtown
Atlanta
N.E. side of town
Chamblee
East Point
Buckhead
South side of town
Boston
Back Bay
Beacon Hill
Brookline
Washington, D.C.
Georgetown
Arlington (Virginia)
Also, there are definite places where we have fun. As a stewardess working a flight, we aren’t able to serve more than two drinks per person. But that doesn’t mean we can’t have more than two drinks when off-duty and in any one of our favorite bars. If you ever feel in the mood to have more than two drinks with a stewardess, give these places a try, each a known hangout for sisters of the skies.
St. Louis
Any bar up and down Gaslight Square
New York
Sullivan’s
Friday’s
P. J. Clarke’s (or any P.J. joint)
Wagon Wheel
The Baron Steak House
Sammy’s
York
Clos Normand
La Popotte
Le Marmiton
Rattazzi’s
Hawaii Kai Club
Dawson’s Pub
San Diego
Mickey Finn’s
Coronado Island
Atlanta
Mr. Brother’s Place
Sans Souci
Kitten’s Korner
Ruby Red’s
Al’s Corral
The Red Barn
The Lion’s Head
Top of the Peachtree
Fan & Bill’s
Yohannan’s
The Malibu Room
The Round Table
The Falcon Lounge
New Orleans
Al Hirt’s Place
Pat O’Brien’s
Pete Fountain’s
Whisk-A-Go-Go
Miami
Tie One On
The Eden Rock
600 Lounge
The Villas
The Dream Bar
Washington, D.C.
Beef Treat
Blackie’s
Junkanoo
Palladian Room
O’Donnell’s
Mobile
Quarter Note
Hawaii
Duke Kahanamoku
Don Ho’s
Las Vegas
Stardust
Silver Slipper
San Francisco
The Crown Room
Chuck’s Place
The Two Turtles
Basin Street South
hungry i
Big Al’s
Playboy Club
Gay Nineties
Alioto’s
Whisk-A-Go-Go
Doros
Red Garter
Los Angeles
Manhattan Beach
The Chatter Box
Shakey’s Pizza Parlor
Disneyland Bar
Toronto
Skyline Motel Bar
Chicago
The bars of Old Town
The bars of Rush Street
CHAPTER VI
“This Is Your Captain Speaking”
You can always recognize a captain from the calluses on his finger from pushing the call button for coffee. Sometimes we think that’s all the captain does up there—summon us for coffee. Most captains are great guys. They have a sense of humor, they know how to treat a girl, they take care of their girls. Good captains are extremely protective of their stewardesses. They don’t permit any funny business, by anyone, where their girls are concerned.
I’ll always bless the captain of one of my early flights. The two senior stews were stiff, unfriendly girls, and I was decidedly ill at ease. Just before dinner a passenger toward the rear of the plane signaled. I went back. A man sat there. His pants were unzippered and he was fully exposed. He grinned up at me with a nasty expression that froze my blood. I panicked and ran to tell the senior stew. She coldly suggested that I inform the passenger of his condition in case it was an accident. I approached him gingerly and said, “Sir, I’m sorry, but would you please zip your zipper.”
He leered at me and said, “Why don’t you let me put a tiger in your tank, young lady?”
I was completely flustered. The other stews were clearly not going to be any help. I went forward and told the captain. Without a word the captain turned the controls over to the first officer, put his hand on my shoulder an instant to reassure me and strode to the rear to deal with the situation. He got the man closed up all right. Two policemen met the passenger at the next stop and hauled him away. The captain rang for me immediately after the incident. “You all right, honey? You OK?” He sensed how distressed I was.
“I’m shook, but I’ll make it.”
“That’s a good girl. Don’t let the goons get you. Wait for me in Toledo. I’ll take you to dinner.”
That captain was a born big brother. At dinner he kept me laughing steadily with stories of his boyhood in North Dakota. He showed me pictures of his seven-year-old twins and his Great Dane puppies. His easy chatter crowded all thoughts of the distasteful encounter from my mind. At my hotel door, he tilted my head back, kissed me on the forehead and said, “You’re a good girl, Trudy. You’ll be OK now. Sleep well.” Now that’s my idea of a captain. I only hope his wife is good enough for him.
On the other hand, there are some captains, not many of them, who think the whole point of taking a plane from one city to another is to make a lunge for a stewardess two minutes after landing. Sister stews have told us some pretty horrendous tales about captains. You could begin to think that some of the most oversexed males in the country are right up front in the cockpit of your super-powered, fan-jet, dyna-lift, whisper-quiet airplane. Waiting for only one thing—to paw their way into your chaste chamber at the hotel.
What never ceases to amaze us is the stamina and staying power of these pilots, most of whom are over fifty years old. They’re not old for the same reasons old men are selected at the stewardess school. It’s taken a pilot a long time to gain the necessary hours and experience to command a multimillion-dollar jet aircraft. There’s be
en a lot of talk recently about the upsetting effect jet travel has on the bodily functions of crew members. Maybe there is a physiological reason for captains’ retaining their sexual drive, even after the age when most men find it necessary to develop another hobby. Maybe the key to potency is more jet travel. (We now lay claim to any airline advertising campaign based on this assumption.)
Of course, a few months on the line and you soon develop your own code of conduct with the cockpit crew. Either you Do or you Don’t. And you try not to tell your roommate or your hairdresser. You make up your own mind whether your captain really does have the right to all your services. Captains realize that the longer a girl flies the line, the harder she’ll be to conquer. Stewardesses who’ve been around will generally have latched onto one particular captain or have acquired other interests. So those on the make stalk the new girls, fresh from school where Big Momma made virtue sound dull and walls were for climbing.
It was on Rachel’s third flight that she was introduced to the “manual flush” routine so popular with cockpit crews where a new girl is concerned. It was a light flight and dinner had been served when the little light flashed in the galley indicating that service was needed in the cockpit. It’s an unwritten rule that the junior girl handles the cockpit chores, unless a senior girl has something going up front. This day, Rachel was the one. The other girls had evidently sworn off crew members for the week and simply pointed to Rachel.
